Chapter 11
Eleven
The sun hovered low on the horizon, staining the sky in strokes of gold and rose as it dipped lazily behind the grove of elms. Norman stood at the edge of the lawn, one hand behind his back, the other idly swirling a glass of brandy he did not intend to finish.
The soft din of conversation floated toward him—laughter, the clink of china, the rustle of blankets—and at the center of it all, he saw her.
Kitty.
Seated beside Eleanor on a patchwork quilt, her bonnet tucked beside her and her gloved hands resting delicately on her lap.
She wasn’t laughing, not precisely, but her lips quirked whenever Eleanor said something amusing, and she nodded along with a polite, too-well-rehearsed interest that made his throat tighten.
She hadn’t looked at him once.
Not even when he arrived late to the gathering, having stayed back to sign off on a stack of correspondence from London.
Not when he passed behind her on his way to retrieve a drink.
Not even when Eleanor had shouted his name—twice, loudly, like a child trying to summon a distracted governess.
Kitty had merely adjusted the fold of her skirt, as if she hadn’t heard.
Norman took another sip of his drink and scowled into the horizon.
“Well, well,” came a voice beside him. “Brooding at sunset. How very romantic of you.”
He didn’t have to turn his head to recognize Andrew’s irreverent tone. “Go away.”
“Charming.” Andrew stepped beside him, folding his arms and surveying the gathering with a lazy grin. “You do know you’re terrifying everyone. That frown makes you look like you’re plotting a duel.”
Norman remained silent. His gaze drifted once more to Kitty. She leaned toward Eleanor to whisper something, and the sound of her laughter—a real one this time—carried faintly through the warm dusk air.
Andrew gave a low whistle. “Good God, she really isn’t looking at you.”
“She’s talking to my sister.”
“And Eleanor is listening to her like Kitty is the most fascinating creature on earth.” Andrew paused, tilting his head. “Which she might be. But in your case, that’s very unfortunate.”
Norman inhaled slowly. “She’s avoiding me.”
“No! You don’t say?” Andrew feigned shock. “Whatever gave you that idea? The way she pretends you’re a decorative hedge every time you walk by?”
Norman’s hand tightened around his glass. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to help,” Andrew said brightly. “I’m here for the comedy. And possibly to watch you suffer.”
Norman shot him a glare. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Oh, immensely.” Andrew clapped him on the back. “The mighty duke, brought low by a slip of a girl with clever eyes and a spine of steel. It’s practically Shakespearean.”
“She kissed me back,” Norman muttered before he could think better of it.
Andrew blinked. Then grinned. “She did? You rogue.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Was it soft and tender, or did she try to bite you?”
Norman closed his eyes briefly. “I shouldn’t have kissed her. I told myself I wouldn’t. And now she’s punishing me by pretending I don’t exist.”
“Well, you did threaten to break her, remember?” Andrew sipped from his own glass, then said cheerfully, “In fairness, you’re doing such a good job ruining yourself.”
Norman exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. His fingers paused near the base of his neck, pressing against the tension that had gathered there ever since that moment—no, ever since the first kiss. She had looked at him like he’d set her world on fire. And it had terrified him.
Because he felt the same.
It was not simply desire, though that would have been far simpler to manage.
It was…everything else. The way she tilted her head when she asked a question.
The rare softness of her gaze when she was deep in thought.
Her stubbornness. Her fury. Her impossible ability to make him feel alive in ways he had not in years.
And now—she wouldn’t even look at him.
“Do you… have feelings for her?” Andrew asked, his voice low and uncharacteristically serious.
Norman stiffened. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m being honest. Which, for me, is rare and deeply uncomfortable.” Andrew’s brow furrowed. “I’m asking because if you do—or if you think you might—then stop torturing both of you with this nonsense about control and ending your family name.”
Norman said nothing. Kitty was now pouring tea for Eleanor, carefully, gracefully. She smiled when Eleanor leaned against her shoulder with mock affection. Norman’s chest ached with something raw and electric.
