Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
The morning sun glinted softly off the high windows as Kitty walked beside Norman through the side gardens, their boots crunching faintly against gravel.
There was a bite in the wind, the kind that came only with the shift of seasons, yet it did little to quell the heat blooming nervously in her chest.
“Norman,” she began, voice low, her hands folded before her. “You must know that I—I trust you completely. And I don’t know if you do too, but I really hope you do. And I just want you to know that if something is troubling you I could—I could help you. You only need to trust me.”
He glanced down at her, ever the gentleman. That familiar, faint curve of a smile tugged at his mouth, but it was tight today. Distant.
“Kitty,” he said gently, “I appreciate your concern. But I don’t see how I could need your help.”
Her spine straightened at his casual dismissal, frustration coiling tight around her ribs. “With…well with…anything. I want you to feel safe trusting me. We are going to be husband and wife soon. That means you won’t have to go through things alone anymore.”
He did not answer. Instead, he offered his arm as they reached the edge of the courtyard, where grooms bustled about, preparing horses and saddles.
The others were already gathered in pairs and small groups, laughter and banter mingling with the sound of stamping hooves and rustling bridles.
It was the third week of their engagement, and their wedding was just one day away.
Kitty should have felt excitement. Anticipation.
Instead, she felt like a woman clinging to the edge of something crumbling beyond her reach.
She looked up at Norman once more. His profile was perfect, cut from some noble stone, but the warmth she expected to find there was fading—amusement taking its place as he glanced at her.
He would not speak of his debts, of the way he paced some nights when he thought her asleep, of the quiet conversations he held behind the closed doors of his studio. He bore it all with that stoic dignity of his, the one that had first drawn her to him—and now kept him just out of reach.
He will not let me in, she thought, clutching her gloves in her palm so tightly the stitches strained. But if he does not, then what foundation can we possibly have? How can I protect him?
She stepped away, as if seeking breath in the cold air, and tried to shake the ache in her chest. There must be something she could say, some small act that would convince him she was not simply saying he could trust her, but rather she was in this deeper than he thought.
That she was his future wife, not a porcelain bride to protect from unpleasant truths.
Her thoughts were broken by a sharp clap.
“May I have everyone’s attention please?” Cynthia’s voice cut through the courtyard, unnaturally bright.
Kitty turned, heart lurching. Cynthia stood at the base of the stone steps, holding a folded paper in her gloved hand. Her expression was all sorrowful sweetness, her eyes wide in a practiced sort of distress.
“I am terribly sorry to interrupt,” she continued, “but I feel I must speak now. For the sake of propriety, and for the poor, and ever so generous duke.”
A hush fell over the courtyard. Jane turned sharply. Richard’s brow furrowed. Even the servants slowed in their tasks.
Kitty felt a strange, creeping cold crawl up her spine.
“Your Grace,” Cynthia politely bowed her head at Norman, as she raised the letter in her hand. “I received word this morning. From a mutual acquaintance of ours—mine and Miss McGowan’s. From Venice.”
Norman’s gaze flicked to Kitty, eyebrows lifting in silent question. A heartbeat passed—just long enough for the unspoken Since when? to hang between them—before his attention snapped back to Cynthia.
Kitty blinked. Her lips parted. “What?”
Since when does Cynthia know anyone from Venice?
Cynthia held the letter up higher. “This is from Signora Marina. A dear friend of mine and, apparently, of Miss McGowan’s.
She writes of certain… entanglements Miss McGowan has engaged in while traveling abroad.
Namely, with a man of no title, no honor, and no intentions of letting her go.
” Cynthia punctuated her words with a performative bite of her lip—the very picture of sorrow.
But Kitty caught the betraying twitch at the corners of her mouth, the barely contained delight curling beneath her show of remorse.
A quiet gasp. Then another. Kitty’s blood roared in her ears.
“That’s absurd!” Jane snapped, striding forward. “Kitty would never. I know it. I was there.”
“Let me see that letter,” Richard demanded, his hand already extended.
Cynthia recoiled, folding it quickly and slipping it into her bodice with a demure tilt of her chin. “I cannot reveal all, not in mixed company. But I thought it my duty to protect His Grace from the impending scandal, that your family attempted to involve him in.”
