Page 51 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“Often, yes. Especially in the early days of marriage.”

“Early days,” he repeated. “So the wedding’s done, the name’s changed, the contracts signed, but heaven forbid we share a pillow?”

“It allows the lady comfort and autonomy, Your Grace. It’s not a rejection. Simply a… formality.”

Ramsay gave a low, skeptical sound. “Formality is a disease in this city.”

“Some say it is also the only thing that keeps it from collapsing.”

He scowled. She didn’t flinch.

“She won’t be more comfortable across the hall,” he said. “She’ll just be more alone.”

The maid’s expression softened, just slightly. “You are the master of this house, Your Grace. I shall see to it that the Duchess settles here.”

He let out a breath. “You don’t need do.”

Ramsay ran a hand down his face and muttered, “Clean up the late Duchess’ damn chambers. Let her have those.”

“I’ll arrange it at once, Your Grace.”

He paused as she moved toward the door. “And tell her, I’ll see her at breakfast.”

The maid dipped into another curtsy. “Of course.”

Then she was gone. The door closed again. Another quiet exit.

Ramsay stood alone in the room. Again.

He looked at the bed. Empty. Perfectly made. Mocking him.

This wasn’t going to be easy. He had not been expecting easy, but he had at least expectedpossible.

A month,he reminded himself.

One month.

And he was already losing sleep.

Fourteen

“Much better now,” Eleanor stood before the mirror, unmoving after pinning the last bead in her hair.

Her reflection stared back with familiar restraint—every curl pinned into place, every pearl where it ought to be. But something in the woman behind the glass felt… unanchored. She smoothed the collar of her morning gown for the fourth time. It was soft blue muslin, demure and proper and utterly incapable of hiding the chaos beneath her skin.

Last night, she’d hardly slept. Not only because the sheets were unfamiliar or because the clock in the hall chimed every hour like a reprimand, but because she’d spent most of it waiting.

Waiting for footsteps. Waiting for a knock. Waiting to be told it was time to leave her borrowed sanctuary and return to the agreement she’d just broken.

But he never came.

Instead, she’d woken to find her gown laid out, her maid tight-lipped, and a note from the head maid letting her know that breakfast would be served in the small dining room. No mention of Ramsay. No mention of what last night had meant—or hadn’t.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her hands to the edge of the washstand.

So, he’d changed his mind about the room.

Good.