Page 10 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“Then trust me. This—” she gestured to the scene “—would end with me banished to some aunt’s drawing room until I wither away from shame.”

He gave her a long look. “You don’t appear the withering type.”

She blinked, as if startled by his audacity.

Then, to his surprise, she laughed—a real one this time. It burst out of her in a single, short breath, sharp and bright, like glass catching sunlight. He felt the sound like a match struck in his chest.Unreasonable, he thought.Inappropriate.

And yet he wanted to hear it again.

Her cheeks were still flushed with adrenaline, and her posture was just shy of feral. He found it oddly affecting. There was steelin her beneath the proper hem and polite vowels. A kind of fire that refused to apologize for burning.

“I need to go,” she said, more softly now. “Before someone sees.”

Ramsay nodded and reached into his coat pocket. “Here.”

She frowned. “What is that?”

He pulled out a clean kerchief and extended it. “For your hand.”

She hesitated then took it, slowly, their fingers brushing. Her skin was warm. Fine-boned. He watched her wrap it around her knuckles, focused and quiet.

“I’ve never hit anyone before,” she admitted, knotting the cloth.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She glanced down at the man again. “Do you think he’ll make a scene?”

“Only if he wakes up.”

She looked up at him, startled, but she didn’t laugh this time.

The air between them was tight with breath and heartbeat and everything unspoken. Her eyes searched his face, still flushed from the fight, and Ramsay realized—too late—that standing sonear her was dangerous for reasons that had nothing to do with fists.

He stepped back half a pace.

“You shouldn’t stand so close to the railing,” he said gruffly. “You might fall.”

The words hung in the air, oddly loud.

Her expression shifted. Not into gratitude but into something colder. Rawer.

“Oh, I see,” she said, her voice clipped. “Now you’d like to tell me where I’m allowed to stand?”

His brow furrowed. “It’s not a?—”

“I’ve had quite enough of men warning me. Grabbing me. Insisting I listen, insisting I obey?—”

“I didn’t say?—”

“Well, Iheardyou,” she snapped, stepping back. “And I amnotgoing to put up with men telling me what to do anymore.”

They stared at each other. Her chest rose and fell. His jaw clenched.

A beat passed.

She was wild, though not in the way men whispered about behind fans or called improper at dinner tables. Hers was a storm that came without thunder: sharp, sudden, unapologetically alive.

Ramsay watched her now, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing, spine straight as a sword, and felt something twist low in his gut. She didn’t wilt. She didn’t wait for permission to strike.