Page 21 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“Who was he?”

She hesitated. Then, “He is the Earl of Gifford. Until yesterday, there was an expectation that I would marry him.”

Ramsay stopped, blinking. “You?” There was a beat of stunned silence.

No, there was no way. He had seen the man—spineless, clumsy, and arrogant in all the wrong ways—and he had seen her—strong, clear-eyed, more flame than porcelain. The idea of her tethered to a man like him felt not only wrong but insulting. He almost laughed, except nothing about it felt funny.

“Yes.”

“That soft-bellied worm?”

Her spine went rigid. “He was considered a noble man and?—”

Ramsay chuckled. “‘Considered’? By whom exactly? I don’t know what kind of criteria you use here, butyouwere meant to marryhim?”

He scoffed under his breath. “And they call the Highlands backward.”

She looked away. Her lips pressed together, white at the edges. “I wouldn’t expect a man whose first instinct is to throw himself into a fight to understand how society’s rules work?—”

“Oh, those precious rules you’re breaking just to bat words with me?” Ramsay stepped a little closer, voice deliberately amused. “Remind me, was it a charging bull you called me when we first met? Not very ladylike, now, was it, lass?”

Eleanor’s eyes snapped back to him, glaring thunder. “Sometimes, a woman ought to reflect the treatment she’s given.”

He stepped forward again. One step. Two. Each one slow, deliberate, with the kind of tension that settled low and heavy in his spine. There was no way—no damned way—she had once been promised to a man like Gifford. The thought of her tethered to such a creature soured his mouth. It was absurd. Offensive. He hadn’t even meant to move, but something in him refused to let the distance stand.

“I’ve figured you out,” he said.

She didn’t blink. “I doubt that.”

“You play the part well,” Ramsay continued. “Dutiful daughter. Obedient sister. Quiet. The good one. But I saw your face when you punched that man. I heard your voice when you stood between me and your brother. That wasn’t obedience.”

“What you saw was a moment of anger,” she said, but even as she spoke, he could see the flush rising in her neck, the way her hands fidgeted at her sides. Her words were steady, but her delivery wasn’t. It had the awkward edge of someone trying to downplay something she didn’t fully understand herself.”

“I saw clarity.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

He moved closer. The air between them changed. Warmer. Tighter.

“You crave more,” he said, low and certain. “More than balls and polite conversation. You want something real. Adventure. Passion. Freedom.”

She took a half-step back but not far. Her eyes stayed locked on his.

“You don’t know me,” she whispered.

“I know enough.”

He moved his arm behind her—not touching her but bracing his palm against the wall behind her head. He leaned in, not close enough to be improper but enough that she could feel the strength of him, the heat.

Eleanor didn’t flinch.She was breathing fast now, but her gaze never broke.

“You know I am right,” he said.

She swallowed. “Even if you were right, what does that have to do with you?”

The tension snapped taut between them, silent but roaring. She didn’t run. Didn’t protest. And Ramsay didn’t press forward. He held still. He let the truth sit between them, unspoken but undeniable.

Then—footsteps.