Page 44 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“For the wedding,” he said.

The simplicity of it caught her off guard. No flourish. No defensiveness. Just a statement of fact, like it had been obvious all along. Her gaze swept the garden—the delicate climbing vines, the blush-colored linens, the lace tents that billowed like sails. It hadn’t been obvious. Not even a little.

“With swans sculpted from pastry,” she added, half under her breath.

He gave a grunt that might have been amusement. “I told the cook to make it memorable.”

She glanced up at him, struck silent for a moment. There was no softness in his tone, no obvious sweetness. But there was something careful behind the words.Had he done this for her?

She looked away, pretending to study the champagne tower. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I did,” he said. “I want them to see it’s done. That there’s no scandal left to whisper about.”

Eleanor froze, her chest tightening. She pressed her palms together, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up her neck. It meant nothing. It was just the church. The stares. The weight of the wedding.

Not him. Certainly not his voice. Or the fact that when he looked at her like that, she felt?—

She straightened her spine and fixed her gaze ahead, willing her face cool again.

Her gaze drifted across the terrace. Pale dresses fluttered like sails. Ladies sipped from porcelain cups, their voices pitched just high enough to be overheard. Some of them had dined with hermother not long ago. Some had looked her in the eye when they called her ruined. And now, they offered toasts and admired her gown as if the last few months had simply not happened.

“They’ll whisper anyway,” she murmured, and she wasn’t even sure if she meant to say it aloud.

“Let them,” he replied. “But not about you.”

Something snagged in her chest. Her breath caught in surprise. She’d grown used to men who acted out of obligation. Who offered protection with caveats. Who chose her because they had to, not because they wanted to make a point of it.

But Ramsay wasn’t like them. He didn’t dress his intentions in charm or lace. He said what he meant, and what he meant, in this moment, was that she mattered more than the noise.

It was not a romantic line. It was not gentle. But it was… something. And it steadied something in her that had been drifting all morning.

The musicians struck up another reel, cheerful and forgettable. Couples swirled in blurred pastels across the floor, but Ramsay didn’t glance at any of them.

He looked at her.

“Come,” he said simply, voice low and rough with intent. “Dance with me, lass.”

Eleanor blinked, caught off guard. “Now?”

“Unless you’re planning to run,” he smirked.

“I might,” she said coolly, raising a brow, “if you keep calling melass.”

His mouth twitched in amusement. “That’s what I thought.”

Before she could protest, he took her hand gently but with the surety of a man who never second-guessed a decision. As if the choice had already been made and she was only now being informed.

His palm was warm. Firm. Her fingers curled instinctively into his, even as her pulse jumped. The contact wasn’t improper—he hadn’t pulled her flush against him, hadn’t whispered something wicked in her ear—yet every nerve in her body lit up as if he had.

She let him guide her to the edge of the dancers. Her steps were stiff at first, shoulders tight with awareness. The crowd hadn’t vanished. Dozens of eyes were still watching. But then?—

His other hand slid to the small of her back. The warmth of it, the weight, the quiet possessiveness.

Her breath caught. She forgot the wedding. Forgot the ton and their looks, the flowers and champagne and forced laughter.

“You’re flushed,” Ramsay murmured, lips grazing the shell of her ear as they turned. “What have you been thinking about, Duchess?”

She narrowed her eyes, even as her cheeks burned hotter. “Not you.”