Chapter 6
Six
The morning light filtered through the lace curtains, casting soft shadows over the drawing room floor. Kitty sat by the hearth, her arms crossed, her slipper tapping a staccato rhythm on the rug. Jane stood at the window, watching as a pair of carriages passed by on the street.
“You should be getting dressed,” Jane said without turning around. “They’ll be reading the banns today.”
Kitty exhaled sharply. “I’m not going.”
Jane turned then, her expression controlled, but her brows drawn with disappointment. “You said you’d behave as expected. You said you’d do what was required.”
“I said I would attend dinners and fittings and smile like a wax figure at court,” Kitty snapped. “But this—this is different.”
Jane approached, her tone measured but urgent. “You’re being unreasonable.”
“No, I’m being honest.” Kitty looked up at her sister, eyes glinting.
“I can lie to people’s faces, Jane. I can nod at simpering matrons and pretend I’m delighted to become the frostiest duchess in London.
But I will not stand in a church and pretend my soul is at peace when it isn’t. That would be unholy.”
Jane’s mouth pressed into a line. “You think that’s some noble stand? You’re letting your father walk into that church alone. How do you think that looks?”
Kitty’s jaw clenched. “He doesn’t have to go.”
“He’s your father,” Jane said quietly. “And he has to explain to His Grace why his future wife cannot be bothered to attend the reading of her own banns.”
Kitty flinched but hid it behind a scoff. “My presence wouldn’t make much difference. His Grace doesn’t care either way. He probably counts it as a blessing not to sit beside me.”
Jane’s expression shifted, something gentler creeping in. “Kitty…”
But Kitty stood, the fire in her chest rising like smoke. “What do you want from me, Jane? To act like this is normal? Like I haven’t been bartered off to a man who told me with his own lips he doesn’t believe in love?”
Jane was quiet.
“I’m not asking for a grand romance,” Kitty continued. “But I thought I’d have a say. That I might… choose.”
A beat of silence stretched between them.
“I know it’s unfair,” Jane said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I do. But this is the world we live in. We don’t always get choices, Kitty. Not if we want to protect the people we love.”
Kitty looked away, her throat tight. “Then maybe I’m not very good at protecting anyone.”
Jane reached out and took her hand. “You’re scared. I understand that. But hiding won’t make it better.”
Kitty’s hand trembled in hers, but she didn’t pull away. “I just… I wanted something to be mine.”
Jane squeezed gently. “Then find a way to make it yours. Even if it doesn’t start that way.”
“Where is she?”
Norman’s voice was low but firm, the question directed at Richard McGowan before the man had fully set foot on the church steps. The morning light was sharp, slicing through the cold air, but Norman felt none of its warmth. He had been waiting. Watching. Expecting. And yet, Kitty was not here.
Richard let out a heavy sigh, his face a picture of apology even before he said anything. “I tried. God’s own truth, I did. But she wouldn’t come.”
Norman’s jaw tightened. A muscle on his cheek spasmed as he turned his head, his eyes narrowing on the carriage that Richard had stepped out of.
He had been so certain when he watched it draw up—certain that inside, Kitty sat in reluctant silence, bracing herself for the inevitable. Instead, it was empty save for the driver, who looked away the moment Norman’s eyes sliced his way.
“She wouldn’t come,” Norman repeated, this time more subdued but no less cutting.
Richard shifted uncomfortably, scrubbing at the back of his neck.
“I told her this was foolish. That she should come with me. That saying no would just make things worse.” He sighed again, an expression of exasperation and something akin to pity.
“She was as unyielding as ever—stubborn to the last inch.”
Norman did not reply. He had no need to. He was already moving.
With long, determined strides, he descended the church steps and walked toward the carriage. Richard turned, startled, a step behind.
“Your Grace,” he started, but his voice cracked as Norman grasped the door of the carriage and pulled himself in without a word. He shut the door more forcefully than necessary and knocked on the panel to direct the driver.
“McGowan house,” he ordered.
The carriage lurched forward, and Norman leaned back in his seat, drawing slow breath in through his nose, running a hand over his face as the weight of his situation settled over him.
His sister. His debts. His imminent marriage.
And now, an engagement party he had no business throwing but was expected to host. The Egerton name carried expectations, and the moment word had spread of his betrothal, the invitations had practically written themselves.
He exhaled sharply, raking his fingers through his hair.
And yet, amidst the turmoil of it all, his thoughts kept circling back to her.
Kitty McGowan.
Utterly unpredictable, stubborn beyond reason, and, frankly, a little strange.
He should be frustrated. He was frustrated—this entire situation defied logic and upended his carefully ordered world. Yet beneath the simmering irritation, beneath the rigid discipline that had governed every decision of his adult life, something foreign stirred.
Norman shut his eyes, only for a vision of her to resurface. The way her chest had risen and fallen in rapid breaths when she stood before him earlier. The fire in her eyes...
God help him.
His jaw tightened.
