Chapter 3
Three
They’re all staring at me.
Kitty’s chin remained high, her smile steady, but beneath her composed exterior, she felt the weight of every eye in the room upon her.
From the moment that the McGowans came in the front doors, conversation languished, heads turned, and the common ballroom hush rendered it impossible to ignore—their arrival had not been anticipated.
“Let them look,” Richard whispered beside her, speaking quietly but standing firmly. “But do not allow yourself to become their prey.”
For one brief moment, Kitty had become the center of attention in a world she had never known.
The women, their eyes wide in curiosity and a hint of envy, gasped over her gown—its delicate, Italian stitching, the pattern that spoke of continental influence without crossing the line into impropriety.
Kitty noticed the way the men were looking at her—their gazes lingering, their smiles a little too eager. She smoothed her skirts self-consciously, wondering if her hem was crooked or if she’d spilled something on her bodice. Surely there must be some reason for their attention.
She’d never been the sort to draw eyes like this—not like the dazzling debutantes who knew just how to tilt their heads and flutter their fans. Perhaps it was the new ribbon in her hair?
One by one, they came, their bows faultless, their requests to dance offered with handsome smiles. Kitty acquiesced with a gracious smile, her composure undisturbed.
Perhaps finding a husband will not be so complicated.
Kitty had barely taken any steps toward the dance floor before a young, golden-haired woman in a blue gown approached her. Her raised brow and faint, almost imperceptible smile radiated an air of calculated curiosity, as if she had been waiting patiently for this moment.
“Lady Katherine McGowan?” she inquired, though the pause before she said the name showed she already knew.
Kitty smiled at her. “Indeed. But, please, call me Kitty.”
A burst of surprise swept Cynthia’s face, her hazel eyes darting out to the group of guests circling around them as if to gauge their reaction to this outrageous breach of etiquette.
“How very…sweet,” she said at last. “I am Lady Cynthia Henley. Delighted.”
They curtsied to one another, but Kitty could not help but wonder at the rigidness of Lady Cynthia’s movements.
“You must allow me to congratulate you, Miss Kitty,” Cynthia continued, her smile polished but tight. “You’ve managed to capture the attention of nearly every eye in the room. Quite an entrance.”
Kitty tilted her head, surprised. “Have I? How very flattering.”
Cynthia’s gaze sharpened. “Well, some might say… rather bold. Not everyone could carry it off.”
A ripple of murmurs stirred among the guests nearby, too practiced to stare outright, but too intrigued to hide their listening.
“I’ve never found subtlety to be my strongest talent,” Kitty said smoothly, lifting her chin. “And I’m afraid I’ve never been terribly bothered by what some people might say.”
“Tell me, with all your years abroad, how did your beloved father ensure that you were adequately schooled? I should imagine such a feat must have been intimidating.” Cynthia continued, her devious smile intact.
This wasn’t just idle chatter—Cynthia had been circling her like a hawk, searching for a weakness, an opening.
She felt the weight of every glance that slid her way, some curious, some calculating, all appraising. It was dizzying—exhilarating and suffocating at once.
“Oh, we were most lucky. My governess, Jane—she’s not just an excellent tutor but my closest friend. She would have adored this night. I do wish she were here to witness it.” As the words left her lips, Kitty kept her tone light, almost wistful, but inwardly, her mind was humming.
The effect was immediate.
A stillness fell upon the ladies who surrounded them, the way that their eyes found each other evincing their unspoken surprise.
“How very…sweet,” she remarked again, her tone carefully contained. “One does not hear often of a young lady so taking a shine to a governess. The McGowans truly are legendary for their… unconventional approach.”
There it stood, the barely concealed sarcasm, spoken not quite softly enough to entice more guesswork. Rumors rippled across the pond, and Kitty knew if she didn’t turn the conversation aside at once, she’d find herself trapped in Cynthia’s net.
“Oh, but I have had plenty of other friends,” Kitty assured happily, determined not to succumb to her mockery. “There was Signora Marina of Venice, just for starters. Such a jovial woman. I should say she is the most unbridled woman I have ever met.”
“Really?” Cynthia asked, curiosity piqued.
