Page 73 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“Mm.” Andrew sipped his drink. “Funny seeing her married.”

Ramsay glanced sideways. “Aye, well, funny’s a low bar in London.”

“She never left London until this year. Not even for a week. Greece was the first time she stepped outside the city.”

Ramsay’s brow lifted. “She loves the city that much?”

“She loves her family that much,” Andrew corrected gently. “The city just came with us.”

He took another sip, voice light but not careless. “You pulled her away from all that. That’s no small thing.”

“She came willingly,” Ramsay said.

Andrew nodded slowly. “Of course, she did. She’s always had a taste for trouble.”

Ramsay’s mouth twitched. “On that, I’ll agree with you.”

“I think you’re the first man she’s followed. The rest just tried to follow her.”

There was no accusation in his voice—just truth and something dangerously close to affection.

Ramsay’s gaze returned to Eleanor. She was laughing again, head tipped back, entirely herself. Entirely elsewhere.

“She’ll find her footing,” Andrew said, more to his drink than to Ramsay. “She always does.” Then he tipped his glass in a vague salute and offered the barest hint of a grin. “If you’ll excuse me?—”

He turned without waiting for a reply and vanished into the crowd.

Not the strangest English lad I’ve met.

Ramsay went back to watching her from across the room. She laughed at something. Tilted her head. Held a glass of champagne like it was second nature.

He wondered, not for the first time, what she’d been likebefore. Before him.

Now she stood at the edge of the ballroom, posture straight, eyes bright, smile practiced but not false. She laughed at something Lady Harwood said, and the sound of it—light, unbothered—went straight through him.

She moved with the kind of grace that didn’t come from breeding. It came from survival. From knowing how to walk through a room that wanted her small and making herself impossible to ignore.

“Is that the Egerton girl?” came a voice just behind him.

Ramsay didn’t turn.

“God, she’s still not married right? I wouldn’t mind a taste.”

Ramsay turned. Slowly.

The man was vaguely familiar—Viscount something, all teeth and perfume and the kind of smirk that belonged in a brothel, not a ballroom.

“She’s taken,” Ramsay said coldly.

The Viscount blinked. “Is she?”

“She is.” Ramsay’s voice dropped. “And if I hear you speak of her again like that, I’ll tear out your tongue and feed it to my horse.”

A long beat of silence.

Then the man cleared his throat, muttered something unintelligible, and backed away like he’d just remembered an urgent appointment.

Ramsay turned back toward Eleanor. She was still laughing. Still glowing. Stillhis.And damn him, it wasn’t enough that she wore his ring. It wasn’t enough that she carried his name.