Kitty stood frozen, heart hammering against her ribs. Her mind reeled. Marina? How did Marina and Cynthia know each other? And why was there such a letter? She had been entangled with no man. There was no man. Never had been.
The air caught sharply in her throat—one jagged, half-formed breath that refused to move. Her ribs locked tight as if bound by iron bands, each frantic heartbeat only tightening the vise around her lungs. She tried to gasp, to plead, but her body had become a prison of panicked stillness.
She looked to Norman.
He stood completely still.
His hands clenched at his sides, his jaw taut, his expression unreadable. His gaze met hers, but there was no comfort in it. No warmth.
Just silence.
Her chest ached. “Norman, I swear to you, this is not true.”
Still, he said nothing.
Lady Mulberry gave a soft, bitter laugh. “Well… I cannot say I am surprised. That one always seemed a bit too…unusual. Now at least my grandson can be free of this whole charade.”
Kitty flinched.
Free? She turned to Norman again, her eyes pleading.
“You know me. You know who I am. You know I…” Her voice cracked. “Say something.”
He exhaled. One long, slow breath.
“The wedding is postponed,” his voice, when he finally spoke, was honed to an arctic edge—each syllable sending frost creeping down Kitty’s spine.
Gasps rippled through the air. Jane stepped forward as if to protest, but Richard gently caught her arm.
Kitty felt the world tilt. The air grew too thin.
“What?” she whispered, more to herself than Norman.
Norman did not look at her. His gaze swept the onlookers instead. “You may all return to your homes. The festivities are over.”
It struck like a blow. Her legs nearly gave way beneath her. Only sheer force of will kept her upright.
The crowd began to murmur, hesitant, awkward. Servants led the horses away. Jane was trembling with rage. Cynthia wore an expression of tragic triumph.
Kitty couldn’t move.
She stared at Norman.
You didn’t defend me.
The thought echoed louder than the rest. Louder than Cynthia’s smug speech, than Mulberry’s icy disdain, louder than the panic screaming through her bones.
He had always been her shield, since the night they met. He had once told her she could always go to him, and he would protect her. But now, with one lie and a piece of forged paper, he had cast her aside.
She wanted to scream.
Instead, she turned.
Her boots scraped sharply against the gravel as she walked away, past the hedgerows and down toward the old rose gardens. No one followed. The wind picked up, cold and stinging, like salt in an open wound.
Tears stung her eyes, but she would not let them fall.
Not yet.
She sat, fingers trembling in her lap.
How could he believe it? How could he of all people think her capable of such immorality?
Was his trust so fragile? Or had he been looking for a reason to run?
The thought cut her deeper than she expected. Her chest rose and fell in short, shallow gasps.
He never told me what truly plagued him, she thought. He never let me help. And now, when I needed him most, he looked at me like I was a stranger.
She let out a small, broken sound.
Tears slipped down her cheeks now, unbidden and hot. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, furious at Norman for giving them that satisfaction. For letting Cynthia ruin their engagement.
Marina would never write such a thing. And if she had, Kitty would know why. There was something deeper at play. Some plan that had coiled itself around both her and Norman, and she would not let it end here.
She stood, shakily but with purpose, and looked toward the main house, now bustling with guests departing and servants gathering trunks.
Kitty squared her shoulders.
If Norman would not fight for her, she would fight for herself. She knew the truth.
And if she uncovered the truth to him, then perhaps—perhaps he would see her again.
Even when he was too afraid to trust her.
But oh, how it broke her heart, shattering it to pieces.
Because somewhere deep beneath that resolve, she was still a girl in love with a man who had once promised to protect her. And now she stood alone, not just abandoned, but wounded in the place she had just started feeling safe. She had felt almost…at home.
Tomorrow was meant to be our beginning, our union, she thought, swallowing hard. And now it may be the end.
Norman stood motionless in the middle of his studio, hands clenched into fists at his sides, staring at nothing.
The air in the room was thick—charged with the remnants of laughter from earlier, of shocked gasps and whispered judgment, now curdling into something bitter and unspoken.
Light streamed in faintly from the high windows, casting long bars across the floorboards, like the ribs of a great beast tightening around him.
The door opened and shut—Kitty, Norman realized—with a soft click, but the silence it left in its wake rang out like a cannon blast.