Whatever this was, he would master it. Control it. He had no time to be distracted by an infatuation, no matter how tempting she was.
The engagement was a necessity. Nothing more.
Three weeks.
Three weeks until she became his wife.
The road jolted beneath the carriage wheels, pulling Norman from his thoughts. He reminded himself why he was here.
Does she think she can avoid me? That by hiding—by not attending—she can delay the inevitable?
But Norman had no patience for unreasonable delays. He was not interested in games, either.
The carriage slowed as they approached the McGowan residence, its tall stone front rising before them.
Norman sat up straight, rolling his shoulders once before rapping smartly on the carriage roof. A moment later, it came to a halt, and he stepped outside without pause, boots thudding into the ground with purpose.
He shrugged his coat into place, his gaze flicking briefly to the front windows of the house. The curtains didn’t move. No sign of her.
Good. Let her be caught off guard.
He mounted the stairs at a slow, determined pace and thumped his fist against the door. Once. Twice. A pause.
Then the door groaned open, and he was face to face with a shocked maid who immediately turned white at the vision of him.
“Tell Miss McGowan that her betrothed has arrived,” Norman said quietly.
Norman did not wait to be called. He charged through the front door of the McGowan house, his boots pounding against the highly polished floors with purpose, and he did not stop until he reached the drawing room.
There she sat, just as he expected to find her—Kitty, by the window, sipping her tea as if she had not just turned his entire morning upside down. The audacity.
“What in the devil are you doing here?” he snarled, his temper barely kept under control. “Why aren’t you at church?”
Kitty sighed, as if his very presence exhausted her. She set down her teacup with deliberate slowness and regarded him—not flustered, but with a brittle composure that was all the more piercing for its restraint.
“I had no reason to go,” she said, her voice cool. “It would be deceitful.”
Norman frowned. “Deceitful?”
She lifted her chin, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—something too quick to name. “Would you have me sit there as if everything were perfectly acceptable? As if I were delighted to become your wife, when we both know I had no say in any of it?”
His jaw tensed. He fought the instinct to retort, to tell her she was being childish again—but something in her voice, the slightest tremble beneath her words, gave him pause.
“This has nothing to do with delight,” he said, quieter now, though the edge remained. “You and I are engaged. Regardless of how we arrived here, the banns will be read, and you will be seen with me. That is not up for discussion.”
Kitty let out a hollow, mirthless laugh and turned away from him. “Yes, of course. What better way to cement this farce than to march me into a pew beside you like a prize won at auction?”
She hesitated, then added more quietly, “I was…afraid of them—of their eyes, their whispers. You cannot imagine what it is to be watched like that. Judged like that.”
That gave him pause.
She continued, softer now. “I know what they’ll say. I know how they look. I’ve seen it done to others—women who were ruined by little more than whispers. I could not bear it.”
Norman’s breath caught in his throat. It was not something he had considered—not fully. Her refusal had seemed like rebellion. He had not thought it might be fear. The image of her, small and alone in the face of a cruel congregation, crept into his mind.
He stepped closer, voice low but sure. “Let them whisper. Let them stare. They do not matter.”
Her head tilted, just slightly. She was listening.
“No one will touch you,” he said, and his voice was firmer now. “No one will dare. You are to be my wife. My duchess. I will not allow anyone to harm you—not with words, not with looks. If they have something to say, they’ll say it to me.”
She didn’t turn around, but her shoulders loosened. The tension in her spine unwound an inch.
Still, her voice was barely audible when it came. “And if it is you I fear the most?”
His chest ached—an odd, unwelcome sensation. But he met it head-on.
Norman stepped closer, his boots scraping against the floor. She stiffened, her breath catching, but she did not turn to face him. “You will dress,” he told her, his voice even and low. “And you will accompany me. Right now.”
“No.” Her fingers closed around the armrest of the chair.
“Kitty.” He leaned in close, his voice now a whisper, but heavy with threat. She yanked her gaze back to him, breath catching, lips parting but no words coming out. A flush creeped up the line of her throat, breaking over the lean curve of the neck, up to her cheeks.
He was by no means oblivious to the way her hands went stiff, as if she’d meant to touch him and had thought better of it.
That response—that unguarded reaction—was all that was needed.
“Fine.” Her voice was softer, less forceful—obedient. “I shall go get ready.”
Norman allowed himself a small, satisfied smile, but the tension in his stance did not ease. “Good.”
Kitty got up, smoothing herself once more, though still refusing to meet his gaze straight on. She walked towards the door, when Jane came just then, her eyes scanning the scene with an intensity.
“I will come with you,” Jane said, her gaze flicking between them. “Of course.”
Kitty nodded curtly and went up to change, leaving Norman alone in the drawing room.
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, frustration writhing tightly within him. She was impossible.
Obstreperous beyond reason. Impulsive, never caring about what was sensible, only ever driven by feeling.
And yet, the thought made him huff a soft, incredulous laugh—at least she was intriguing.