Page 39 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Lady Mulberry sniffed. “So was your grandfather.”

Eleanor blinked. “You always said he was a gentleman.”

“He became one. Eventually.”

There was a beat of silence. Eleanor looked down at her hands, fingers clasped tightly in her lap. “I don’t know how to do this. I’ve memorized all the things I’m supposed to say. I know which fork to use and how to respond when someone mentions the opera, but with His Grace, none of that matters. He just looks at me like?—”

“Like what?”

“Like he sees through it.”

Lady Mulberry gave a short nod. “Then let him.”

Eleanor looked up.

“Let him see who you are. And study him in turn. That’s how you win the game. Observation. Precision. Not performance.”

“I don’t want it to be a game,” Eleanor said.

“Then don’t treat it like one. Treat it like a sign.”

Eleanor gave a half-laugh. “A sign?”

“To rise,” Lady Mulberry said firmly. “To meet your life as it comes. You share my blood, Eleanor. You will find your way.”

Eleanor studied her grandmother’s face then—lined, proud, still wearing too much rouge. She saw past the scowls and the stiffness and the bone-deep belief in appearances. Beneath all of it was a woman who had survived, not by shrinking but by standing. The way she stood even now, when her hip creaked, her heirs married scandalously, and her gowns were ten years out of fashion.

Perhaps that was what it meant to be strong. And perhaps it looked different than she’d thought.

The room fell into a hush. Outside, a breeze stirred the leaves, sending a long shadow across the floorboards. Eleanor glanced once more at her reflection in the mirror. The pearls, the silk, the pale curve of her throat—all of it looked like someone else. And yet, something had quietly shifted inside, enough to change her.

Lady Mulberry grunted as she rose to her feet. “Now then. I’ve spoken my piece. I expect you to remember at least half of it.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You’ll do better than that.”

Eleanor rose too, smoothing her skirt.

Lady Mulberry turned to the door then paused and glanced back over her shoulder. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t trip walking down the aisle. Your hair is already a touch uneven. If you fall, it’s all anyone will talk about.”

Eleanor smiled. “Thank you, Grandmother.”

“Hmph.” Lady Mulberry’s back straightened. “It’s your day after all.”

Then she shuffled out, muttering something about incompetent maids and the unacceptable temperature of tea.

Eleanor remained still, watching the empty doorway.

She felt something settle. Not her nerves, they were still very much alive. But something else, like a root finally sinking into the soil.

She didn’t know if she could be the kind of duchess her grandmother wanted her to be. She didn’t know if she could be the kind of woman Ramsay needed her to be.

But maybe she could be the one she was still becoming. And that, she thought, might be enough.

Eleven

“Isaid leave it,” Ramsay growled, swatting the comb away like it had personally insulted him.