Page 50 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

He took a long breath. His voice was calm when he spoke. “I’m not forcing you to do anything. But this is my house. My room. And you’re my wife. You won’t be tiptoed around like a guest.”

She stared at him for a long moment, color high in her cheeks.

He expected her to argue. To shout. To do that cutting thing with her voice that always made him feel like a country boy with mud on his boots.

Instead, she turned on her heel.

“I’ll speak with the head maid,” she said, voice clipped, “to see that my things are brought up.”

He nodded once, wary.

But she didn’t stop. She walked to the door, opened it, and stepped into the corridor without another word. The door clicked shut behind her.

Ramsay stood alone in the flickering firelight.

He stared at the door. It just… shut. As if the conversation hadn’t rattled anything at all. As if she hadn’t just walked out of the room where he’d half-expected they’d finally touch each other like husband and wife.

Ramsay rolled his shoulders, the tension biting deep into his spine.

One month, he reminded himself. One month of this arrangement, and then?—

Then what?

He rubbed the back of his neck. The fire crackled behind him, too warm, too loud. The room felt strangely still without her in it. As if the air had pulled tight in her absence.

He had not expected gratitude. Nor immediate surrender. But he had imagined something simpler. A quiet understanding. They were married. The bed was wide enough. He had seen the way she looked at him sometimes when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. She’d kissed him. She’d said yes. She’d worn his ring and his name.

And now, she wanted to set up camp in some room like a guest.

This is too confusing.

He muttered something sharp under his breath then crossed the room, yanked the bell rope with more force than necessary, and waited.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open. The head maid stepped in—a tall, tight-laced woman with silver streaks in her hair and an expression that suggested she feared God andno one else.

“Your Grace,” she said with a curtsy. “You rang?”

“Aye,” Ramsay said, crossing his arms. “I need your opinion.”

That startled her. Just slightly. Her spine didn’t move, but one brow twitched upward. “On what, Your Grace?”

He gestured to the door. “My wife just left this chamber. She talked about separate rooms.”

The maid did not blink. “I see.”

“Do you?” he asked, irritation edging into his voice.

The woman hesitated, hands folded neatly in front of her apron. “It’s customary, Your Grace, for a lady to have her own chambers.”

Ramsay narrowed his eyes. “Customary where?”

“In England,” she said. “Among titled households.”

“Ah,” Ramsay muttered. “This again.”

The maid tilted her head, trying—but not succeeding—to hide her smile.

He paced once across the hearth rug. “You’re telling me it’s tradition for a man and wife to sleep in separate rooms?”