He wasn’t entirely sure what those feelings were…
“I want her,” he admitted. “In every way. But I’m not the right man for her.”
“Oh, bollocks.” Andrew rolled his eyes. “You’re not a villain in a gothic novel, Norman. You’re just a man who can’t admit he’s lost his heart to a woman who sees through you.”
“I might be losing my mind but, I assure you, my heart is intact.”
A long silence passed between them.
Then Norman finally asked, “And what if I cannot resist her forever?”
Andrew smirked. “Then, brother, I recommend you at least do it somewhere with a locked door.”
Norman swore under his breath.
“I’m serious,” Andrew said, finishing his drink.
“You’ve got ten days. And whether or not you realize it, you’re in far deeper than you thought.
She’s not just a woman you kissed and have to get married to out of duty.
She’s the one you can’t stop watching. The one who makes you forget how to breathe. ”
Norman didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.
Because at that exact moment, Kitty stood, brushing the skirt of her gown with her palms, and turned ever so slightly—enough that her eyes finally met his across the garden.
It was no more than two seconds.
But it was enough.
Something in her gaze flickered. Curiosity, heat, anger, longing—he couldn’t name it. And then she turned back to Eleanor and sat down again, as though nothing had passed between them.
Norman lowered his gaze to the amber liquid in his glass.
Ten days.
Ten days to keep himself from falling apart.
Or falling entirely.
A breeze stirred through the garden, rustling the linen tablecloths and lifting a few stray petals from the edges of the blanket Kitty sat upon.
Norman kept his eyes fixed on her even as she turned away, but the echo of that brief glance lingered in his chest like the last note of a song played too softly.
He hadn’t imagined it.
Whatever had flickered in her eyes—despite the distance, despite the wall she had rebuilt around herself—was real.
A movement near the edge of the gathering caught his attention. One of the house servants was crossing the lawn toward the two of them with a silver tray in hand. A single envelope lay upon it, sealed in pale green wax. The footman approached Kitty, bowed with precision, and extended the tray.
Norman watched as Kitty took the letter, frowning slightly at the unfamiliar seal. Her fingers paused at the edge as if considering whether or not to open it in front of everyone.
Beside her, Cynthia leaned closer and squinted at the script. Her voice rang out, shrill and curious, “Is that from her? The friend with the… unconventional habits?”
Eleanor gave Cynthia a sharp look, but it was too late. Several heads had already turned.
Kitty’s spine stiffened. She tilted the envelope slightly away from view and pressed her lips into a flat line.
Norman’s jaw tightened.
He was moving before he could consider what would be best. His brandy was forgotten nearby as he crossed the grass, taking long, steady strides toward them. Kitty was already being scrutinized, and he would not let her fend off an entire audience alone—not over a single letter.
She had the right to receive correspondence without suspicion.
He was halfway there when he heard Eleanor speak—quietly, not to him, but to Kitty in a tone laced with warmth.
“…he has always strived to maintain their family’s spotless reputation,” she said. “Even by sacrificing his needs, his comfort—everything. That’s what makes it so difficult to see him like this. He finally wants something. For once in his life.”
Norman slowed his pace. He hadn’t expected to be the subject of their conversation.
Kitty said nothing, but her hand had stilled on the envelope.
Norman stood at a short remove, just beyond the blanket, the dying light casting his shadow toward them. Eleanor looked up and let out a small, delighted gasp. “Oh, look who we’ve summoned.”
Kitty turned slowly, her expression unreadable.
He cleared his throat and inclined his head. “Ladies.”
“Brother,” Eleanor said, recovering smoothly.
Kitty, however, merely held the letter in her lap and said nothing.
Norman hesitated, unsure what he had intended to say. He could not very well admit he had charged over to defend her against the mention of an eccentric friend. It sounded foolish now—excessive.
