Page 52 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Or… she wasn’t sure it was relief she felt. And what about therule? Has he changed his mind about having an heir too?

Her grandmother’s voice rang in her head:Study him. Observe him. Don’t try to win—just learn how he plays the game.Except Ramsay didn’t seem to play by any rules.

He was direct when she expected evasion. Distant when she braced for heat. Soft at the strangest moments, and then solid stone the next. He was a contradiction in human form—and Eleanor had no idea what he would do next.

That was the problem with marrying a man who didn’t belong to her world. She couldn’t guess which direction the storm would blow.

Gathering her composure, she squared her shoulders and stepped out of the room—down the corridor, past portraits ofunfamiliar faces and carpets that muffled every step. A maid greeted her with a curtsey and led her to the breakfast room.

The door creaked open.

He was already there. Seated at the head of the table, dark coat fitted tight to his shoulders, a cup of tea held lightly in one hand. He looked up as she entered and didn’t rise. Just held her gaze with that unreadable steadiness that always made her want to do something foolish.

“Good morning,” she said, too quickly.

“Morning,” Ramsay replied.

She stepped inside, stomach knotted, and took the chair to his right. Not across the table—too distant—but not beside him either. She didn’t quite trust herself with that much proximity before eggs.

The footman poured her tea. She thanked him softly and adjusted her napkin like it was a weapon.

Ramsay set down his cup. “You’ll keep your own room.”

She looked up, startled. “Pardon?”

“From now on,” he said, voice even. “It’s yours. You don’t have to move.”

She hadn’t expected that. Not from him. Not after the way she’d walked out of his room with her chin up and her heart racing. She’d braced herself for tension, for one of his clipped remarks or another reminder aboutthe rule. But this quiet gesture, this calm reversal of position, caught her completely off guard.

A beat passed.

She blinked. “Thank you.”

Her fingers curled around the cup. It was hot, but her hands were colder. She wanted to ask why. Did he sleep at all last night? Did he pace the floor and fume about her stubbornness, or did he sit with a drink in hand and think it through like this was all just politics and protocol?

But instead, she said, “I never meant to… exclude you.”

His brow lifted.

She went on, quietly, “I’ve lived here all my life. London has rules. Rules I was born memorizing. A duchess has her own chambers. It’s not about distance—it’s about… order.”

Ramsay tilted his head, like a wolf sniffing out something confusing. “So, I’m disorder.”

She flushed. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

She set down her cup a little too firmly. “You’re twisting my words.”

“I’m Scottish,” he said, as if it were the same thing.

Her jaw twitched. “Is everything a competition with you?”

“Only when I’m winning,” he replied and took another sip of coffee.

She stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.”