Page 2 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“Then I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to receive it in pieces.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’ve ruined the surprise.”

“Not entirely. It’s still very Greek.” He glanced at the floor. “If a bit more… deconstructed.”

Her jaw dropped. Oh, he was impossible. Arrogant, uncivilized and infuriatingly handsome which only made it worse.

“If it matters that much,” he continued, maddeningly calm, “you could always return to Greece and fetch another one. Perhaps avoid brandishing it through corridors next time.”

“I wasn’t brandishing?—!”

“Is that what passes for gratitude in London?” he cut in. “I save you from falling over, and you curse me over a bit of clay?”

“Clay?” she sputtered. “That was a4th-century replica?—”

“Ah, not original then.”

A gasp escaped before she could stop it. That smirk of his deepened, slow and shameless, like he’d meant to provoke her all along.

She opened her mouth again but was interrupted by the soft sound of a sniffle. Then a tug on her skirts.

They both looked down.

A small girl stood between them. Her eyes were wide. She wore a sailor dress a little too short for her, and her hands were balled into fists at her sides. Her cheeks were wet, lower lip trembling.

She looked at Eleanor first.

“You have the same hair as my doll,” she said.

Eleanor blinked then glanced down at her loose brown curls which had evidently escaped their pins in the collision.

She gave a breathless laugh and knelt in front of the girl. “You have very fine taste, then,” she said gently. “May I ask your name?”

The child did not answer immediately. Her eyes, still wide and glassy with unshed tears, flicked from Eleanor’s face to the broken shards of ceramic. Her bottom lip quivered, and something trembled in her countenance, a delicate hesitation blooming behind her lashes. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “P-Penelope.”

Eleanor softened her voice. “Is something the matter, Penelope?”

And just like that, the girl crumpled. Her mouth wobbled, and tears spilled down her cheeks in quick succession. A sob welled up and burst from her like a wave, as if she’d been holding it in far too long.

“Oh no,” Eleanor whispered, reaching out instinctively. “What is it? Did you hurt yourself?”

“I lost her,” the girl wailed. “I lost her. and now. I’ll never find her again.”

Eleanor blinked. “Her?”

“Marigold! My doll!”

The name, said with such anguish, tugged at something in Eleanor’s chest. She placed a steadying hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“Blast it,” came the man’s voice, sharper now. “And now, thanks toyou, she’s weeping all over again.”

Eleanor looked up, startled. “Me? All I did was speak to her.”

He crossed his arms. “Aye. That was your mistake.”

She rose to her feet slowly, brushing off her skirts. Her gaze moved from the child’s damp cheeks to the man’s scowl. “She mentioned a lost doll. Is that why she’s crying?”

Penelope gave a watery nod.