Page 5 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“Penelope… Sophia is not your family. She only took you in after your mother… Well, I am your family now.”

“Sophia would have found it!” she cried. “Shewould have!”

“The doll’s gone,” he said, too sharply. “You have others. Play with those.”

She stared at him, stunned for a moment. Then her face crumpled. “You don’t understand anything!”

He exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “I understand more than you think.”

“No, you don’t! You’re not my father. You’re not even nice. You’re just—mean. And loud. And you don’t care.” Her voice wobbled as her arms wrapped tightly around herself. “Ihateyou.”

Silence. Something in him stilled then folded in on itself.

Without another word, Penelope turned and marched to the adjoining door, yanked it open, and disappeared into her little chamber. The door slammed shut behind her.

Ramsay stood alone in the cabin, frozen in place.

Then he crossed the narrow room and sat by the small round window. Sea and sky blurred together beyond the glass. Salt and guilt clung to his skin.

He pressed his forehead to the cool wood beside the frame and shut his eyes. He had no idea how to fix this. And no one left to teach him.

Ramsay had never felt more out of his depth in his entire life, and that included the time he’d nearly drowned off the coast of Wester Ross.At least then he’d had the ocean to blame.

Now he had Penelope.

The ship groaned as it rocked gently, sails straining overhead. They had been at sea for nearly a month now, and still, the girl refused to speak to him unless forced. Not that he blamed her.

Children, it turned out, held grudges longer than grown men. And Penelope’s was a particularly dignified silence, made worse by the fact that she often looked just past him, as though he was some unpleasant smell in the corridor.

He sat hunched in the small chair by the cabin window of his quarters, running a hand through his hair. It was damp at the temples. His coat was unbuttoned, his boots caked in old salt. A breeze kicked up, snapping the edge of the sail, but it did nothing to clear the dull ache lodging behind his eyes.

He hadn’t slept properly in weeks. And not just because of the creaking cot or the sea’s relentless heaving. It was the weight of it all. The responsibility. The fact that Athena, her mother, was dead, and his brother George, Penelope’s father, was also dead. And now, Penelope somehow had becomehis.

The door creaked open behind him.

“Your Grace?” came a crisp, polite, female voice.

He looked up. Miss Bransby, Penelope’s nanny, stood there with her notebook pressed to her chest, eyes unreadably blue, mouth set in a line so thin it might as well have been carved. She wore no expression whatsoever.

God help him.

“Yes?”

“I’ve drawn up a preliminary list of items Miss Penelope will require once we reach London.”

“Have you now?” he said, lifting one brow as if bracing for pain. His temples throbbed faintly. It was too early for lists.

“I have.”

She stepped out and held it toward him. Ramsay hesitated before taking it. The paper was thick, slightly smudged in one corner. He scanned it.

It was not a list. It was an essay.

Stockings. Gloves. Pinafores. New shoes—two pairs. Hair ribbons. A cot. A governess. Schoolbooks—“to begin phonetic training as early as possible.” A rocking chair. A proper wardrobe. A companion—“preferably a girl of similar age.”

He dropped his head back with a groan. “Christ.”

This should not be my bloody responsibility.