Chapter 18
Eighteen
“Good morning, Miss McGowan,” a woman’s voice trilled, its practiced cheerfulness slicing through the morning air like a silver bell.
Kitty stepped lightly down the staircase, her skirts brushing against the polished wood as sunlight streaked through the tall windows, gilding the banisters in gold.
“Why, good morning indeed!” The words leapt from Kitty’s lips before she could temper them, her laughter spilling over like champagne fizz.
She felt the faintest shimmer of delight in her chest, like the tremble of harp strings before the music began.
Today was the day. Rehearsals. With Norman.
She reached the drawing room earlier than anyone else, her pulse quickening with each step closer. The room was bathed in soft morning light, the scent of lavender polish lingering in the air.
She paused on the threshold, expecting to see him by the pianoforte or perhaps leaning against the fireplace with that ever-watchful look in his eyes.
But the room was empty.
Her shoes made a quiet tap as she crossed to the settee and sat down, smoothing her skirts over her knees, trying to tame the sudden fluttering in her stomach.
Any moment now, surely. He must simply be late.
She laced her fingers in her lap and watched the long shadows cast by the rose-draped windows crawl across the floor.
A footman entered. Then another servant.
Then, gradually, the rest of the household began to trickle in.
Eleanor offered her a gentle smile as she came in with a cluster of young ladies who chattered about the weather and breakfast. Mulberry swept in last, draped in pale green and smelling faintly of crushed mint.
But no Norman. Not yet.
Kitty sat still, her back straight, her face composed. But the tiny tremor in her hand betrayed her. Her chest felt like it had caved inward slightly, like her ribs had folded themselves tight around her heart.
She glanced at the clock. Rehearsals were meant to begin a quarter hour ago.
Still no sign of him.
She pressed her palms to her knees, willing herself not to look too often at the door. Her mind ran in cruel circles. Perhaps he had forgotten. Perhaps he had grown tired of her. Perhaps he regretted everything.
She didn’t see Mulberry approach until she was already at her side.
“How terribly unfortunate,” Mulberry said, with a voice wrapped in silk and something sharper beneath. “It seems His Grace must have had a change of heart.”
Kitty turned her head, slowly.
Mulberry gave her a smile so slight it was nearly invisible. “Or perhaps he simply finds this little farce too tedious to bother with. Not everyone is born for the stage, I suppose.”
There was laughter behind Mulberry’s eyes, though her lips remained demure. Kitty’s mouth went dry.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t trust herself to.
Mulberry stepped forward to address the room, her voice projecting effortlessly. “As it stands, it appears we are in need of a new leading man. A most dreadful inconvenience. But I took the liberty of inviting another gentleman who may yet save our humble production.”
Kitty blinked.
How convenient for Lady Mulberry.
Mulberry continued, her smile widening as she savored the moment. “You may all be pleased to hear that the Marquess of Grewin will be joining us shortly.”
The air left Kitty’s lungs in a rush. It was not visible, not audible, but she felt herself collapse inward. Like her body remained upright while everything inside recoiled violently.
Her skin prickled. Not from the chill in the air—but from memory. The gravel beneath her slippers. The scent of roses crushed underfoot. Grewin’s fingertip beneath her chin. The darkness of the courtyard closing in around her.
And Norman, arriving just in time. Just in time to stop him.
Where is he?
It was Grewin’s audacity—his disgusting entitlement, his grip, his disgusting demeanor—that had set this entire engagement into motion.
The drawing-room doors swung open precisely as Lady Mulberry finished speaking.
A hush fell over the room. The butler had entered.
“The Marquess of Grewin, my lady.”
The butler stepped aside, revealing Grewin’s unmistakable silhouette framed in the threshold.
Kitty turned her face away. Her body had gone rigid.
She heard his voice. It slithered across the room like oil on water.
“What a charming morning. How delightful to see so many lovely faces.”
Kitty stared at the floral pattern on the carpet. It swam slightly.
She turned to glance at him.
That insufferable smirk—the very same that had curled his lips when last they’d met—still played about his mouth.
The tea in Kitty’s stomach threatened to rebel.
“Do forgive my tardiness, Lady Mulberry.” He advanced with the deliberate grace of a prowling cat, his boots clicking against the parquet.
Catching Mulberry’s gloved hand, he bowed with exaggerated gallantry, pressing his lips to the kid leather just a heartbeat too long. When he straightened, his gaze locked onto Mulberry’s with fox-like intensity. “I trust I’ve not missed anything of consequence?”
