Page 17 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“I don’t mind the wind.”

“It would be faster.”

“I’m not in a hurry.”

“It would be considerably less conspicuous.”

Ramsay looked up at that, dark brows arching. “Do I strike you as a man who cares about being conspicuous?”

Belson allowed himself the faintest smile. “I was hoping you might begin.”

Ramsay drained the rest of his cup and set it down with a muted clink. “How is Penelope?”

Belson, to his credit, answered without missing a beat. “Restless. She hardly speaks. I’ve given her the upstairs library—it’s warmest—and she’s taken to drawing pictures of birds.”

“Birds?”

“Yes, sir. Owls and sparrows. Nothing terribly cheerful.”

Ramsay exhaled and stepped closer to the window, resting his hand against the cold pane as he stared out at the slate-colored sky. The clouds hung low, thick and oppressive. Rain, maybe. Or just the London sky being its usual mournful self. His reflection stared back at him, grim and sharp-edged.

“She needs more than this,” he said suddenly. “More than me. A woman’s presence. A proper home. Someone who won’t lose their temper every time she throws a fit over bloody ribbons or dolls.”

Belson, who had entered soundlessly with the day’s post, paused just inside the room. “Indeed, Your Grace.”

Ramsay didn’t turn. “George loved her. But he never brought her into the world. Kept her tucked away like some fragile heirloom he couldn’t bear to show off. As if hiding her made the rest of it less real.”

There was a beat of silence.

“She’s not a secret,” Ramsay said. “She’s a child. A stubborn, brilliant, impossible little girl.”

“Quite right,” Belson replied softly. “She trusts you, you know.”

That landed heavier than Ramsay expected. His mouth tightened. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

Trust. The one thing he’d never learned how to offer, let alone return.

He tugged on his gloves—harder than necessary.

“I’ll find someone,” he muttered. “Someone worthy. She deserves that much.”

Belson inclined his head. “Your brother would have agreed.”

Ramsay said nothing. His mind had drifted far north—Inverness, grey stone and colder stares, the sharp ache of being twelve and left behind. His grandmother had done what she could. But the rest… the rest had been his to claw through alone.

Let the English whisper that he was unrefined. He’d earned every inch of his title with blood and silence.

He adjusted his cuffs one last time and strode toward the door.

“Your mare is ready,” Belson called after him. “Though she’ll be offended if you ride her in that coat.”

Ramsay smirked without turning back. “She’ll survive. It’s a coat, not a declaration of war.”

He stepped into the corridor, only to pause after a few strides. The manor truly was quiet—too quiet for a house with a child in it. That was rarely a good sign.

He turned on his heel. Instead of heading to the stables, Ramsay made his way up the eastern staircase, his boots dull against the runner, hand grazing the polished banister out of habit. He passed the tall windows lining the upper landing, each one muted by grey daylight. The scent of lemon oil, paper, and something vaguely floral—lavender, maybe—grew stronger as he neared the library.

The door was ajar. Just enough to hint at rebellion.