Page 37 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Eleanor bit her lip. Would she feel the same way?

“Did you?” she paused. “Feel like yourself again, I mean.”

“No,” Kitty said plainly. “I became someone else. Someone stronger. Someone who knew what it cost to build a life from the ashes of your old one.”

Eleanor sat down on the little stool by the vanity, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her embroidered sleeves. “I’m not strong like you.”

Kitty crossed the room and crouched beside her, taking her hands. “You’re stronger. You just don’t know it yet. When I look at you, Eleanor, I don’t see a girl who was ruined. I see a woman who stood her ground, who told the truth, who fought back. You punched a man for heaven’s sake.”

Eleanor let out a soft, surprised laugh. “He deserved it.”

“They usually do,” Kitty said, gently squeezing her hands. “But it still takes courage.”

Eleanor was quiet a long moment. “Do you ever think about the life you might have had? If none of it had happened. If you’d married someone else.”

“I used to.” Kitty’s expression faltered, and for a moment, the shadow of her old loneliness flickered there, too quick for Eleanor to fully grasp what it meant.

“But I came to understand that freedom doesn’t always mean what I thought it did. My priorities shifted. What once felt like losing something became… choosing something else. A different kind of freedom. And no, I wouldn’t trade what I have with Norman for any version of the life I imagined before.”

Her hand drifted to her abdomen, still flat beneath the silk of her gown. “Especially not now.”

They shared a long look, full of things that had never needed to be said aloud. Kitty, the woman who had been forced into a scandal and carved love out of ruin. Eleanor, now walking that same narrow path, unsure where it might lead.

“I still don’t know if I’ll make a good duchess,” Eleanor admitted.

“You will. Better than me; that’s certain.” Kitty stood, smoothing her skirts with practiced grace. “You were born for it. You just need to give yourself permission.”

“To what?”

“To not know everything yet. To learn. To fall. And to let someone catch you when you do.”

The door creaked open behind them.

They both turned. Lady Mulberry, Eleanor’s delightfully meddlesome grandmother, entered without knocking.

“Your hair is too high,” she announced, eyeing Eleanor like one might inspect a painting hung slightly crooked. “And your pearls are crooked. What have you two been doing in here?”

Eleanor stood at once. “Good morning, Grandmother.”

Lady Mulberry swept in, all rustling skirts and brisk judgment. She was dressed in a shade of mauve that no one else would dare wear, her lace gloves snapping faintly as she removed them. “I need a moment alone with my granddaughter.”

Kitty winked at Eleanor then slipped out, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Lady Mulberry exhaled through her nose and turned to Eleanor. “Well,” she said, “let’s have a look at you.”

Eleanor stood obediently though she could feel one of the pearl pins slipping slightly from her curls. Lady Mulberry’s eyes roamed her from hem to hairline, assessing with all the delicacy of a military inspection. She took a step forward, reached out, and tugged the bodice down a fraction of an inch.

“There,” she said crisply. “Less like a debutante. More like a duchess. Try not to breathe too deeply.”

“Too late,” Eleanor murmured.

Lady Mulberry narrowed her eyes. “What was that?”

“Nothing, Grandmother.”

“Mm.”

She circled Eleanor slowly, arms clasped behind her back, face set in that faintly imperial expression that made footmen flinch. Her mauve skirts rustled with every step. It might have been a reverent moment, if not for the way her neck craned each time she peered at a new angle—like a hawk deciding whether or not to strike.