Page 28 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“There is no one else,” Ramsay said simply. “Not in this city. Not with her name, her breeding, her fire. She’s already entangled in this mess. And the girl?—”

“Penelope,” Belson supplied, almost gently.

“She seemed to like Lady Eleanor,” Ramsay said. “More than she likes me. And if this letter is only the first—if more are coming, then I need to shield her. I gave my word to George that I’d raise her, but I never said I could do it alone.”

Belson nodded once. “Shall I prepare your coat, then?”

Ramsay smirked. “I’ll need more than a coat tonight. I’ll need to look like royalty. No missteps.”

The butler gave a small sniff. “I shall prepare your best cravat, then. And inform the groom to ready the carriage.”

Ramsay hesitated. “Belson.”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Thank you.”

The man gave a slight bow. “We Scots must stick together, Your Grace. Even when we’re pretending not to be.”

Ramsay allowed himself a breath. It did not steady him, but it kept him standing.

He dressed slowly. The navy coat with silver embroidery. A crisp waistcoat that still smelled faintly of cedar and hearth smoke. A shirt, stiff with starch. He let Belson tie the cravat—he had never liked fussing with the thing. Then he took one long look in the mirror.

He looked nothing like the man who had stood on the cliffs of Inverness five years ago, fists bloodied, breath ragged, eyes wild with fear and defiance. He had worn leather then. His hair had been longer. There had been mud on his boots and blood on his knuckles.

He looked like a duke.And yet he felt no different.

What would Lady Eleanor say if she knew the truth? That he had killed a man with his bare hands. That the clan had cheered him for it. That it had changed him.

She would flinch, perhaps. Or worse, she would pity him. He could bear contempt. He could bear coldness. But not pity.

She had looked at him differently on the ship. In those strange, suspended moments when she wasn’t frightened or cornered or furious, she had looked at him like he might be something worth touching.

But he had no time for this, making his way down the stairs. The household was already buzzing in preparation. Penelope was somewhere upstairs with her governess. He did not seek her out. He couldn’t. His thoughts were too tangled.

“Your Grace,” Belson said as Ramsay entered the foyer. “The carriage is ready. The invitation to Halesworth’s ball remains unchanged. You are expected.”

“Good,” Ramsay said. “It’s time I made an impression.”

Belson looked him over. “And Lady Eleanor?”

Ramsay’s mouth twisted. “She’ll be there. Hunting for a husband.”

Belson raised an eyebrow. “Then I suggest, Sir, that you do not let her find one.”

Ramsay didn’t smile.

“She’s going to be on display,” he said. “All the sharks will circle. They’ll think she’s weak. Ruined. In need of saving.”

“And you, Sir?”

“I’m not there to save her,” Ramsay said. “I’m there to claim her.”

Eight

The chandeliers sparkled too brightly.

Eleanor descended the stairs of Halesworth House on Norman’s arm, a vision in sapphire silk and diamonds borrowed from Kitty’s private collection. The fabric shimmered with every breath she took. Her gloves were immaculate, her posture faultless, and yet she had never felt more naked in her life. Each step toward the ballroom felt like stepping toward a trial, and the crowd awaiting her was the jury.