Page 41 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“She’s overwhelmed,” Belson offered. “Too many strangers. Too many rooms that don’t smell like Greece.”

“She’s had many days to adjust.”

“She’s four.”

Ramsay scowled.

I am not fit to raise this child… This is why I am getting married.

Eleanor.

The memory of her lips against his flickered like heat, soft and trembling and far too brief. He had meant it as a promise to her, but he’d felt the weight of it long after she turned away. He still did.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and tried to shake the feeling away.

Ramsay glanced at the clock on the mantel. The ceremony was set to begin in an hour.

“Don’t force the child,” Ramsay said finally. “Not today. But she’ll come down tomorrow. After breakfast.”

Belson nodded. “I’ll let the governess know.”

Ramsay stood at the window, jaw tight. It didn’t feel like his life. It felt like a trap that he somehow chose.

His mind slipped north. To the steadiness of the Highlands. To Inverness, with its sharp air and brutal clarity. The kind of place where a man knew what things cost. Where nights didn’t demand conversation. Where the horses didn’t give a damn whether your father had a title or your coat had buttons.

And then, unbidden, the memory of that letter surfaced. No seal. No signature. ‘I remember what you did in Inverness.’

The other reason I’m getting married…

He would wedher. In the eyes of the law, of society, of every whispering guest out there, she would be his duchess. And once that ring was on her finger—once she bore his name—there would be no more threats. No leverage.

Let them wag their tongues. Let them call her ruined and him a brute. He didn’t care. He’d carry her through that church if he had to. Because once this was done, the past would stay buried where it belonged.

Belson cleared his throat softly.

Ramsay turned. “You still here?”

“Always, Your Grace.”

Ramsay gave him a long, level look. “You planning to hold my hand in the carriage too?”

“Only if asked, Your Grace.”

A beat.

Then, very faintly, the corner of Ramsay’s mouth twitched. “Remind me to fire you.”

“I shall make a note, Your Grace.”

Ramsay squared his shoulders, rolled his neck once, and strode past the butler, out into the corridor. His boots echoed against marble. The house was warm and perfumed, as if it had something to hide. He passed portraits of ancestors he didn’t recognize and chandeliers that seemed designed to fall on unsuspecting Scots.

Ramsay stepped down from the carriage, adjusting his cuffs as he stared down at the ring on his little finger. Stormglen’s ring. His brother’s once. The weight of it never sat right, but it was his now. Like everything else. The land. The responsibility. The damn dukedom.

The church was white stone, flowers draped in neat arches over the entrance. Vines tied with pink ribbons. He nearly groaned aloud.

Inside, the nave was packed. The church gleamed with candlelight and ceremony. White flowers. Gold trim. Lace-draped pews.

Not a single familiar face.