“Indeed!” Why, once, on Carnival, I found her in the most compromising of situations—
A collective, high gasp ran through the throng. Cynthia’s face gleamed with triumph as she placed a gloved hand on her mouth, a perfectly staged look of shock.
She caught herself, too belatedly discovering her mistake.
“Miss McGowan!” Cynthia exclaimed, in a tone that suggested nothing less than scandalous delight. “Surely you do not mean to say…”
Then, Cynthia’s expression softened into one of practiced sympathy. “Oh, but of course…Miss McGowan, we must be understanding. Growing up without a mother, one cannot expect—”
“Enough, Lady Cynthia.”
A voice cut through the ballroom like a knife. The hum died abruptly.
Kitty’s head turned toward the sound, and for the first time, her breath was quiet.
A gentleman lingered on the edge of the circle of onlookers, his gaze fixed unflinchingly upon Cynthia.
He was tall and broad shouldered—his demeanor carrying with it the suggestion of confidence and restraint. Though his tone had been subdued, there had been an inescapable power behind the words, the sort that tolerated no dissent.
Cynthia blinked, surprised. “Your Grace—”
But Kitty did not pause to learn the conclusion.
Her heart pounding, she whirled on her heel and ran.
The night air stroked her like a salve, the hot suffocating atmosphere of the ballroom left behind the instant she stepped outdoors. The flagstone patio stretched out before her, lit by the soft gleam of lanterns, the sky above a huge expanse of dark velvet.
She inhaled deeply, filling her chest with the cool, untainted air. The distant hum of music and shouts from the ballroom seemed far away now, dampened by the stillness of the evening.
For one moment, she simply stood, letting the desolation soothe her frayed nerves.
She had been unusual. Again.
Kitty placed her hands against the railing, her head tipped back up toward the stars. This wasn’t how this night was supposed to go. She had figured to be watched, but she had not thought that she would be providing them with information so willingly.
Cynthia had played her perfectly.
The night breeze touched her hot, flushed cheeks, reminding her of the heat caused by the mortification.
A tiny mistake. Nothing more.
Not something she could not forget. She had endured much more shameful embarrassments on her travels—this was merely a lesson in English society’s cruel games. She stiffened her shoulders, vowing to herself that she would return inside with her dignity intact.
A sound from behind her—a footstep—had her whipping around, with a racing heart.
Someone had followed her out.
As she turned, a figure emerged from the shadows.
He was standing close—too close.
The garden’s lamplight flickered across his face, turning his features sharp and strange. Leaves rustled above them, whispering in the hush, and Kitty felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he said, stepping into her space with an ease that chilled her. “I am the Marquess of Grewin. And you are the sensational newcomer, Miss McGowan—though if we’re being informal, as I hear you prefer… Kitty, is it?”
Kitty took a quick step back, only to find her heel sinking slightly into the soft earth. “Excuse me,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “I was just returning to the ballroom.”
“Why hurry?” he asked smoothly. “You left the party. Surely you meant to be found.”
“I didn’t,” she replied, backing away again. Her shoulder brushed a hedge. The lantern’s glow dimmed behind a curtain of leaves. “Please, let me pass.”
He reached for her then, gloved fingers grazing her arm. “You’re very lovely when you’re nervous. Do you know that?”
She tried to twist away, heart hammering, but he grabbed her wrist. Not hard—yet—but firm enough to still her.
“Unhand me.”
“Come now, don’t be shy. I know your type—”
“Let me go!” She struggled, planting her other hand against his chest and shoving. He didn’t move. Her breath came faster. She tried to scream, but nothing came out but a startled gasp.
And then suddenly—he was gone.
The man stumbled sideways into the shrubs with a grunt. A new figure had emerged between them—taller, darker, silent. He stood like a wall of black stone, his presence swallowing the garden’s quiet.
“Leave her alone,” a strong voice demanded.
The duke.
Grewin looked up—and froze.
The duke stood a few paces away, broad-shouldered and rigid with fury, fists clenched at his sides. No drawl, no civility—only cold, contained violence.
Kitty barely had time to react before he closed the distance and seized Grewin by the front of his coat and yanked him back, hard enough to make the man stumble.
“She told you no,” the duke said through gritted teeth.
“Easy, Your Grace,” Grewin said, laughing without mirth as he straightened. “Must we play heroes now?”