A sound escaped Mulberry—half-gasp, half-giggle—as her fan fluttered like the wings of a cornered sparrow. The blush spreading beneath her powder was unmistakable, staining her cheeks the exact shade of the overripe peaches on the sideboard.
Kitty’s grip tightened around her own fan until the mother-of-pearl sticks bit into her palm.
The ivory slats of her fan creaked in protest as her thumb found the sharp edge of a carved forget-me-not. One deliberate movement—just one—and she might draw blood from her own flesh. The sting would be preferable to this… this intolerable spectacle.
She wanted to stand. To throw the nearest chair. To scream.
Grewin’s gaze flicked to hers—just for a heartbeat—but it was enough.
That smirk. That wretched, nauseating smirk. The way his lips curled, as if he’d already won some unspoken game between them. A flash of teeth, too white, too sharp. Predatory.
A dull throb began at her temples, each pulse like the strike of a tiny hammer.
Once, she would have made a scene. Once, she would have risen with venom and made it absolutely, painfully clear that she would never, ever perform so much as a syllable opposite that man.
But her eyes flicked to Eleanor.
Sweet, bright-eyed Eleanor, who was now twisting a bit of ribbon in her fingers, casting nervous glances between Kitty and Mulberry.
Eleanor stood wholly unconnected to this wretched affair. Were Kitty to react, were she to indulge in unseemly displays, the damage would extend far beyond Norman’s standing and her own fragile reputation.
Eleanor’s good name would be tarnished by association, and this thought pierced Kitty more sharply than any personal slight. An innocent caught in the crossfire of society’s unforgiving gaze— the purest casualty in their tangled drama.
Kitty’s jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached.
A tight, invisible cord pulled between her ribs. She couldn’t breathe right. She couldn’t think. There were too many voices, too much brightness, the windows letting in too much light.
“Kitty?” Eleanor’s voice, gentle. Concerned.
Kitty turned toward her, and somehow managed a smile. It felt like a paper mask.
“I’m quite all right,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm.
Mulberry was speaking again, some inane comment about how Grewin had always had a flair for theater. There were murmurs of agreement, though a few of the ladies looked vaguely uncomfortable.
Kitty noticed which ones. Made note of their lowered eyes.
She kept her hands perfectly still. Her spine upright. Her expression neutral.
Inside, she burned.
She did not understand why Norman had not come.
Was he ill? Had something happened? Or did he know?
Had he known that Mulberry intended to invite Grewin? Was this some cruel joke?
No. No, Norman would not do that.
Would he?
The uncertainty was worse than any answer. It gnawed at her.
She thought of how he had looked at her just days before. The warmth in his voice when he’d spoken of her. Of his lips, so gentle and warm against hers.
Of the way he had shielded her that night, despite everything that happened afterwards. Despite not knowing her.
“Miss McGowan,” Grewin said.
Her name, spoken by that mouth, felt like filth in the air.
Kitty stood.
She did not know she was going to. Her legs moved before her brain gave permission.
She turned to face him.
He stood as tall as she remembered, perhaps taller. Dressed immaculately, hair slightly tousled in a way that suggested he’d spent time perfecting the appearance of carelessness. His mouth curled up at the corner, and his eyes held that same glint of hunger.
He bowed.
Kitty inclined her head, very slightly. It was all the acknowledgment she would give him.
Lady Mulberry beamed. “Lord Grewin has so graciously agreed to take over the role of our dashing rogue. A natural fit, wouldn’t you agree, Kitty?”
There was laughter. One or two shocked gasps masked as coughs.
Kitty did not laugh.
She said, very quietly, “It is not for me to say.”
She sat back down. Her heart was racing so fast it made her fingertips tremble.
Across the room, Eleanor looked stricken.
Cynthia seemed delighted.
Kitty could feel Grewin’s eyes on her. Like grease. Like fingers.
She kept her gaze on the window. It was bright outside. Birds flitted across the lawn.
There would be time to fight.
But not now.
Not while Eleanor watched her with such worry. Not while Norman’s absence throbbed like a bruise in her chest.
She would endure.
For now.
The faint sound of rustling fabric accompanied her every step as she crossed the drawing room floor, spine straight, head high, though her skin crawled.
The hem of her muslin dress brushed the polished floorboards like a ghost, and in her hands she clutched the marked-up script as if it could shield her from the man seated beside her.