Chapter 13
Thirteen
Norman had been awake for nearly an hour, before the sun initially dared to peek above the trees outside his window.
The darkness of the early hours had descended like dust over his rooms, only to be interrupted by the sporadic creak of floorboards or the faint whispers of servants making breakfast ready.
He had risen without rousing his valet—a rare exercise of independence that spoke volumes for his temper—and dressed quietly, the rustle of cloth abnormally loud in the stillness.
His fingers fumbled over the cravat. The first attempt pulled it too tight, the linen slicing into his throat like a rebuke. He loosened it with an irritated yank, then over-compensated—the second knot flapped loose, limp and undecided.
His reflection was a study in dissonance—the crisp lines of his waistcoat against the furrowed brow above, the polished face of his pocket watch against the dark circles beneath his eyes. Those eyes—their intensity so usually kept in check—were sharper this night, the blue in them almost feverish.
He pressed a hand against the glass of the mirror, as though he could rub out the giveaway marks of his sleeplessness. The cold glass snapped him back.
Systematically, he adjusted his collar. Then his cuffs. Then his collar again. The ritual usually steadied him, but today the neatness sounded forced. Outside, the first true dawn light crept over the cobblestones, golden light covering the world’s edges.
Norman stood by the window and let it come, unchanging, his reflection streaking out as the room warmed around him.
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter,” his voice was raspier than he had anticipated.
“Your Grace? Your tea.”
He didn’t turn. “Leave it there.”
After a moment of quiet contemplation, and several critical glances in the mirror, he finally deemed himself appropriate for the meeting he had planned for the day.
He finally left his room, the click of the closing door echoing softly behind him, walking toward his studio, his footsteps muffled by the rug in the hallway.
He reached the solid oak doors, their dark grain worn smooth by years of use, the faint scent of beeswax clinging to their surface.
He placed his hand on the cool wood, feeling its weight before pushing them open, the hinges groaning slightly in protest, revealing the space beyond, and stepped inside, the familiar aroma of turpentine and clay washing over him.
The studio was already warm when he stepped inside. The light from the east-facing windows painted long amber bars across the wooden floor.
He sat at his desk, ready to confront the numbers.
Norman had summoned his solicitor two days prior. He hadn’t expected to feel this… disoriented when the day arrived. But then again, he hadn’t expected last night.
Kitty.
He forced himself to walk to the far side of the room, where the hearth was cold and a tray of untouched breakfast rested on a low table.
He could not stomach any of it.
His mouth still remembered the taste of her.
He was pouring himself a second cup of tea—more steaming than he usually preferred—when a knock came.
“Come in,” he called, trying for a steady tone.
The door opened to reveal Mr. Wrenley, his solicitor, a thin man with gray sideburns and an efficient gait, carrying a satchel overflowing with parchment and ledgers.
“Good morning, Your Grace. I trust you’re well?”
Norman gestured toward the table by the window, the space he reserved for anything involving ink and reality.
“As well as one can be before breakfast and numbers.” He placed his cup on the table with a clink. “Sit, Wrenley. Let’s begin.”
The man chuckled politely, settled himself, and set down his satchel with a groan as if the burden had grown heavier since their last meeting. He began to extract documents with the air of someone who preferred paper to people.
Norman settled into the chair opposite, his posture too upright, his hands restless against the arms.
“To begin,” Wrenley said, licking his thumb before flipping through the first folder, “we must address your portfolio—particularly the impact of the Southport shipping venture, which has not yielded the returns initially projected.”
Norman nodded once. He heard the words. He knew their meaning. But the moment Wrenley started with figures and percentages, Norman’s focus buckled.
He shouldn’t have kissed her to begin with. That was the truth of it.
But he had—he’d done it against all reason.
He had overestimated his ability to control himself.
And now, not only had he kissed her—he had touched her, dragged her into something hot and bewildering, something impulsive and dangerous. It was supposed to be discipline, a reminder that he would not be trifled with.
She was reckless, infuriating, entirely too smart for her own good. She was also his betrothed. An arrangement, not a romance.
