Page 18 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

He pushed it open and was greeted by chaos.

Books were strewn across the rug, pages askew as if the shelves had coughed them up. A black ink blot spread across a tablecloth. Several cushions had been stacked like a fortress in the corner. Near the hearth stood the young governess, her cheeks blotched crimson, skirts askew, and one hairpin dangling from a loose curl near her ear.

“Your Grace,” she gasped, startled. She attempted a curtsy but nearly stumbled over a volume of moral instruction. “I—I wasn’t expecting?—”

Ramsay surveyed the scene with a grimace. “I can see that.”

He stepped forward, avoiding a toppled ink bottle with practiced precision. “What happened?”

“She wouldn’t sit,” the governess said, wringing her hands. “We began with her letters, but she said she hated the alphabet. Then she poured the ink into the flower vase.”

He turned to look at Penelope. She sat with her legs tucked neatly beneath her, chin slightly lifted, and the faintest smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. There was something shameless in her composure, almost theatrical. As if she had watched the ink bloom in the vase like it was a science experiment then declared the results unsatisfactory and flung it with purpose.

When the governess scolded her, she responded with the slow, unbothered blink of a cat, unrepentant and unamused. There was no tantrum, no tears—just an air of indifference, like a duchess observing the missteps of inferior company. It wasn’t misbehavior, not really. It was a performance. And she played the part with maddening precision, as though everyone else had failed to read their lines.

He arched a brow. “A creative compromise.”

“I asked her to stop,” the girl continued helplessly. “She threw the vase.”

Just then, a thud echoed from behind a stack of cushions. Ramsay glanced over his shoulder and caught the flick of a small foot disappearing behind the door.

“More diplomacy,” he muttered.

The governess, red-faced and thoroughly defeated, gestured helplessly. “She says she’s not talking to anyone unless it’s her bird drawings.”

Ramsay rubbed a hand across his jaw. “She’s four,” he said evenly. “She doesn’t get to negotiate terms.”

He strode past the girl, his legs eating the distance down the narrow corridor lined with portraits of long-dead Brookings. He stopped just outside the room and crouched low.

“Penelope.”

Nothing.

“Penelope.”

He tried the latch. It wasn’t locked.

The room was small and dim, lit only by the pale wash of winter morning leaking through a half-frosted window. She was curled up behind the long window seat, knees pulled tight to her chest, her dark curls tumbling over her face. She looked up, just barely.

There was ink on her fingers, smudged across the hem of her pinafore.Ramsay crouched down beside the bench, resting his forearm on one knee.

“I brought you something.”

Penelope didn’t move. Her small arms wrapped tighter around her legs. She was small for her age, but the defiance in her chin could have belonged to a queen.

He reached into his coat and drew out a small parcel. It was wrapped in brown paper, tied with rough string—neatly but plainly. He held it out without forcing it into her hands.

“I saw it in a shop window near the Strand. It reminded me of you.”

Still, she didn’t move.

“I thought you might like her.”

A long moment passed. Then, finally, Penelope reached out—slow, cautious—and tugged at the knot. The string gave way with a snap. She peeled back the paper. Inside was a doll. Porcelain. Hand-painted. Pale face, golden hair, blue gown with puffed sleeves. A ridiculous little bonnet sat askew on her painted curls.

Penelope frowned. “I hate her.”

Ramsay raised a brow. “Why?”