Page 16 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Adrenaline. Still, surely. She’d nearly drowned. That was all.

And now, she was expected to forget it. To trade one stranger for another, as if today’s chaos had never happened.

Eleanor leaned her forehead against the windowpane. The glass was cool.The weight of everything settled on her, heavy as the sea.And in the space between one breath and the next, she made a silent vow:she would not be handed off again. Not without a choice.

No matter what Norman thought.

Five

The collar was too stiff.

Ramsay tugged at it once, then again, fingers blunt and impatient as he turned from the mirror. He looked nothing like himself. English tailoring never sat right on him, no matter how fine the cloth or straight the line. The cut was too tight across his shoulders, too narrow in the sleeves, too damned ceremonial. It made a man look as though he’d never swung a sword in his life.

And maybe that was the point.

They wanted to tame him. They wanted the Highland wolf in a velvet muzzle. Ramsay reached for his coat and shoved his arms into it, moving with the same gruff energy he gave everything, never mind that the fabric strained slightly over his back.

He moved to the hearth where a small fire licked quietly at the grate. The morning was grey and sharp, the kind of London chill that didn’t so much sting as seep. He watched the flames, jawtight. The room was too quiet. Too elegant. Even the silence in England felt different—less natural, somehow. More staged.

What was he doing here?

The Egertons.

Or more precisely: her.Eleanor.

The name sat like a stone in his chest. Every time he tried to reason his way past it, it rose again. Wide eyes. Wild hair. That impossible mouth. The sort of face that shouldn’t haunt a man after just one encounter, and yet she did.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

He hadn’t asked for her defense. And yet, when she’d stood there, trembling but brave, he had felt something ancient and uncomfortable stir in him.

So now, thanks to one damned moment on the upper deck, he was embroiled in some sort of scandal before his boots had even touched English soil. He could have stayed quiet. Let the girl explain herself. Let the brother do what older brothers do best—punch first, think later. Instead, he’d interfered.

He didn’t know why.And he didn’t like not knowing.

“You’ll wrinkle the cuffs, Your Grace.”

Ramsay turned to see Belson, his butler, standing in the doorway with a tray and that particular expression he always wore when pretending not to judge him.

“Let them wrinkle,” Ramsay muttered. “I didn’t ask for the damned starch.”

Belson entered, setting the tray on a side table with precise care. “Shirt starch is a science, Sir. And a tailored coat is not meant to be fought into.”

“I’ve never had help dressing before,” Ramsay said, brushing past him. “I won’t start now.”

Belson folded his hands. “Forgive me, but your title has changed. You are not simply Ramsay Brooking now. You are the Duke of Stormglen.”

“I was the Duke of Stormglen yesterday,” Ramsay replied, flat as stone. “And I dressed myself just fine then.”

“Indeed,” Belson said patiently. “And yesterday, you did not have an appointment with the Duke of Wharton and his entire menagerie of expectations.”

Ramsay said nothing. He poured himself a cup of tea from the tray and drank it scalding.

Belson cleared his throat delicately. “Might I suggest you take the carriage?”

“No.”

“It would be warmer.”