Page 69 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I could fix that.”

“Ramsay—”

“I could keep you warm. Every inch of you.” His voice was low, rough velvet. “You wouldn’t be alone. Not once. Not ever.”

His hand slid to the back of her neck. She didn’t move. She thought he wouldfinallykiss her.

And he might have—would have—if she hadn’t spoken.

“What happens,” she asked quietly, “after our weeks are up?”

The question hung in the air like smoke.

His expression didn’t change. “I return to Scotland.”

“Alone?”

He paused. A long, slow pause.

She waited because she wanted—needed—to hear it. To be chosen. To be invited. To be told she wasn’t just part of the furniture he was leaving behind.

“You’re the one who said you belonged in London,” he said with a shrug. “Wasn’t that one of your terms?”

Her chest tightened—sharp, hot, humiliating. Like the sting that comes just before tears.

She looked at him then. Just his eyes. And what she saw there wasn’t malice. It wasn’t cruelty.

It was distance. And that, somehow, hurt worse.

“I see,” she said after a long moment.

He didn’t answer.

So, she pushed further. “And how often should we expect you here in London?”

“Whenever necessary.”

“That’s vague.”

He sighed. “A few times a year. The dukedom?—”

She heard enough.

“Yes, yes. The dukedom needs you.” Her voice was sharp now, brittle. “And what of your duchess?”

Ramsay’s jaw tensed.

Eleanor forced a smile. “Will I receive a note before your arrival, or shall I wake one morning to find my husband lurking in the corridor?”

He blinked. “Lurking?”

“You’re very good at it.”

“I don’tlurk.”

She turned from him, fists clenched at her sides. “You made a bargain, Ramsay. You gave me a month. I haven’t asked formuch, and I’ve done everything asked of me. I’ve tried. With Penelope, I mean…”

Eleanor bit her tongue. There was one specific rule she hadn’t yet obeyed. And yet, Ramsay didn’t mention it—not now and not in a while. Even though he could.