Page 48 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

His eyes darkened,

“You want me to try, lass?”

Thirteen

Ramsay pushed open the front door, letting Eleanor step through first. He hadn’t carefully planned for this part. Not really.

He’d handled the vows. He’d endured the pastries. He’d told off every powdered parasite in London with practiced calm. But now she was inhishouse, walking acrosshismarble floors, and he was standing behind her like some daft farmhand about to offer a tour of the cowshed.

He watched her look around and could still feel the ghost of her skin against his palm. Still taste her from the kiss they hadn’t spoken of. It was the way he hadn’t touched her all day, the restraint it took. The way his hand had hovered, just an inch from her waist when she leaned in, flushing pink beneath her veil.

She probably thought he was being noble. That he was offering space. Being respectful. But truthfully, it had taken everythingin him not to shove those swans off the table, drag her onto his lap, and show the entire room precisely what kind of man she’d married.

Not a gentleman or a saint. Just a man—starving for her.

And now, she was here in his house. His gaze drifted to her neck, where a single curl had loosened from its pins. He wanted to press his mouth there. Slide his hands into that ridiculous white gown. Let her see what she’d done to him.

Instead, he cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said. “This is your home now.”

She turned slightly, lips parted as if to reply, but she didn’t. Her eyes wandered over the chandelier, the twin staircases, the polished banisters like white spines curling upward.

He didn’t know what to say next.Welcome?Do you want a biscuit?

He just turned and started walking, hoping she’d follow so they could get this damned tour over with.

He’d never had a wife before. Definitely never had to host one. He’d had women in his home, yes—but they came in through side doors, and they didn’t stay long enough to redecorate.

Belson appeared in the corridor, tall and gaunt with the air of a man who had survived a great many household dramas and was unimpressed by all of them.

“Your Grace,” the butler said, bowing to Ramsay then to Eleanor. “And Your Grace.”

“This is Belson,” Ramsay said, gesturing between them. “He manages the household when I’m not glaring at it.”

Belson didn’t flinch. “An honor, Your Grace,” he said to Eleanor.

She gave a polite nod. “Thank you, Mr. Belson.”

Ramsay cleared his throat. “I’ll show you around.”

He hadn’t meant for it to sound like an order. Or like an afterthought. But her brow lifted slightly, and he felt that familiar itch crawl down the back of his neck—the one that saidyou’re not built for this.

He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and started walking, motioning for her to follow. She did, her skirts brushing softly against the stone, her steps too light to echo.

“Kitchen’s downstairs. Gardens are through there. Library has got more dust than books—unless you like sea journals and bad Gaelic poetry.”

She gave a soft laugh behind him. It made something tighten low in his back.

He glanced over his shoulder. “You’ll get used to it.”

“This house?”

“This life.”

It wasn’t meant to sound ominous, but it did. Everything he said sounded like a threat when he wasn’t careful.

He stopped in front of a dark oak door at the end of the hallway. His rooms. The only part of this house that still felt like his.