Page 68 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“On the contrary,” he said mildly, “I rather think you enjoy it.”

Eleanor pressed a hand to her temple. “Ramsay, if you’ve come to quarrel, I should like to reschedule.”

“I haven’t come to quarrel.” He took a step closer, boots silent against the carpet. “I’ve come to thank you, actually.”

That, somehow, startled her more.

He continued, tone almost offhand. “Penelope’s been markedly less terrifying since your arrival.”

“She was never terrifying,” Eleanor said, folding her arms. “She’s grieving.”

“Grieving with scissors,” he muttered. “But yes.”

There was a pause. The fire cracked. Somewhere, a clock chimed the half-hour.

Eleanor could feel the air shift between them. Something taut and humming beneath the silence. She cleared her throat. “Is that all?”

He looked at her then. His gaze slid over her robe, her bare feet, the hair still falling loose down her back. And for one unbearable moment, he did not blink.

Her mouth went dry as he stepped closer. The air changed—thicker somehow, like velvet soaked in heat.

She took an involuntary step back, the hem of her robe catching against her ankle.

“Careful,” he said, voice low, almost amused. “You’re in retreat.”

“I’m being sensible,” she replied though her voice betrayed her—quieter, breathier than she meant it to be.

“You’re in your nightgown.”

“Because it’s night.”

Another step. Close enough that she could see the gold flecked in his eyes. Close enough to feel his presence like static against her skin.

“And I’m your husband.”

“Which I’ve not forgotten,” she murmured. “Though you do an admirable job of reminding me.”

His hand hovered near her elbow, not touching but close enough that it made her spine ache with anticipation. That maddening closeness—intimate and unspent.

“You never seem quite prepared for me, Eleanor.”

Her throat tightened. She tried to speak, failed. He smelled of cedar and whisky and something colder underneath, something northern, something she couldn’t name. And suddenly she hated him—hated him for standing so still, for looking at her like that, for making her want something she hadn’t asked for.

Something she didn’t dare reach for.

“I never know what version of you is going to walk through the door.”

“And which version is this?”

She hated that her voice went soft. Hated more that her heart fluttered, stupid and traitorous in her chest. “I don’t know yet.”

He was close enough now to kiss her. And for one suspended beat, she was certain he would. The air between them was steeped in unspoken things. She could feel the heat of him, like a question her body already knew the answer to.

He lifted a hand, slowly brushing a loose curl from her cheek. His fingers trailed just barely along her jaw.

“You must get cold,” he murmured. “In this bed. Alone. Night after night.”

Her breath caught.