“I noticed the footman,” he said, lamely.
Kitty raised her brows. “Then you must have excellent eyesight, Your Grace.”
That earned a muffled snort from Eleanor, who was clearly enjoying herself.
The three of them bathed in the golden hush of a sunset that seemed to lengthen every pause between breaths. He glanced once more at the letter in Kitty’s hand. “Is everything all right?”
She looked down at it, then folded the envelope and slipped it into the pocket hidden in her gown. “Quite. It’s a letter from an old friend.”
“She has a reputation,” Norman said carefully, “for being… unconventional?”
“Unconventional does not mean immoral.”
“No,” he agreed, “but people love to blur the two.”
“I’ve learned that well enough.” Her voice was calm, but her eyes were fire.
He sighed. “I didn’t come here to chastise you.”
Kitty gave him a look that was almost a challenge. “Then why did you come?”
Norman hesitated. Eleanor, bless her, stood and gave them both a brisk nod. “I think I’ll go see whether Andrew has begun hoarding pastries again. You two… talk.”
She rose and slipped away without another word, leaving behind a silence that instantly felt louder than the entire garden party.
Kitty did not look up.
Norman sat, not on the blanket, but just beside it, legs crossed neatly at the ankles. His palms rested on his knees, as though holding himself in check by sheer discipline.
The breeze tugged at the edges of her shawl, but she didn’t move to fix it. He wanted to—God, he wanted to. But her posture was guarded, and her face remained turned slightly away, presenting him only with her cheek and the edge of her jaw.
Norman cleared his throat.
No response.
He leaned forward just slightly. “Am I so frightful to behold this evening?”
Still nothing.
“I must ask because I have been in the sun for some time,” he went on lightly, “and perhaps my face has become so severely scorched that you fear to gaze upon it directly.”
Her shoulders shifted in a motion that might have been a laugh. Still, she refused to look at him.
“Kitty,” he said, softer now, “am I truly so undeserving of your eyes?”
That got her.
She turned her head—slowly, deliberately—and fixed him with a look of exasperated amusement. “You’re insufferable, do you know that?”
He grinned, shameless. “I’ve been told.”
“I was trying not to look at you,” she said, folding her arms with more drama than true malice. “It was an active choice.”
He lifted a brow. “And why, pray, would you make such a choice?”
“Because,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “you are very… distracting.”
Norman blinked.
Kitty flushed the moment the word left her mouth. She shifted, tucking her legs beneath her and adjusting her skirts with unnecessary fuss.
He tried to catch her eyes again, but now she was looking out across the lawn—at anything but him.
It was his turn to tease. “I see. So you weren’t ignoring me because you were angry. Merely because I fluster you.”
“You do not fluster me.”
“You just called me distracting.”
“That was a slip of the tongue.”
“Was it?”
Her jaw clenched as she looked back at him, and something in her gaze flickered—heat, mischief, frustration, and something else he couldn’t quite name.
“You’re very full of yourself.”
“Perhaps,” he murmured, his voice dipping unconsciously.
Kitty’s breath hitched. Just barely. But he noticed.
And she noticed him noticing.
A beat passed.
The golden light of the sunset clung to her cheekbones, caught in the curve of her neck, painted her in impossible warmth. She was doing nothing—nothing—and still he felt his self-control slipping like fine sand between his fingers.
He had always prided himself on being composed. The master of his own mind and body. But now, with her this close, looking at him like that—tight-lipped and pink-cheeked and maybe, maybe, just as unsettled as he was—Norman suddenly felt every inch a man and none of the duke.
“I should go,” she said abruptly, rising before he could say another word.
Kitty reached the edge of the garden walk before pausing. She looked up at the lanterns just beginning to be lit along the path. “Good night, Your Grace.”
He gave a little bow. “Sleep well, Miss McGowan.”
She was gone.
He stood there a moment longer, heart thudding against his ribs in a rhythm that felt both ridiculous and exhilarating.