Page 22 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Soft but distinct. Coming from the west corridor.

Eleanor blinked, as if waking from a spell. She turned her head slightly, listening.Ramsay dropped his arm and stepped back. He couldn’t give her any more trouble.

Her hand fluttered to her skirts. She took a steadying breath, but just as she was about to leave, a voice rang from the corridor.

“Well, this is a scene.”

The Duke’s wife.

Ramsay straightened slightly as the woman strolled into the room, eyes narrowed with theatrical delight. She was dressed in cream and rose, a confection of ruffles and ribbons, but her gaze was all sharp edges. The kind of girl who wore softness as armor and sarcasm as a blade.

She gave Eleanor a knowing look then turned to Ramsay. “The Duke of Stormglen, I presume?”

“Indeed,” Ramsay said. His voice was even, but his posture remained watchful.

Her Grace’s gaze slid to Eleanor again. “You’ll forgive me if I interrupt. It seems I’m only ever invited to the aftermath.”

Eleanor recovered quickly though the pink in her cheeks lingered. “You’re early.”

The Duchess raised a brow. “And you’re flushed.”

Ramsay watched, amused, as Eleanor tried to retort until footsteps echoed down the corridor. The tempo was purposeful, echoing against marble. The Duke of Wharton entered first, shoulders squared, followed by another man Ramsay recognized at once.

Gifford.The Earl’s expression twisted the moment he saw Ramsay.

“This is a farce,” he announced, his voice pitched to command the room. “It is unacceptable to value the word of a woman—and a Scot—over mine.”

Ramsay turned slowly, his gaze cool. “And yet, here we are.”

Gifford’s lips curled. “You may have fooled her and her brother, but I will not forget such disrespectful treatment.”

“No,” Ramsay said. “You strike me as the sort who nurses a grudge because he can’t hold his own.”

Gifford flushed crimson. “You’ll regret?—”

“Enough,” Norman said sharply. His tone was quiet but edged with steel. “Lord Gifford, you’re excused. You forget who Eleanor’s brother is. This is your reminder.”

The Earl blinked. “Excused?”

Norman met his gaze without flinching. “You are no longer welcome here.”

Gifford turned to Eleanor, clearly expecting intervention. She didn’t look at him. Her silence struck harder than any words.He muttered something incoherent, spun on his heel, and stalked out of the room.

The silence he left behind was heavier than any argument.

Norman turned back to Ramsay. “I owe you an apology.”

Ramsay’s brow arched. “Do you?”

“Yes.” Norman extended his hand. “For yesterday. And for my assumptions.”

Ramsay took the offered hand. His grip was firm, steady but brief—just enough to acknowledge the apology without granting more intimacy than was warranted. There was no warmth in the gesture, only resolve. He wanted the Duke to feel the weight of it, the boundary clearly drawn.

“We’d be honored if you joined us for dinner,” Norman said.

Ramsay inclined his head. “Gladly.”

The dining room at Wharton Manor was a portrait of inherited perfection. Everything—down to the candlesticks—was polished, symmetrical, and terrifyingly precise. The long table groaned beneath the weight of silver and porcelain, and the chandelier overhead glittered coldly, like it disapproved of conversation altogether.