Yet somehow, in the rage of one simple moment, he had crossed a dangerous boundary he should never have even fantasized about.
It had felt like something else entirely.
“…of course, the sale of your Liverpool property has offset a portion of those losses,” Wrenley was saying, pointing to a line of numbers in neat, cramped script.
Norman blinked. “Yes. Right. Go on.”
She’d tasted like heat and defiance. Her skin had been warm beneath his palm, her breath shallow when he leaned in. The sound she made—God, that little catch in her throat—haunted him. It had left him aching, half-mad, and utterly adrift in the aftermath.
He’d pulled away before it went further, but only just.
And he had wanted to go further.
He had stopped himself—by sheer force of will—so that he wouldn’t.
“—however, the remaining debt from your late father’s dealings has yet to be cleared, and now that the engagement announcement has been published, it is likely your creditors will grow bolder, should they suspect the match is a solution to financial strain.”
Norman’s spine straightened at that. That sentence landed.
“They won’t,” he said evenly. “The match is legitimate. She has nothing to do with this.”
Wrenley tilted his head. “Of course. I meant no offense. Only that Katherine’s family—”
“Miss McGowan,” Norman corrected him.
Wrenley blinked. “Yes, of course. Miss McGowan.”
Norman waved a hand. “Continue.”
The man resumed his monologue about liabilities and estates, but Norman barely heard a word of it. His thoughts were too loud. They raced around Kitty’s laugh, her scent, the impossible softness of her mouth.
It was the softness that undid him. It shouldn’t have surprised him—he had noticed her lips before, curved and plush and often pressed together in some expression of wry amusement—but he hadn’t expected them to feel like that.
He hadn’t expected to want to keep kissing her.
And when her hands had caught his shoulders—when she’d leaned into him, not away—Norman had felt the rest of his self-control fray like a thread pulled loose.
What disturbed him more than the desire, though, was the anticipation.
He wanted to see her again.
He wanted to see what she would do next.
And that was dangerous.
You’re supposed to be in control, Egerton.
He refocused just in time to hear Wrenley say, “—and the matter of the engagement party must be addressed. Have you finalized a date?”
Norman grimaced. “A week from Sunday.”
Wrenley’s brows lifted. “So soon?”
“The invitations were sent yesterday. It’s meant to be modest.”
The solicitor didn’t reply, though his expression did. Modest by Wrenley’s standards still meant crystal and fine silver.
Kitty was proving to be an unforeseen complication.
Not just because she was clever, and not just because she was unpredictable.
But because she’d slipped past his defenses when he wasn’t looking. Because something in the way she looked at him—when she wasn’t teasing or deflecting—made him feel like she saw him.
Not the duke, not the title or the perceived wealth he was supposed to have, but the man beneath it.
And worse—he wasn’t sure he minded.
“And as it stands now, Your Grace,” said Mr. Wrenley, peering over his spectacles with the proud air of a man who bore good tidings, “the final dividends from the railway shares came in just yesterday.”
The words finally pierced through the fog.
“Given the current state of your portfolio and the successful liquidation of those shipping bonds, I dare say you’ll be rid of Mr. Brown and his frightful demands by the end of the month.”
The solicitor’s voice held the sharp clip of finality, but for a moment Norman only blinked at him, as though the words were a foreign tongue.
“Come again?” he said, his voice quieter than expected.
Wrenley adjusted his papers with immense care, slipping them in his bag slowly, one by one. “You’re in the clear, Your Grace. Not flush with riches, not yet, but out of danger.”
Norman’s breath left his lungs slowly.
Relief arrived not as a loud exhale but as a gradual uncoiling in his shoulders, a sense of weight shifting off his chest. He leaned back in his chair and let his head fall against the leather rest.
“Thank God,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Wrenley chuckled softly. “Indeed. Though I would advise we keep up with the current pace. We’ve only just pulled ahead.”
Norman nodded vaguely, already rising to his feet. Gratitude coursed through him, warm and raw, and he extended his hand. “Thank you, Wrenley. Truly.”
