Chapter 10
Ten
Norman was waiting at the foot of the stairs, looking just as unruffled and inscrutable as ever. His eyes traveled over her, assessing, before he nodded. “You are late.”
“So I have been told,” Kitty replied, ignoring Jane’s covert elbow in the ribs.
“Come,” he said, turning away without more ado. “We are going to the yard.”
“Why?” Kitty wished to know, falling into step beside him despite herself.
“A Pall Mall match.”
Kitty almost tripped over her own feet. “Pall Mall?”
“Yes,” Norman said, glancing at her. “Surely, you know the game.”
Kitty hesitated.
She had, of course, heard of it. But she had spent a great part of her life abroad, and the opportunity to learn had never presented itself. “I… may not know it thoroughly.”
“She has never played,” Jane contributed unhelpfully.
Kitty shot her a glare.
Norman slowed his pace, then swung fully around to confront her. “You have never played Pall Mall?”
Kitty lifted her chin. “I don’t see how that is of any importance.”
“It is of great importance,” Norman smoothly returned. “I cannot have my future wife, the Duchess of Wharton, ignorant of the game. I shall teach you.”
“Oh, that is really not necessary—” Kitty began, but Jane seized the moment before she could finish.
“A splendid idea, Your Grace,” Jane said cordially. “I’m sure Miss Kitty will greatly benefit from your instructions.”
Kitty shot her a glance of sheer betrayal, but Jane merely smiled.
Norman held out his hand. “Shall we?”
Kitty placed her fingers lightly atop his with perfect decorum.
“How kind of you to ask, Your Grace.” He led her to the far end of the yard, where mallets and balls were already arranged.
The grass was still damp from the morning dew, and there was a slight breeze that carried the scent of wet earth and distant roses.
Norman grabbed a mallet and stood in front of her. “The game is simple. The objective is to strike the ball through the iron rings set into the ground, in as little strokes as one can. One also must navigate oneself around the course while impending one’s opposition.”
Kitty’s brow arched upward. “So, it is a game of sabotage.”
“It is a game of skill,” Norman insisted. “The first person done wins.”
Kitty glanced at the mallet in his hand. “And were one to, say, use the mallet on one’s opponent instead of the ball?”
Norman’s lips trembled, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “That would be very unsporting.” He managed to say.
“Ah. Shame.”
Norman’s chest hovered a hair’s breadth from her back as he adjusted her grip on the mallet, his presence enveloping her like sunlight through glass—inescapable and entirely too warm.
The crisp scent of his soap mingled with something darker, something inherently him that made her mouth go dry.
When his fingers slid along hers to demonstrate the proper hold, the friction of his skin against hers sent an illicit thrill up her arm.
He picked up another mallet from the ground, positioned a ball in front of him, and began again. “Now, watch. You aim like this, keeping your stance firm, and—” His mallet struck the ball, sending it straight through one of the hoops.
“How thrilling,” she was watching him through lowered lashes as he demonstrated the stroke—the way his shoulders flexed beneath his coat, the precise control of his wrists. A traitorous warmth pooled low in her belly, and she quickly schooled her expression into one of bored amusement.
Norman exhaled slowly. “Would you prefer a lesson in fencing instead?”
Kitty’s head lifted. “Oh, infinitely. Do you have swords?”
“No,” he said, deadpan. “And you are playing Pall Mall.”
Kitty sighed. “Very well then.
“You can dislike it,” Norman said, turning away. “Just so long as you win.”
Kitty’s face creased in a frown. “That doesn’t sound very sporting.”
“Ah? So, then you’d rather do it yourself instead of merely being a most attentive listener?” Norman’s voice had the slightest edge of testiness, though there was still a twinkle in his eyes.
This is absurd, she thought, gripping the mallet too tightly. He’s just a man. A frustrating, arrogant, impossibly handsome man.
Kitty tilted her head to one side, buying time to steady herself from the emotions stirring inside her. “Well, I should hate to rob you of the pleasure of expounding further, but since you do make such a thing of it…”
She raised the mallet with practiced grace, looking for all the world like a model pupil—until her swing sent her ball careening directly into Lord Huxley’s, knocking his polished wooden sphere into the shrubbery with a most satisfying thwack.
“Miss McGowan,” Norman sighed through his nose as the older gentleman sputtered indignantly.
