Page 6 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Her mouth pursed, but she didn’t say a word.

Ramsay dragged a hand down his face. He hadn’t wanted this. He hadn’t asked for it. George had left no will, only a bedside plea and a box of letters—one of which had led him to Corfu, and now to this ship, this girl, and this damn list. And every day since, he’d felt himself slipping further out of control like a man trying to build a house in the middle of a storm.

Miss Bransby was still watching him. Her eyes missed nothing.

But he knew. Penelope couldn’t flourish in uncertainty. Children couldn’t grow into accomplished women without something steady beneath their feet. She needed a home. Routine. Stability.

I can’t give her any of that.

He turned toward the small porthole, looking out at the sea. The wind had picked up. Somewhere above them, ropes creaked against the mast. He could hear Penelope’s voice, faintly, from the adjoining cabin, humming to herself as she rearranged the buttons in her sewing tin. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since after breakfast.

“She doesn’t like me at all,” he said finally.

“She doesn’t know you, Your Grace,” Miss Bransby replied. “Give her some time.”

Time. As if that were something he had in surplus.

He turned back, brow furrowed. “How does a man get used to this kind of life? I’m not built for this.

Miss Bransby handed him a second list. “We’ll need to arrange for a proper haircut as soon as we arrive, Your Grace. She hasn’t had one in months, and she won’t let me near her with shears. It’s beginning to affect her vision.”

“For the love of God.”

“And she’ll require proper indoor shoes. She’s grown out of the last pair.”

He stared at the list. “Is there an end to any of this?”

“Not until she grows up. And even then, only a little.”

Then she was gone.

Ramsay stood there, holding both lists like they were orders of execution.He had faced councils, duels, and creditors, but none of them had prepared him for a four-year-old.

He looked out at the sea again, dragging a hand down his jaw. A gull dipped past the stern, shrieking into the wind.

What in God’s name was he going to do?

Ramsay pushed up from the chair with a sigh that came from somewhere deeper than his lungs. His joints ached from the stiff seat, but he ignored them as he crossed the small cabin to the doorway.

He leaned there for a moment, one hand braced against the frame, the other hanging loose at his side.He didn’t know what she needed. He hardly knew whatheneeded. But heknewshe deserved more than silence. More than this limbo.

He could just see her, Penelope. She had stopped crying but only because she must have been exhausted. She lay curled on the small settee beside the trunk, arms tucked beneath her chin, boots dangling slightly over the edge.

Her breathing had evened, but her eyes were still open, glassy and dark. She wasn’t asleep. She stared out the porthole with a sort of wary stillness, as if waiting for something—or someone—to arrive who never would.

The sight made something turn uneasily in his chest.

Ramsay remained at the door for a few moments longer, unsure if she’d noticed him. Her small shoulders didn’t move. She didn’t speak. But then she stirred. Her fingers shifted beneath her cheek, and her gaze drifted toward the porthole, where sunlight skimmed the waves in flashes of gold.

“Are we almost there?” she asked.

Her voice was soft. Hoarse from earlier crying. As if the words had waited too long in her throat.

Ramsay blinked. “What?”

She repeated herself, still facing the window. “Are we almost there?”

“Almost.”He cleared his throat.