Page 45 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“Liar,” he said softly.

She pulled back just enough to glare, but the look lacked conviction, and they both knew it. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Of course, I am.” His teeth flashed, wolfish. “You’re too proud to admit you like being touched.”

Her breath hitched.

The way he said it—like being touched—sent a bolt of memory straight through her. The kiss. The way he’d held her jaw, the feel of his mouth on hers, firm and careful and utterly devastating.

She couldn’t think. Her skin felt too tight, her stays too restrictive. Her legs moved on their own, matching his rhythm, but inside, she was a mess of heat and confusion.

“Do all Scots treat their wives this way?” she asked, arching a brow to cover the way her voice had gone slightly breathless.

Ramsay spun her then, one hand never leaving her waist, and caught her as she returned, pulling her closer than before.

“You don’t even know the half of it.”

The reel ended. The musicians paused, but he didn’t let go. His hand lingered at her side, thumb brushing the silk of her gown, just beneath her ribs.

His voice dipped. “D’you know what the Scots call a marriage?”

She swallowed hard, barely able to nod. “What?”

He didn’t speak right away. His eyes moved over her face, unhurried and intent, then down to her mouth. His thumb slid lower, grazing her hip, dangerously close to indecency.

“Two hands clasped before God,” he said finally. “No priest. No papers. Just a promise—and a bed.”

Her stomach tightened. She should have said something. Pulled away. But she stood there, heat pooling low in her abdomen, mind racing in directions no proper wife should allow on her wedding day—especially not with her husband smirking at her like that.

Ramsay gave her a little twirl before pulling her back again. “There’s a tradition,” he said, almost casually. “In the older villages. It’s dying out now, unfortunately.”

“And that is?” Eleanor asked, trying—and failing—to sound unaffected.

“After the ceremony,” he said, “the guests would walk the bride and groom to the marriage bed. Everyone would crowd in—old women offering advice, young men cheering. Some threw coins. A priest stood near the foot of the bed.”

She stared at him, scandalized. “Why?”

“To make sure the marriage was… consummated,” Ramsay said evenly. “Properly.”

Eleanor froze mid-step, horror chasing down her spine. He swayed with her, steady, amused.

“You can’t be serious,” she whispered.

He turned to her with a perfectly serious expression. “I sent word home. They’ll arrive by sunset.”

Her mouth dropped open.

Then—

His lip curled, just slightly. “Jesting.”

A laugh escaped her, half-relief, half-outrage. She shoved his arm, palm pressed against solid muscle. His low chuckle rumbled in his chest—and she felt it in hers.

She looked up at him. He was still smiling. Not mocking. Not smug. Just that maddening, devastating calm that made her want to strangle him and kiss him in equal measure.

And God help her, they still had the night ahead.

And for the first time since the kiss, since the vows, since the dizzying descent into celebration—Eleanor felt something shift. A flicker of something simpler, dangerously close to joy.