Kitty blinked up at him with angelic innocence. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“That was—”
“Perfectly within the rules,” she finished sweetly, leaning in to whisper behind her fan. “Lord Huxley was leading by two hoops. Really, you ought to thank me.” The scent of him as she neared his ear made her pulse stutter, but she forced herself to pull away with a conspiratorial glint in her eye.
Norman’s jaw worked. “Your grasp of strategy is... unsettling.”
“Why, Your Grace!” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I’m simply applying your own lesson—one must politely discourage one’s opposition.” Her next swing sent another opponent’s ball veering off course, this time with surgical precision.
Shocked murmurs rippled through the party. Eleanor bit her lip to suppress a giggle.
Norman massaged his temple. “I said discourage, not declare war.”
Kitty twirled her mallet idly. “Then perhaps you ought to demonstrate this fabled subtlety of yours.” She nodded toward Lord Pembroke, who was lining up a winning shot. “That is, unless you’d prefer to…lose?”
The choked sound Norman made—somewhere between outrage and reluctant amusement—sent triumph curling through her. When he stepped closer to adjust her grip—his breath hot on her neck as he growled—she decided pall mall might just be her new favorite game.
“Kitty.” His voice was all patience and entirely no patience at all.
“Yes?” she turned her head and flashed him a wide smile.
Kitty’s breath shallowed as Norman’s blue eyes tracked her movements with unnerving precision. That gaze—sharp as cut glass and just as transparent—seemed to peel back every carefully constructed layer of her nonchalance.
His attention wasn’t merely observation; it was assessment. As if he could see the frantic rhythm of her thoughts, how she’d lain awake replaying their kiss, how the scent of him clung to her memory like perfume. The realization made her fingers tighten around the mallet handle.
Her mallet struck the ball with a little too much zest, sending it flying—not just across the lawn, but way out of the house’s bounds.
Silence.
Then Norman let out a breath through his teeth. “Just…splendid.”
Kitty winced. “I think I may have hit that one too hard.”
“You think?”
She smiled at him, her best penitent smile. “Would you be a dear and get it for me?”
His glare was dead. “Would you be a dear and accompany me to examine the consequences of your actions?”
The two of them retrieving the ball… alone?
Her heartbeat went frantic, thudding against her ribs with the wild rhythm of a bird desperate to flee its cage. A rush of heat surged up her neck, blooming across her cheeks like an unwelcome fire. She schooled her features into practiced indifference, though her mind was anything but calm.
Alone. With him.
Kitty shrugged. “If I must.”
They strolled towards the far end of the lawn, where the ball had disappeared into the darkness in front of the hedges. The other players’ laughter and chatter faded as they moved deeper in, the warmth of the summer air thick with tension neither of them wished to break.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, praying he hadn’t noticed the slight tremble in her hands as she walked.
He stood so composed, so infuriatingly unreadable, and it only made her nerves spike higher.
Every inch of her body was on fire, her skin too aware of his nearness, her stomach a tight knot of anticipation and dread.
Norman pushed aside a low-hanging branch, taking stock of the ground. “This,” he said sternly, “is why there are rules. If everyone played as they pleased, there would be no game left to play at all.”
Kitty hummed. “My apologies, Your Grace.”
He shrugged, “You enjoy perplexing me excessively.”
“I enjoy many things excessively,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper as she lowered her eyes—then froze.
Oh.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Her gaze had landed where it absolutely should not have, and for a heartbeat too long, she could not look away. A sudden flush swept over her skin at the sight of the bulge in his pants, her cheeks blooming with mortification and something far more dangerous.
Oh my... is that…?
She blinked hard and jerked her gaze away, mortified.
Her entire body went rigid. Of all the ways to lose one’s composure…
She swallowed hard, willing her mind to focus on anything else.
The trees. The gravel beneath their feet.
The absurd fact that she was now intimately aware of just how affected the duke currently was.
His expression was inscrutable, his jaw set just a little too tight. The air between them seemed to crackle.
Before he could say anything, she exclaimed. “Aha! Found it!”
She bent to grab the ball, but he did as well, and their hands collided. Kitty stopped moving.
Norman didn’t stir.
They stood there for a beat too long, her hand beneath his.
Kitty’s heart thudded wildly. She ought to stand up. She ought to push away. But she didn’t.
Neither did he.
Instead, his burning eyes lifted to hers.
The space around them contracted, electric with a sensation she couldn’t name. His eyes dropped to her lips.