Page 42 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

The whispers began almost immediately.

That’s him.

The Scottish duke.

The one who punched the Earl of Gifford.

No, I heard she punched him.

Well, they both hit someone. It was all very violent.

He strode past them and took his place at the altar. Alone.

He stared straight ahead.

This was Eleanor’s world. Not his. Not even close.

These were her people, her flowers, her musicians. Her rules. The aunts avoided him like a particularly contagious rash. Even Norman, who was civil enough, watched him the way a man watches a hound he hasn’t quite decided to trust.

Ramsay clenched his jaw.

He didn’t want their trust. Or their approval. He just wanted to go back. Back to the cold hills of home, where people spoke plainly and expected nothing polished. Where no one tied ribbons on doors or wore shoes that clicked like clocks.

A hush fell over the church like snowfall, the doors at the end of the aisle swinging open.

And there she was.

Ramsay’s breath caught.

Eleanor was walking slowly. Alone. Like a flame moving through shadow. Her gown clung to her waist and spilled into a long sweep of white that moved like water. Her ash-blonde hair was caught half-up in soft curls, and the light made her skin look impossibly pale and warm at once. She wasn’t smiling. She didn’t need to.

She looked like something ancient and holy and alive.

Ramsay’s hands curled at his sides.

He’d seen her angry. He’d seen her clever. He’d seen her hold her chin high in rooms that tried to break her. But he had never seen her like this.

Not in this way, looking at him with that little flicker of nerves behind her eyes—as ifhewas the one who might run.

She walked slowly. Each step closer, and he forgot where he was. Forgot that the pews were packed with Egertons and their titled entourage. Forgot the smell of flowers and the absurd music and the fact that his neck still itched from that blasted cravat.

All he knew was the sway of her hips beneath silk, the column of her throat, the pink curve of her mouth…

For one month, she would share his bed. Sleep in his rooms. Breathe the same air. And when she kissed him again—if she touched him or whispered anything at all—he would not be gentle. Not this time.

He shifted, jaw tight.

He could do this. For one month. Maybe more. Maybe?—

Maybe he didn’t want to think aboutafterright now.

Her eyes met his. There it was again—that flicker. That tension in her posture, held so carefully in check. She was trying not to fidget. Her fingers gripped the bouquet too tightly. She was nervous.

And God help him, he found it entrancing.

He hadn’t expected that. But he felt it now, like heat gathering under his collar. That someone like her—controlled, calculating, perfectly sharp-edged—could walk toward him looking just a little uncertain. It undid him more than he liked to admit.

She stopped beside him. Her perfume reached him first—something soft and floral and sweet. She didn’t look up right away.