They exchanged a few more words, perfunctory and cordial, and then Norman escorted the man to the front door, exchanging a few more pleasantries while sunlight poured through the tall windows of the front hall.
When the door finally shut behind the solicitor, Norman lingered a moment longer in the silence of the house. The air felt lighter, as if the place had exhaled with him.
He made his way back to his studio.
The door clicked shut behind him, and he sat heavily in his chair, as though his legs could no longer bear the weight of all he now felt.
Relief, yes. A grand swell of it. But alongside it, something darker. Quieter. Less welcome.
For months he had lived beneath the looming specter of Brown—Brown with his cunning eyes and his leering promises and his threats cloaked as suggestions.
The debt had hung over Norman’s household like a storm cloud, and the thought of Eleanor—dear, gentle Eleanor—being dragged into ruin by his father’s mistakes and his own incapability had nearly hollowed him out.
But now… now there was hope.
He could see the path clearly again. Brown would be dealt with before the month was out. Eleanor could have the Season she’d dreamed of since she was a child, the ballgowns and the dancing and the dainty gloves and everything a girl like her should have. He would make sure of it.
He would be free to arrange the wedding, to pay the vendors, to write the letters, to assure Kitty—
Kitty.
He closed his eyes.
The thought of her hit him again, like a gust of cold wind. And with it came the memory of the night before, unfolding before his eyes.
Her soft breath. The sound she made when he’d touched her. The shock in her eyes that melted slowly—painfully—into something else. Something that had made his blood turn molten.
He opened his eyes quickly and stood, as if the sheer act of movement might shake the thoughts away.
It had been a mistake. He knew it the moment his lips had pressed to hers. A terrible, selfish, reckless thing. What had he even intended? To prove a point? To assert some measure of power over her?
No. He had wanted her.
And that was the most damning part of all. He had wanted her so badly he’d lost sight of what was proper, of what was wise. It had begun with discipline, a lesson meant to restore order, and it had ended with him nearly begging for the taste of her mouth.
He dragged a hand through his hair and paced to the far end of the studio, then back again.
She drove him mad. Every expression, every sharp-tongued deflection, every moment she flinched from him—it all settled beneath his skin like splinters.
But he had begun to notice the other things, too.
The faint tremble in her breath when she was caught off guard.
The way her hands moved when she wasn’t thinking, like she didn’t know what to do with them.
And that strange kind of courage she wielded, even when she clearly wanted to be anywhere else.
There was something about her. Something strange. Something wild and untamed, and it clawed at him, getting deeper each time.
He could not decide if it was attraction, simply the thrill of a challenge or if it was something deeper.
But then he remembered the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips, the sound of her breath—
Damn it.
He turned away from the desk, fists clenched at his sides.
He had no business thinking of her that way, not when she so clearly despised him. Not when she was only tolerating the engagement out of obligation. And yet—
And yet he’d seen something in her last night. Not hatred. Not loathing. Not even fear.
Need.
He did not know what to make of that.
He hadn’t seen her since last night, despite her occupying his thoughts the entire time.
He wasn’t certain of what he should say to her when he saw her again.
But he needed to see her.
He wanted to see that look in her eyes again. Wanted to know if it had all been a moment of madness, or if she had felt it too—the strange pull between them.
He sat again, more heavily this time.
For all his stern speeches and cold control, he was unraveling. And worse—he was starting to like it.
Was this what longing felt like? This aching absence?
He had no time for this. No patience for feelings that complicated things further.
He had a sister to protect. A future to rebuild.
Brown’s defeat might have been imminent, but he was not yet gone. The engagement party was creeping closer. The wedding—God, the wedding—would follow. He could not afford to lose himself to fantasy.
And yet his thoughts returned to her, over and over. Not as a ghost or a dream, but as a flame still burning under his skin.
He told himself it was merely desire, a fleeting, physical madness. He told himself many things.
But the hollow ache in his chest said otherwise.
He rose at last, adjusting his cuffs with stiff precision, trying to gather what remained of his composure.
He needed to leave the house.
He needed to think.