Page 33 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Eleanor stilled.

“I need a duchess. For the estate. For the child. For the future that doesn’t fall apart the moment someone whispers the wrong name in the wrong room.”

Her lips parted, but he wasn’t done.

“In return, I offer you protection. A title no one will dare mock. A place where no one whispers behind your back because they wouldn’t survive the echo. And freedom—the kind most women never get. I don’t care where you go, what you read, what you do with your time. I won’t demand submission.”

He let the word hang.

Eleanor stared.

He added, quietly, “What say you, lass; will you be my wife?”

Nine

Eleanor could not speak.

The words hung between them, charged and impossible, suspended like dust in lamplight. She stared at him, her mouth parted, but no sound came. Every breath she took felt like it scraped against something sharp.

He had asked her to marry him.

Not gently. Not romantically. Not with any pretension of flowers or poetry. Not as a rescue, either.

But with all the blunt finality of a man who had made up his mind. Who had chosen her, not because she was perfect but because she was necessary. Because she was, in his eyes, the only one.

She didn’t believe it.

No—there was no way. Not when women prettier, gentler, more docile had been raised for this role their entire lives. Not when her name was already half-wrecked, her reputation clinging to shreds. Why would a man like him, fierce and silent and powerful, wanther?

The scandal-ridden sister of a duke, bruised and cornered and barely breathing in a room full of wolves. What could she possibly offer that he couldn’t buy tenfold in the next ballroom?

She swallowed. “You can’t mean it.”

Ramsay didn’t blink. “I never say things I don’t mean.”

Eleanor stepped back, barely a pace, but the air between them cooled. Her hands found the edge of the chair again. She gripped it. “But why me?”

A beat passed. Then another.

“You could marry anyone,” she said, more breath than voice. “You’re a duke. Women with perfect reputations would throw themselves at your feet for the chance. You don’t need me.”

His expression didn’t change. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

Her brows drew together. “Is this about the scandal? You’re using it, aren’t you? Turning my ruin into your opportunity.”

That landed like a slap.

Ramsay’s jaw tensed. His hands flexed once at his sides. Then he stepped forward, slowly, until the space between them thinned like a drawn breath. “I’m proposing to you,” he said, “because ever since I inherited the title, you are the only woman I’ve met who might be able to handle Penelope.”

Eleanor stilled.

“And believe me,” he continued, lower now, his voice sliding beneath her skin like velvet over steel, “I’ve met many.”

There was something in his tone. Something dangerous. Something… reverent.

You are the only one.

It bloomed in her chest before she could stop it. Deep. Warm. A dangerous, traitorous bloom that made her knees feel unsteady and her thoughts scatter like startled birds.