Page 46 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

The last of the guests were beginning to drift from the terrace, murmuring their goodbyes between slices of cake and lukewarm tea. Eleanor’s gown whispered against the floor as she stepped away from the head table, her limbs light with champagne and something else—something like delight, if she let herself name it.

She turned too quickly.

“Ah, Your Grace,” came a voice, high and bright as sugar left too long in the sun.

Eleanor turned and walked directly into the path of Lady Berle, her towering, feathered hat bobbing like a swan mid-drowning. Three other women flanked her, all in silks more expensive than sense, smiles stretched tight enough to crack.

“So lovely to see you enjoying yourself,” the Viscountess said, peering at her over her fan. “It’s rather inspiring, isn’t it, the way love rises from… ash?”

There it was. Eleanor kept her expression pleasant though her stomach dipped. “How poetic of you.”

“Oh, not my words,” Lady Berle tittered. “Everyone’s been saying it. Really, quite the story. A ruined girl, a rogue duke… It’s practically a novel.”

“Why don’t you give me their names, My Lady? I’d like to visit each one personally and explain what happens when they talk about the Duchess of Stormglen.” Ramsay’s voice came from just behind her shoulder, deep and entirely lacking in amusement.

The Viscountess blinked and stuttered. Eleanor almost sighed in relief.

Ramsay stepped forward, placing a hand lightly at Eleanor’s waist. “You’ll forgive me if I prefer my wife be the subject of respect, not prose.”

Lady Berle laughed, a touch too nervously. “Of course. Of course. Only admiration, Your Grace. We all love a happy ending.”

“I doubt that,” he said.

The silence that followed was exquisite. The women scattered soon after, their powdered faces twitching as they went.

Eleanor turned slightly to look at him. “That was quite… roguish of you.”

“Was it?” he asked, looking away from the retreating feather and back to her, a wicked smile forming on his lips. “I didn’t notice.”

Her heart did that strange thing again—tight and soft at once. But lower down, something else stirred, warm and insistent. She didn’t know what to do with that ache that settled low in her belly every time he looked at her like that.

Before she could find words, another figure stepped into their path.

Will this never end?

“Your Graces,” came Lord Branson’s voice, smoother than usual though the smile he wore was sharp. “May I just say… splendid affair. Everything one expects from a society wedding. Everything considered, it was… remarkablytidy.”

Eleanor opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Ramsay did not.

“Branson,” he said flatly. “Mind yourself. Tidy can turn to messy really quick.”

The Lord’s smile flickered. “Charming as ever.”

“You’re still here,” Ramsay observed.

“Not for long,” Lord Branson said, backing a step away with a bow so shallow it nearly insulted the earth.

Ramsay didn’t even bother to nod.

Eleanor exhaled slowly. “You’ve got a talent for scaring them off.”

“It’s not talent. It’s a skill, and I love practicing it,” he said as he tucked a loose curl behind her ear, letting his knuckles drag lightly down the curve of her neck, lingering just long enough to make her breath hitch. “Are you scared of me?”

He is an unbelievable brute.

Eleanor had been taught never to voice wicked thoughts like these, but with Ramsay, she found herself forgetting everything she’d ever learned, again and again. “You are an unbelievable brute.”