Page 107 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“Good afternoon,” he said.

He has a Scottish accent.

Eleanor stepped between him and Penelope. Her heart was thudding, but her mouth formed a smile. Brittle. Practiced. The sort one gave to uninvited guests at a party or men who lingered too long in drawing rooms.

“Good afternoon,” she echoed, her voice just a shade too warm. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

The man tilted his head, amused.

“No,” he said, “we haven’t.”

She forced a laugh, light and tight. “Then you’ll forgive me for asking?—”

“Who I am?” he finished, eyes glinting.

Eleanor didn’t flinch outwardly, but her pulse was fluttering at the base of her throat.

“I simply meant,” she said smoothly, “that this isn’t a public estate, and I wasn’t aware we were expecting visitors.”

The man smiled again. Slowly. Like he knew something she didn’t.

“I’m just a friend,” he said.

Her mouth went dry. “Of whom?” she asked, forcing the words out with an edge of civility though her tone betrayed the tremor beneath.

He turned to look at her fully, hands clasped loosely behind his back, as if they were merely chatting in a park. “I believe they refer to him here asthe Duke.”

Eleanor stiffened. Her hand slipped protectively onto Penelope’s shoulder, fingers tightening slightly.

“And how do you know the Duke?” she asked, her voice calm but clipped. Controlled. As if the veneer of good manners might anchor her to the ground.

The man shrugged, the motion lazy and unapologetic. “I’m an… old friend.”

Old friend. That made something cold crawl down her spine, and she didn’t know why.

She cleared her throat, willing her expression to remain neutral. “And how do you know this child?”

He didn’t answer. Not at first. Instead, his gaze flicked downward, slow and deliberate, to Penelope—who was fiddling with the reins of her pony, clearly uninterested in the conversation. He tilted his head slightly, considering her.

Then, softly, as if offering a compliment, “Ramsay’s blood must’ve been stronger than the girl’s real father. She looks just like him.”

Eleanor froze. Her breath caught hard in her chest, like something had punched through the middle of it. The world tilted slightly off its axis.

“What did you say?” she asked, quietly. Too quietly.

The man didn’t repeat himself.

Penelope looked up, brow furrowed. “He was just talking funny,” she said, voice light. “Is he a bad man?”

Eleanor didn’t look away from the man. Her grip on Penelope’s shoulder had become rigid. Too tight. She could feel the heat of the sun on her neck, the buzz of insects in the hedgerows, the faint rustle of grass as the pony pawed the ground, but all of it felt distant. Muted.

This man was not a friend. And he wasnottalking funny.

Eleanor turned her eyes back to the man. “You said you were a friend. What kind of friend speaks to a child like that?”

“A thoughtful one.” The man brushed something from his sleeve. “I’d hoped to find Ramsay at home, but I hear he’s… gone again.”

Eleanor didn’t answer. She was too busy studying him.