Page 66 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Ramsay’s expression darkened. He’d been tucked away once too. Shipped off like a problem to be managed. Spoken about rather than spoken to. It hadn’t left him. Not really. And now, here was Penelope, silent and strange, her eyes too old for her face.

“She deserves better,” Ramsay said.

Belson inclined his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Ramsay leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly.

Eleanor had accused him of marrying her because he needed a mother for the child. And maybe that was part of it. But it wasn’t all of it. He’d told himself it was practical—cold-blooded necessity. But the truth was messier.

He’d watched her walk into that ballroom with her chin lifted and her name in tatters, and something in him had decided. She wasn’t a prize to be claimed. She was a flame.

And now, she thought he’d only wanted her for convenience. Well, of course, she did. He hadn’t said otherwise. He’d dragged her into this mess because of the bloody blackmail, because he was backed into a corner and hadn’t seen any other way out.

But she didn’t know the rest. Didn’t know he’d already made the decision long before the letters. Didn’t know how long he’d been watching. Didn’t know how much she unsettled him.

Ramsay cleared his throat. “Miss Penelope’s governess will remain on staff, but I’ll be overseeing her education myself from now on.”

Belson blinked. “Your Grace?”

“You heard me.”

“Very good, sir.”

Ramsay turned back toward the window.

It was raining now. The soft, persistent London sort. Thin and grey and constant, like a memory that wouldn’t let go.

“She’s a duchess,” Ramsay said at last. “She has everything she needs.”

Belson nodded. “And you believe that’s enough.”

“It should be.” Ramsay stared out into the garden. “She’s…” He exhaled through his nose. “She makes this place different.”

Belson waited.

“I don’t know what she expects. She asked for a month. She made rules. We both agreed. Now suddenly—” He broke off. “Now suddenly, I’m wondering if it’s enough.”

Belson studied him for a moment then said, very gently, “Your Grace, may I ask a question?”

“No.”

“I’ll ask anyway.”

Ramsay sighed.

“Do you believe she’ll wait for you?”

He turned from the window. “What kind of question is that?”

“A fair one.”

Ramsay’s voice dropped. “Do London ladies wait?”

Belson blinked. “That… depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether they’re happy. Or lonely. Or loved.”