Page 4 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“I’m her uncle,” the man said. “And if the lass is finished drawing out her own conclusions, we really do need to find that doll.”

Just as he passed her, he added over his shoulder, voice lazy and unmistakably amused, “Come along then, Penelope. Let’s find the doll that resembles this lass—both in beauty and in being a pain.”

Eleanor’s breath caught.

The nerve.

By the time she’d gathered herself enough to respond, he was halfway down the corridor, unconcerned and completely unapologetic.

And she was left standing there—scandalized, speechless, and annoyingly aware of the heat creeping up her neck.

He held out his hand toward Penelope. She looked at it for a long moment then turned and walked past him.

He followed. They moved together but did not quite touch. Eleanor noticed that his hand remained open for a moment longer then closed into a loose fist.

Eleanor stood watching, uncertain whether she wanted to sigh or shout. Her heart still beat oddly in her chest, too fast for something that was supposedly over.

She had half a mind to go after them herself, to take Penelope by the hand and search every last deck board until Marigold was recovered. But something held her still. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he would take her interference poorly. Or perhaps it was the realization that she’d already overstepped.

And then came a voice from behind.

“Eleanor! There you are.”

She turned.

Gifford approached at his usual languid pace, hands clasped behind his back. His hair was perfectly combed, his boots polished even here, at sea. He wore a pale cravat and that perpetually pleasant expression that suggested he had never once in his life experienced discomfort.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Lady Eleanor,” he said, his tone commanding.

She smiled though her heart was still thudding from the upcoming confrontation. She could feel the heat rising on her cheeks and quickly tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

“I was walking, Lord Gifford,” she said. “Or—I suppose—chasing after a child’s distress.”

Gifford’s brow creased slightly. “Chasing? That sounds beneath you, doesn’t it?”

Eleanor hesitated. Then she laughed, soft and self-conscious. “It was a… scene. A little girl lost her doll.”

“Tragic, truly,” he said, shifting closer with a confident ease. “In any case, I’m glad I found you. Look—England’s shore is already in sight.”

Eleanor searched for a way to delay the conversation. “Well, My Lord, perhaps we should find Norman and Kitty. They’ll want to prepare for disembarking.”

He clearly missed the hint. “I actually have a question for you. It’s something that will change your life and make your return to London a victory.”

Eleanor felt something still inside her. The corridor seemed narrower now; the sea air was sharp and stale.

She already knew what the question would be.

And suddenly, she wished she had stayed with Penelope and her storm cloud of an uncle.

Two

“Iwant to gohome!” she shouted.

Ramsay opened the cabin door, ducking slightly beneath the low beam. Penelope stormed in, small fists clenched at her sides.

He closed the door behind them with a quiet thud. “We’ll arrive in England soon, Penelope. Be patient.”

“No!” She whirled on him, cheeks blotched red from crying. “I’m tired of the boat. I’m tired of you. I want to go back home to Sophia!”