Page 65 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“Like what?” Eleanor asked, all innocence.

“Like you want me to kiss you.”

She huffed. “Please. You are insufferably full of yourself.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “Go on, then. Pretend you’re not thinking about it.”

Eleanor lifted her chin. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he murmured, brushing past her shoulder, “you keep blushing in my presence.”

She turned, flustered. “That is not?—”

“You think I don’t notice the way your breath quickens when I’m near?” he asked, eyes dark. “The way your chest rises… then falls… just a little faster?”

“That’s because you get on my nerves, my dear husband,” she replied with infuriating calm.

He glanced over his shoulder, a wicked curve at his mouth. “Careful, lass. Keep provoking me, and you’ll find out exactly what Highland men do with mouthy wives.”

Ramsay sat with one boot propped on the corner of the desk in his studio, a half-empty glass of scotch in his hand. He wasn’t drinking it so much as letting it sit, forgotten, while he reviewed the accounts for the south estate.

He was halfway through circling the number when Belson appeared. “Your Grace.”

Ramsay sighed and set the pencil down. “Well?”

The butler cleared his throat, eyes flicking briefly to the window. “The staff and I were pleasantly surprised to hear you’d be staying at Stormglen longer than expected, Your Grace. We’d assumed you’d return to Inverness immediately after the wedding.”

“My plans got delayed a bit, but I’m still heading to Scotland,” Ramsay said.

“And when do you plan to leave?”

“In three weeks.”

Belson nodded slowly. “And how often shall we expect Your Grace’s return?”

Ramsay gave him a look. “I’ll come when necessary.”

“Meaning rarely?”

“Meaning when necessary.”

Belson folded his hands behind his back. “And Her Grace?”

“She stays here.”

She had asked for faithfulness in London. Not warmth or affection. Just for him not to embarrass her. He’d said yes. Of course, he had; it had seemed the least he could do.

No lovers. She hadn’t even looked at him when she said it, just spoken in that even, careful way of hers, as if she was negotiating a contract.

He leaned back in the chair and rubbed a hand over his jaw.

The silence that followed wasn’t tense, but it wasn’t entirely comfortable either. Belson shifted his gaze to the window.

“If I may,” he said carefully, “Miss Penelope seems to be adjusting well.”

Ramsay’s brow lifted. “You think so?”

Belson went on, tone neutral. “Lady Penelope wasn’t seen in public while under her father’s care. I’m told she rarely left the nursery. No governess, no outings, certainly no ponies. She was… tucked away. As if she were a shame to be solved, rather than a child to be raised.”