“Kitty—” Richard turned to her, clearly prepared to object.
“Five minutes,” she said again, gently. “I will join you shortly.”
Her tone allowed no argument. She stepped across the threshold, the floorboards creaking underfoot as Norman followed, shutting the door with a decisive thud that seemed to seal them both in.
Without a word, she tilted her chin toward the staircase. Norman trailed her up the steps, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume—something floral and sharp, like roses after rain—as they reached the bedroom door. Her hand paused on the knob, knuckles whitening briefly before she turned it.
For one heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
Then she said, very quietly, “You look dreadful.”
A choked laugh escaped him, unbidden. “I feel worse.”
Kitty nodded once, almost to herself. “I imagined you would.”
Her voice was calm. Too calm. It shook him more than shouting ever could.
Norman stepped closer, but not too close. He could not touch her now—not yet. Not until she allowed it.
“I know you don’t owe me anything. Least of all your time,” he began. His voice was rough and unsteady, as if each word foughtto get past the jagged stone of his shame. “But I’m here because I—I cannot let you go without saying what I should’ve said the day you left.”
Kitty drew in a slow breath, her arms crossed tight over her chest. She did not speak, but she did not ask him to leave. It was enough.
“I did not trust you,” he continued. “I let jealousy, and pride, and a long, history of betrayal convince me you were like the others. That you had come into my life like some... like some honey-mouthed viper, whispering what I wanted to hear while plotting behind my back.”
Her eyes flashed. “And that is what you think of me?”
“No. Not anymore. But I did for a moment. And I hated myself for it the moment you left.” His jaw clenched, his voice dropping. “God help me, Kitty—I was so sure of my own pain, I never stopped to consider yours. I thought I was protecting myself. I thought I was being strong. But I see now—I was only being cowardly.”
The words were thick in his throat. But he would say them all. Every last one.
“I loved you. I still love you. I think I always have. But I didn’t know how to show it without losing the war I thought I was still fighting. I treated your love like it was something dangerous. And in doing so, I destroyed the one thing in my life that was worth protecting.”
Her expression softened, but only a fraction. “You didn’t destroy it, Norman. You broke it. And you broke me along with it.”
His hands clenched into fists. “I know. And I will regret it until my dying breath.”
Kitty reached into the folds of her cloak then and produced a folded sheet of paper. It was damp at the edges from her gloves, but still legible.
“I received a letter,” she said, holding it out to him. “From Marina.”
He did not take it.
“I’m not here for the letter,” he said quietly, before he could lose his nerve.
Her chin lifted, proud as ever, that fire in her eyes still lit—but it burned differently now. Controlled. Guarded. And why wouldn’t it be? He’d doused her in cold water, again and again.
“You don’t wish to read it?”
“No. Not because I don’t believe it.” His gaze met hers, steady now. “Because I don’t need a letter to tell me what’s true. I know you would never betray me. I should’ve known it then. Marina’s confession means nothing next to the fact that I looked into your eyes and doubted you.”
She lowered the letter slowly, her fingers tightening around the paper.
“My grandmother went to Cynthia’s mother,” he said. “It was her way of trying to make amends. She told her everything—that you had been wronged, that it was Cynthia and her who conspired against you. Apparently, Lady Henley took Cynthia straight to the country, and from what I hear, she has no intention of bringing her back.”
Kitty blinked. “You didn’t tell her to do that?”
“No. I didn’t even know until this morning. Lady Mulberry kept it from me. Said she thought it better I didn’t know until I’d earned the right to speak to you.”
