Page 74 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

The world shouldknow.Shouldsee.That she was his. His wife. His woman. Only his.

There were moments—like this one—when he could almost see it. The girl she’d been. The girl Gifford had chased through sun-warmed ruins, the girl who said what she meant and hit harder than most men dared.

And in that moment, something twisted in his chest. She could have had anyone. An English gentleman. A quiet life. Even happiness.

But she’d married him instead. A Highland wolf. All sharp edges and bad manners. A duke from nowhere with no interest in lace-curtained domesticity.

Would she have been better off with someone else? And what would happen after he left for Scotland? Would she still be his?

His gaze narrowed.

Across the ballroom, Gifford was laughing. That in itself was not unusual. What was unusual was the man beside him—Lord Everly, sycophantic and small—and the way Gifford was speaking too loudly for the setting.

“—very enthusiastic,” Gifford was saying to the same viscount from earlier, whom Ramsay still half-meant to gut. “Uncommonly willing, if you know what I mean. She had a particular fondness for ruins. And for being ruined. Our time in Greece was quite…memorable.”

The man chuckled, lewd and oily. “I daresay you’ll miss her.”

Ramsay felt it in his spine. He moved without thinking.

“Gifford,” he said, stepping into their circle, voice calm and cold.

The laughter cut short.

Gifford turned, smiling too broadly. “Oh, the Duke of Stormglen. I wasn’t aware you were nearby.”

“I was.”

A long pause.

“Your Grace,” the man stammered, backing away.

Ramsay didn’t blink. “Repeat what you just said.”

Gifford’s smile faltered. “It was only a jest.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“I meant nothing by it?—”

“That was my Duchess you were talking about.My wife.”

Mine.

The room had gone quiet. Heads turned.

“Your Grace?—”

The Viscount had already backed away, suddenly interested in the punch table. A few others were beginning to turn.

Ramsay stepped forward. “Walk with me.”

Gifford hesitated. Ramsay didn’t ask again. He gripped the other man’s shoulder and steered him toward one of the side corridors, cool and dim and blessedly empty.

When they were out of view, Gifford wrenched his arm free. “There’s no need for dramatics, Your Grace.”

“Then apologize.”

Gifford swallowed. “Apologies. Of course. It was foolish of me.”