Page 40 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Belson, unshaken, stood behind him with the solemn patience of a priest preparing a particularly combative sinner for confession.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said smoothly. And then, without missing a beat, reached right back in and tugged at another unruly knot. “However, Your Grace must also recall that it is customary for a man to look mildly presentable on his wedding day.”

Ramsay narrowed his eyes at the mirror. His hair was staging a full-scale rebellion. It always had. Wild, thick, obstinate—like the rest of him.

“It’s not presentable,” he muttered. “It’s dishonest. I’ll have her thinking I’m tame.”

The comb snagged again. Ramsay’s eye twitched.

This was torture. A Highland man shouldn’t be groomed. He should be thrown in a river, hacked at with a dull blade, and sent into battle half-dressed, if at all.

This… this was a French opera.

He muttered a curse in Gaelic under his breath, something particularly creative involving combs, vanity, and Belson’s ancestry.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Belson replied placidly. “Though I must remind Your Grace that I’m the only man in this house who knows how to tie a proper cravat. And you did promise not to frighten the clergy.”

“I made no such promise.”

“You grunted yesterday when I mentioned the bishop.”

“That was not agreement.”

“It was not disagreement, Your Grace.”

Ramsay slumped lower in the chair. “This is all madness.”

“Yes, Your Grace. But it’s madness with a guest list and florals.”

Ramsay exhaled through his nose and sat still—barely. His reflection in the mirror looked back at him with the same scowl he’d worn since boyhood. Broad shoulders crammed into a black formal coat. Hair—tamed for now—pulled back and tied. Collar stiff and white against his neck. The picture of a proper English duke.

He felt like a bloody impostor.

“You’ve the same hair as your brother,” Belson said suddenly, quieter now. “Thick, stubborn, defiant. Got it from your mother’s side.”

Ramsay’s fingers flexed against the arm of the chair. “George used to call it cursed. Said it refused to part for anyone.”

“Hmm.” Belson tilted his head, giving a final adjustment to the tie. “He used to say that like it was a bad thing.”

Ramsay met the old man’s eyes in the mirror. “It’s not?”

“Depends who you ask,” Belson said, stepping back. “But in my experience, a little defiance never hurt a man as long as he learns where to aim it.”

Ramsay gave a faint snort and stood. “Aim it at the girl?”

“I should hope not.” Belson handed him his coat.

Ramsay grunted. He wasn’t sure whether it was agreement or denial.

He shrugged into the coat. It fit too perfectly. And here he was—dressed like a proper gentleman, about to be married in a city he couldn’t stand, surrounded by people who thought Highlanders wore fur pelts and drank from skulls.

He reached for his signet ring, twisting it once around his finger. “Is Penelope ready?”

Belson hesitated. A bad sign.

“She’s been fussing all morning,” he admitted. “Locked herself in the nursery after breakfast. Refused her frock, threw her hairbrush across the room, and told her governess that weddings are for fairy tales.”

Ramsay grunted and rubbed the bridge of his nose.