“And I won’t let the last thing I do for you be walking away.”
He reached into his coat pocket. His hand trembled as he withdrew the small velvet box. It wasn’t much—not by the standards of dukes or diamonds—but it was his mother’s ring. The one his father had kept hidden away all these years.
He opened it.
“I love you,” he said, voice low. Firm. “And I don’t say that because I’m expected to or because of scandal or guilt or penance. I say it because it’s the only thing that’s ever been true—more than my title, more than my shame, more than the fear I’ve been hiding behind all my life.”
He took a breath. Deep. Centering.
“So I’m going to ask you something now. Not because I feel obligated. Not because anyone expects it. I’m asking you because I want you. Because I’m yours—not in name, not in duty—yours.” His voice dropped further. “Will you marry me?”
Still, she didn’t speak. And then she turned her head away, just slightly, and a tear rolled down her cheek.
Panic surged. “Kitty?—”
“I was going to say no,” she whispered.
His stomach bottomed out.
She looked at him again, and though her face was wet, her voice was steady.
“I was going to say no,” she repeated, “because I didn’t think I could survive you hurting me again.”
Norman felt himself flinch.
“But then you said it was my choice.”
His throat burned.
“And for the first time... it truly is.”
Her hand reached out and brushed the edge of the velvet box. Her fingers closed gently around his, steadying them.
“I say yes.”
He blinked.
“I say yes, Norman. I love you. I always did. I only needed to hear that you loved me more than your pride.”
And then she smiled—the kind of smile that cracked the sky wide open. Not the perfect, practiced smile of courtship or etiquette. The real one. The one she’d worn when they’d argued about Shakespeare’s play. The one that had ruined him the first time he saw it in the garden.
He didn’t think. He just pulled her into his arms, ring box crushed between them, and kissed her like he’d been dying for it—because he had. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t composed. It was messy and wet and desperate, full of all the weeks and mistakes and wasted time he would give anything to undo.
When they broke apart, her forehead rested against his.
“Are you sure?” she whispered.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”
Kitty let out a soft laugh, trembling, and then finally—finally—she reached up and took the ring from his hand.
“Put it on me,” she said.
And he did.
The rain had stopped by the time they stepped outside. Richard’s expression was thunderous, Jane looked scandalized— but Norman didn’t care. Kitty’s hand was in his, warm and solid and real.
He wasn’t going to lose her again.