His Grace answered with his fist.
It landed cleanly across Grewin’s jaw. The sound cracked through the garden like a snapped branch. Grewin staggered, one hand to his face. “Playing the knight, are we?”
“Don’t touch her again,” the duke growled, holding Grewin by the collar.
Grewin sneered through bloodied lips, but the fight had gone out of him. “Fine. Take your prize,” he spat, yanking himself free.
He straightened his coat with a wince and disappeared into the light of the ballroom, shoulders stiff, and one hand pressed to his side.
The garden fell silent again.
The duke turned to Kitty, chest rising with each breath.
Kitty pressed a trembling hand to her throat, heart still pounding. The scent of crushed roses and damp earth clung to the air. She looked up at him—at the man who had just defended her without hesitation—and something shifted in her chest, quiet but certain.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Kitty exhaled slowly, just then becoming aware she had been holding her breath.
He offered a slight bow, his voice low. “Norman Egerton, Duke of Wharton.”
Kitty blinked, dazed. She’d had quite enough introductions for one evening.
Norman repeated, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “Are you alright?”
The question—so unexpectedly gentle—caught her off guard. Kitty looked up at him, her earlier indignation dissolving into something far more dangerous: warmth.
“I—yes,” she managed, suddenly hyperaware of how close he stood. “Thank you. For intervening.”
He studied her for a moment before his mouth quirked. “You’ve certainly made your presence known this evening.”
She should have bristled. Instead, her pulse fluttered. “Was that a compliment?”
“An observation,” he corrected, though his eyes held amusement. “What were you doing, setting out on your own? You were seconds from disaster.”
Disaster. The word should have chilled her. But with Norman’s steady attention on her, all she felt was an odd, giddy relief.
“I suppose I owe you a debt, then,” she said, tilting her chin up. “Though I was handling it.”
“Were you?” His smirk was infuriating. And unfairly handsome. “Because from where I stood, you were one misplaced step from scandal.”
She huffed, but there was no real heat in it. “And you’re an expert on scandal, Your Grace?”
He leaned in slightly, just enough that her breath hitched. “I’m an expert on recklessness. And you, Miss Katherine, are a menace.”
The way he said her Christian name sent an illicit thrill down her spine. She should protest. Instead, she fought a traitorous smile. “Then it’s fortunate you were here to save me.”
“Fortunate indeed,” he murmured, and for a heartbeat, she wondered if he meant it.
She turned to go, but her precipitate movement made her stumble. The hem of her dress snagged at her ankles, and with a cry of surprise, she went down. The world whirled.
The duke leapt to catch her, but she was already going down. She sprawled in an ungainly heap on the wet ground, her hands scraping against the cold stone of the terrace.
He reached out to her. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m all right, thank you,” she said softly.
Struggling to rise as graciously as she could, she pulled herself up, finding her gown snagged on a bramble bush.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake—”
She pulled it hard.
The fabric tore, then ripped with a snapping rip.
She let out a gasp on her lips as she lost her balance once again.
The duke caught her in his arms, steadying her before she could fall.
Her breath came in shallow gasps, her heart racing as he held her close, his grip firm against her tightly cinched waist. The fabric of her dress had shifted, leaving her legs exposed in a way that was nothing short of scandalous.
She saw his gaze dropping—temporarily—to the smooth skin of her thighs before coming back to rest on her face.
He held her a little bit tighter in his arms, as though he wanted to bring her closer. The space between them was gone. She could feel the heat of his breath, the nearness of him… intoxicating.
Then...
“Good heavens,” a voice exclaimed. “I could have sworn I saw the Marquess of Grewin and Miss McGowan approaching.”
Cynthia.
The words sent Kitty’s spine tingling. As if invited by some malignant twist of destiny, a small cluster gathered at the top of the terrace, eyes widening at what they witnessed.
A young lady whose dress was ripped to indecent lengths.
A gentleman—his arms around her.
A shared gasp of shock rolled through the assembled throng.
Kitty remained frozen.
And then—
“Kitty?”
Her father’s voice.
Richard McGowan forced his way through the crowd of assembled faces, his own twisted with confusion and growing horror as he took in what was being said.
His eyes flashed to Norman.
“You have ruined my daughter. Now, you must marry her!”