Page 20 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

To speak with her. That was all.

The silence settled deeper, pressing against his ribs. Ramsay turned toward the hearth again, idly studying the grotesquely carved mantelpiece, when the whisper of footsteps broke the quiet.

Ramsay looked up.

Eleanor.

She crossed the threshold like she’d been thrown forward by the force of her own resolve. Her hair was neatly pinned, but a single tendril had come loose and danced at her temple. She wore a simple dress in soft blue, the hem whispering along the marble as she moved.

She looked nothing like the women who always flinched when he entered a room. There was something steel-bright about her. Unpolished. Intentional.

She didn’t smile. She merely dipped her head in polite greeting. “I don’t have long.”

Ramsay inclined his head but said nothing. He watched her cross the room. There was purpose in every step, but her hands betrayed her, curling briefly in the folds of her skirts before releasing them.

“I wanted to thank you,” she said, her voice quiet. “For what you did yesterday. You didn’t have to.”

“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

She looked toward the corridor behind her then back at him. “You could have let it unfold as it would. You didn’t owe me anything. And now you’re… well… inconvenienced.”

Ramsay stepped forward. Slowly. “I’m capable of deciding for myself what is an inconvenience. And this,” he said, eyes steady on hers, “is not it.”

Her lips parted slightly. He could see the faint color rise to her cheeks.

Before she could protest, he took her hand. Gently, but without asking, he brought it to his lips. Not rushed. Not exaggerated. Just a quiet defiance of every rule she’d been raised to follow.

His lips brushed the skin above her knuckles, warm and unhurried.

Then he looked at her. Her breath hitched.

Ramsay felt it like a pulse under his skin. That sound—the soft, startled catch in her throat—struck him low and hot, straight to the gut. God help him, he liked it. Too much. He liked the way she stilled, the flush creeping up her throat, the way she held herself like she might bolt but hadn’t yet. It made him feel powerful and reckless all at once. She didn’t pull her hand away. That was the part that undid him.

She didn’t pull away.

And that small, damning truth made his entire body burn.

“You shouldn’t…” she murmured.

“But I did,” he said.

She pulled her hand back with practiced grace though he saw the tremor at her wrist. She dipped a curtsy. “I should return to my room.”

She turned, gathering her skirts.

“Why the rush?” Ramsay asked, his voice stopping her. “Isn’t this your home?”

She turned halfway, her posture careful. “It isn’t proper to speak with a man unchaperoned—whether I’m at home or not.”

He gave a low chuckle. “We’ve already been pressed against each other twice, lass. I know your curves better than propriety would like.”

She stiffened, scandalized. “A gentleman would never say that.”

Ramsay found that amusing. Her horror, so delicately painted, did little to mask the spark in her eyes. She was affronted, yes, but she wasn’t retreating. And the contrast between her pristine posture and the fire he’d seen in her fists just yesterday made his mouth twitch with something dangerously close to a grin.

“Aye,” he said, stepping closer. “And the last time I saw you, you sent a man flying to the floor. Let’s not pretend either of us is overly concerned with decorum.”

She looked at him—really looked. Her brow furrowed. “That man…”