Page 72 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“Yes.”

His gaze dropped to her throat, to the place where her pulse fluttered. He tilted his head, watching her like a storm about to break. Like a man who had waited long enough.

“You cannot just—do that—now.”

He tilted his head. Watched her like a storm about to break. He could taste her breath now. Could see every tremble she tried to suppress.

He wanted to push her back against the seat, press his weight into her, and feel how soft she was under all that pride. He wanted to pull the dress aside and leave his mouth on every inch of skin she pretended not to know he noticed.

“I said, would you stop me?”

And before she could answer, he kissed her.

It was not soft. It was not careful.

It was every sleepless night, every argument, every stolen glance pressed into one desperate, shattering instant. His mouth caught hers with the force of something long denied, and the sound that escaped her was small, breathless—shock and surrender intertwined.

Her hand went to his chest instinctively, meaning to push, but his heartbeat thundered beneath her palm and her fingers stayed there, caught between resistance and need.

He deepened the kiss, and she met him—God, she met him—her other hand clutching the lapel of his coat, pulling him closer as if she could make sense of the madness that had just overtaken them. The carriage rocked with the uneven rhythm of the road, and every sway pressed her closer still.

He drew back just enough to look at her, their foreheads nearly touching. His breath came rough. “Say no,” he murmured. “Say it, and I’ll stop.”

Her chest rose and fell too fast. “Don’t you dare,” she whispered.

That was all it took. His restraint snapped like thread.

He kissed her again, deeper this time—slow, consuming. The world outside vanished. Her fingers slid up, tangling in his hair, and when he caught her waist, she didn’t resist. He pulled her against him, the space between them gone entirely now, her breath mingling with his.

The air in the carriage grew thick, heated, heavy with everything neither of them had been willing to say. His hand traced her back through the fabric of her gown, and she felt every movement as if it were fire beneath her skin.

The carriage jolted over a stone, and she gasped against his mouth. He swallowed the sound, answering it with a low groan that made her knees weaken. His hand came up to her neck, his thumb brushing the corner of her jaw, his touch rough and reverent all at once.

She arched into him without thought. Her fingers fisted in his coat; his breath hitched. He pulled back again, just barely, his lips still grazing hers as he spoke. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said hoarsely.

“Neither do you,” she breathed.

A faint, broken laugh escaped him—something dark and tender all at once. Then his mouth was on hers again, slower now, as if he couldn’t decide whether to claim her or worship her.

When they finally broke apart, the silence was deafening. The wheels clattered on, the horses’ hooves striking the road in steady rhythm, but inside the carriage, the world had stopped.

Eighteen

The auction was being held in the ballroom of a viscount’s estate west of the city. It was predictably gaudy—gilt-framed portraits, too many mirrors, and velvet drapes the color of old bruises.

Ramsay scanned the crowd with a disinterested eye. Ladies clutched fans and husbands. Gentlemen whispered in corners like they had secrets worth keeping. Eleanor disappeared almost immediately, dragged away by Lady Winthrop and a handful of other wives who considered her something between exotic and cautionary.

“Careful,” came a voice beside him. “That kind of staring could get a man accused of feelings.”

Ramsay turned.

The Duke of Foxdrey stood at his shoulder—Andrew Pasley, Eleanor’s cousin. Younger than Ramsay by a few years thoughhe carried himself like someone who’d long since stopped trying to prove anything. Straight-backed. Calm-eyed. He held his glass like a man who enjoyed drinking.

Ramsay had seen him at the wedding, speaking with Norman for most of the night, but this was the first time they stood this close.

“Didn’t peg you for the possessive type,” Andrew said, voice mild, expression unreadable.

“I’m not,” Ramsay replied.