Page 102 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“No. It’s all right. I suppose you must do what you think is best.”

Her voice was too calm. Too even. It made something fracture inside him.

He wanted to stay. God, he wanted to stay with her, but the letter burned in his coat pocket like a brand. He could still see the words:

DOES YOUR DUCHESS KNOW THAT SHE MARRIED A MURDERER?

If he didn’t fix this—if he didn’t get ahead of whoever had written it—then it would reach her anyway. And it would ruin her.

He wouldn’t let that happen. Even if it meant giving her up. Even if it meant becoming the villain in her story.

“Goodbye, Eleanor,” he said.

She didn’t answer, just stood in the middle of the room as he walked to the door, silent as snowfall.

He paused with his hand on the knob. If she asked—if she said one more word—he wouldn’t have the strength to leave.

Then, he opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

And this time, he didn’t look back.

Twenty-Four

Eleanor didn’t sleep.

She had undressed slowly, carefully, like it mattered. She’d folded her gown. Brushed her hair. Blown out the candles one by one. Anything to keep her hands moving. Anything to keep from collapsing into the hollow Ramsay had left behind.

But when she finally laid down—alone—something inside her gave way.

She hadn’t cried in years. Not since her father died. Not when Gifford spread those rumors about her. Not even when she learned of Norman’s debt scandal. But sometime around dawn, with the sky still ink-dark and her pillow damp beneath her cheek, the tears came. Hot, steady, humiliating.

He’d left. He hadn’t even looked back.

By morning, her eyes burned and her chest ached and her limbs felt like iron. She stared at the ceiling until the maid came with breakfast then waved her off with a brittle “no, thank you”. She didn’t want food. Or fresh flowers. Or the pale morning sun warming the edges of the rug.

She wanted him.

No, she corrected herself bitterly. She wanted answers. And comfort. And some explanation that made this feel less like a punishment.

By ten o’clock, she was pacing her room in the same nightdress she’d slept in, hair unbrushed, heart wrung dry. Penelope had probably already been taken out to the gardens with Miss Bransby. Lady Fraser must have been having tea in her room. The entire house seemed content to carry on, as if nothing had happened. As if the man she married hadn’t just vanished like a storm retreating to the hills.

Eleanor stood still for a long moment. Then, with sudden resolve, she grabbed her shawl, pulled on her slippers, and left the room.

She didn’t bother with gloves. She didn’t care.

She entered the main hall and asked Belson to prepare a carriage. By the time she reached Kitty and Norman’s townhouse, the world outside had brightened considerably, a cruel contrast to the low, numb weight inside her chest. She knocked once, and the door opened almost immediately.

She found Kitty in the drawing room, and she blinked at her from the sofa. Her expression shifted quickly—from surprise to alarm.

“My God,” she said. “You look like you’ve just fought a war.”

Eleanor tried to speak. Nothing came out.

Kitty got to her feet immediately. “Come in. Come in. Sit. I’ll get tea.”

Eleanor didn’t argue. She moved numbly into the drawing room and sank onto the settee. Her hands trembled as she wrapped the shawl tighter around her shoulders.

Kitty returned a moment later, giving orders to a footman in the hall before closing the door and joining her on the couch. She looked closely at Eleanor.