Page 3 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Eleanor turned back to the girl. “Where did you last see her, do you remember?”

“She was with me when we got on the ship,” Penelope sniffed. “I had her in my arms; I know I did.”

“She left it in Greece,” the man said brusquely. “And I’ve told her five times already to stop pestering me about it.”

Eleanor stared at him. “She’s a child. She isn’t pestering; she’s upset. There’s a difference.”

“She’s been upset for hours. That won’t make the doll appear.”

Eleanor arched a brow. “And yet, she remembers having it when she boarded. Doesn’t that seem worth investigating?”

The man did not reply. His jaw tensed. A muscle in his cheek ticked.

“What does she look like, this doll of yours?” Eleanor asked, crouching beside Penelope again.

“She has brown hair and one eye. Her dress is blue. And her name is Marigold.”

“That’s a very good name,” Eleanor said. “I like her already.”

Penelope sniffled again, but her shoulders eased slightly. Her small fingers twisted into the hem of her dress.

Eleanor glanced up. “We’ll help you find her, won’t we?”

“Speak for yourself,” the man muttered.

Eleanor straightened slowly. “I am. Because clearly someone must. A child does not deserve to be spoken to like this, and she certainly doesn’t deserve to grieve alone over something she clearly loved.”

The man looked like he might argue. His brow furrowed, and his mouth opened then closed again. He exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Very well, lass,” he said coolly. “We’ll search. But if she starts claiming she left a horse on board, I’m leavingyouto console her.”

Eleanor’s mouth dropped open at the implication. “She isa child, not fanciful. And I should think even if she claimed to have left a carriage behind, the adult thing to do would be to investigate with a bit of patience.”

“You know nothing about her,” he said, low. “You’ve been here for five minutes.”

“Sometimes,” Eleanor said coldly, “five minutes is all it takes to see what the child’s own father has refused to notice.”

He looked at her then, long and level. For a moment, something shifted in his gaze.

“He’s not my papa,” Penelope said suddenly.

A silence settled between them. The girl’s small voice rang out like a pebble dropped in a still pond.

Eleanor blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

The girl stood a little straighter now. Her small chin lifted. Her cheeks were still tearstained, but her eyes no longer looked quite so frightened.

“He’s not my real papa.”

Eleanor’s gaze darted to the man’s face. His eyes had narrowed, but there was something weary there. Not angry. Not even defensive. Just tired.

“I see,” Eleanor said carefully.

She turned slightly, stepping between the man and the girl in one instinctive movement. “And who is he, then?”

Penelope crossed her arms. “He’s myotherfather. The mean one.”

Eleanor tried not to smile. But inwardly, something had shifted. Her protective instinct, always a quiet hum, now surged like a drumbeat.