Page 19 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“She looks like she cries a lot.”

“I see.” He glanced at the doll. “Maybe she’s dramatic.”

“Maybe she’s spoiled,” Penelope muttered.

“Then she’ll fit right in.”

Penelope didn’t smile, but her grip on the doll loosened. She turned it over in her hands, inspecting its painted shoes, then set it gently on the floor.

“I want to go home.” Her voice was small now. Not angry. Not stubborn. Just honest.

Ramsay was silent for a beat.Then he said, “This is your home now.”

Penelope looked away.

Ramsay stood slowly. He didn’t like long goodbyes. He didn’t like rooms full of questions either, and Penelope’s eyes, when she let them meet his, always asked more than he could answer. He moved to the door then paused and looked back. Her feet were pressed flat against the woven rug.

“I’ll be back before supper,” he said quietly.

She didn’t answer.

He left the door slightly ajar as he stepped out, walking back into the corridor. The governess was waiting, flustered, smoothing her skirts.

“Will she come out?” she asked.

Ramsay gave her a steady look. “If she does, don’t assign her another copy exercise. Give her something to draw. And let her pick the subject.”

The girl blinked. “But she?—”

“She’s not ready to be taught,” Ramsay said. “Not like that. Let her pretend she’s not learning until she is.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

He nodded once then descended the staircase with measured steps, the sound of his boots echoing against the walls.

It was a long ride ahead. He didn’t care about the chill or the road. But Eleanor Egerton’s voice had already found its way into the back of his thoughts.

And Penelope’s last words followed close behind.

Six

“The Duke of Wharton will be with you shortly, Your Grace,” the young footman said, bowing low with the solemnity of a priest delivering a benediction.

Ramsay gave a short nod, withholding comment. The boy scurried off, boots whispering against the marble floor.

It was one of many things that grated on him about London: the endless dawdling, the politeness, that masked pettiness, the suffocating choreography of it all. Every interaction had a script, and every gesture a lineage. He stood now in the entry hall of Wharton Manor, back straight, hands clasped loosely behind him, taking in the cold splendor that surrounded him.

Polished wood gleamed in the morning light. Gilded mirrors lined the walls, multiplying the image of a man who did not belong. Ancestral portraits gazed down from above, eyes flat and knowing. Everything reeked of wealth so old, it had forgottenwhat purpose it once served. Brocade curtains hung in perfect stillness like guards at attention.

Ramsay hated waiting.

He paced slowly, boots silent on the thick carpet. The room was cold despite the fire crackling behind the marble grate. Ornate sconces flickered against the green silk wallpaper, casting a flattering glow on the long-dead Egertons staring down from their frames. He imagined generations of them whispering disapproval. What was a Highland brute doing in their civilized halls?

He didn’t particularly care.

He’d come to settle this mess. To stare down the brother. To make it clear that no one threw punches or accusations without cause. To show the lass?—

No.