Page 43 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

He leaned into her and murmured, “You look like sin in white.”

Her gaze snapped to his. “What?”

He shrugged, voice low. “Meant as a compliment.”

“I’m deciding whether to thank you or slap you.”

His smile turned wicked. “I’ve noticed the violent streak. I just thought you might restrain your wilder instincts inside a house of God.” A pause. Then, quieter, as heat spread through him, “Not that I’m complaining, but you might consider saving those impulses for tonight.”

Her eyes widened, a quick inhale betraying her shock or perhaps her interest.

The clergyman cleared his throat. Ramsay blinked, as if waking from a trance. They turned toward him together, and the ceremony began.

The words were formal—sanctity of marriage,honor and obedience,forsaking all others—heavy with tradition, echoing against the stone walls like judgment.

Ramsay barely heard them. He was too busy watching her. Eleanor stood still beside him, spine straight, bouquet clasped in both hands like something sacred. She wasn’t trembling, but tension radiated off her in careful, controlled waves, the kind a person only learned from years of being watched.

The way her lashes dipped as she repeated her vows. The way her lips parted around each word. She was steady. She didn’t tremble. But he saw the pulse at her throat beat a little faster.

He repeated his own vows in turn, voice gruff but clear, and when the ring slid onto her finger, it felt like anchoring something that had always been drifting. When she looked up at him again, calm and steady beneath the weight of it all, it felt like surrender.

The priest gave the final blessing. “You may kiss the bride.”

Ramsay didn’t hesitate.

He leaned in and kissed her slowly. Like a man who intended to do it again, properly, when no one was watching. Her lips were warm. Her fingers brushed the side of his coat. And for the first time all morning, he felt still.

The church erupted in applause. A few cheers. Somewhere in the back, someone actually sniffled.

Ramsay didn’t care. He looked down at his wife.

“Ready?” he murmured.

She gave him a look—half smile, half warning. “For the walk or the part after?”

He felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “Both.”

Twelve

The applause still rang in her ears, long after the church doors had closed.

Eleanor moved as if underwater, the air thick with petals and perfume and congratulations she couldn’t quite absorb. People smiled at her—strangers who’d once whispered behind fans and turned their backs. Now they beamed, delighted to witness her return to grace, as if ruin could be rewritten with flowers and white silk.

She nodded at them all. She smiled. She let Ramsay lead her toward the gardens where the wedding celebration had been set, aware of the strength in the arm guiding her. Her thoughts betrayed her, drifting back to that night he’d kissed her; slow, possessive, unforgettable.

She had wanted him to hold her tighter then, to press her closer until the strange hunger inside her was quenched.

Stop it, Eleanor. Focus.

“Is this…” She hesitated, still blinking at the silver flatware and three-tiered cake crowned in sugar violets. “Did you arrange this?”

Ramsay’s arm flexed under her hand as he guided her to their table. “Aye.”

She stared. “You planned a party?”

Her tone was light, nearly teasing, but she couldn’t quite hide her disbelief. Ramsay didn’t strike her as a man who knew the difference between a boutonnière and a breakfast plate—let alone one who arranged guest lists and flower towers.

The very idea of him poring over menus and seating charts made something flutter beneath her ribs. She thought he’d want this day over with. She thought he’d show up, take the vows, and be done. But now he was standing beside her in the sunlight, jaw square, expression unreadable, having done something… thoughtful.