Page 54 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

A knock at the door. They both froze.

A servant stepped inside. “Pardon, Your Graces. Miss Penelope is awake and waiting to meet you.”

Ramsay’s hand dropped. Eleanor stepped back, as if the spell had been broken. He looked at her once more—long, slow, unreadable—then turned to the servant.

“Well send her in.”

Penelope entered through the doorway, small fingers twisting the hem of her pinafore. Her dark curls were tangled at the ends, and one sock had begun to slip down her calf. She didn’t speak. Just looked. First at Ramsay, then at Eleanor. Wide eyes, solemn and searching.

Ramsay took a slow step forward. “There you are.”

The girl didn’t move. Her hands stopped fidgeting then clasped behind her back in a prim little pose Eleanor recognized instantly as defensiveness masquerading as decorum.

Eleanor forced her feet to move. She smoothed her skirts and walked toward the child, careful not to tower. She knelt once she reached her, smiling gently. “Good morning, Penelope.”

The girl blinked. “It’s not morning.”

“Well,” Eleanor said, tilting her head, “I suppose it’s just past breakfast. Shall we call it second morning?”

There was a pause.

Then, very faintly, Penelope said, “That’s not a real thing.”

Eleanor smiled wider. “No. But it sounds nicer than ‘nearly afternoon’.”

Ramsay gave a quiet huff behind them. Eleanor ignored it.

She held out a hand. “Would you like to show me your room?”

Penelope hesitated then glanced at Ramsay.

“She’s your duchess,” he said evenly. “Not a governess.”

“She’s not wearing a crown.”

Eleanor tried not to laugh.

“Most duchesses don’t,” she said. “Though perhaps I’ll commission one, just for you. Something made of daisies and ribbon. Would that do?”

Penelope studied her for another long moment then gave a tiny nod.

“Well then,” Eleanor said, rising. “Lead the way.”

She walked ahead with small, deliberate steps, pausing every few turns to glance back and make sure Eleanor followed. Her slippers barely made a sound on the polished floor, and Eleanor found herself adjusting her pace to match.

At last, they reached a painted door near the end of the nursery wing, its edge smudged with fingerprints and a faint trail of blue crayon. Penelope pushed it open with both hands, revealing the room inside.

The girl’s playroom was a warm, sunlit space tucked near the nursery wing, all soft rugs and overstuffed shelves and too many forgotten toys lying sideways on the floor. Ramsay lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, looking like he’d stumbled into enemy territory. Eleanor walked further in and crouched beside a wooden table covered in crayons and smudged paper.

Eleanor felt herself blushing under his tense look, but she wasn’t one to cave in without a fight.

“You draw?” she asked.

Penelope nodded. “Birds.”

“May I see?”

A little shuffle. The girl retrieved a drawing from the corner. It was rough—charcoal strokes, heavy on the wings—but clearly a bird. Or a phoenix if the dramatic plume was any indication.