Page 75 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“Louder.”

“I apologize.”

“To whom?”

“To the duchess.”

Ramsay stared at him. Let the silence stretch.

Gifford shifted. Cleared his throat.

“I never understood your type,” he muttered, eyes flicking down the hall. “Risking a dukedom for a used-up little?—”

Ramsay saw red.

His fist connected before the sentence had finished forming.

Bone met bone with a sickening crack, and Gifford’s head snapped sideways—hard. He slammed into the wall with a thudthat echoed then he crumpled, clutching his jaw as he slid to the floor like something discarded.

The corridor rang with the silence that followed.

Eleanor had punched Gifford too. It only felt natural for Ramsay to follow suit. He almost smiled.

Well. Wasn’t that rather… romantic?

Ramsay stood over the man, shoulders braced. He flexed his hand once. No blood. Not enough.

“You don’t speak her name,” he said, voice low and shaking with restraint. “Not again. Not anywhere.” Ramsay adjusted his cuffs and added. “Next time, I won’t be so polite.”

Eleanor’s voice broke the spell.

“Ramsay!”

“It had to be done,” Ramsay said, still brimming with heat from the argument. “He had it coming.”

“You say that,” Eleanor replied, voice hushed, “as if that excuses everything.”

They stood just beyond the crowd, a little removed from the main floor of the auction, tucked beneath the carved archway that separated the drawing hall from the vestibule. Light poured in from the tall windows, gilding Ramsay’s hair like fire. She couldn’t look at him. Not properly. Not when her pulse was still tumbling from the scene he’d just made.

He turned toward her fully then, still brimming with heat, his breath coming faster. His pupils still hadn’t shrunk.

And she—God help her—she felt it. The air between them trembled. Her fingers curled around her gloves like a lifeline. His eyes dropped briefly to her mouth then back to her eyes, and the sheer force of him made her stomach twist.

“What is it you want from me, Eleanor?” he asked, voice low, taut with something unsaid.

She gave a breathless shake of her head. “I want to understand you. That’s all.”

That stopped him. His jaw flexed, as though he didn’t know what to do with that kind of answer. For a second, he looked like he might say something—something real. But instead, his gaze snapped back toward the auction floor.

He stepped in, just once, close enough that her skirts brushed his boots. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him.

“Then pay attention,” he said.

And just like that, he grabbed her hand—the heat of him burning her—already striding forward, shoulders squared, cutting through the crowd like it owed him something.

She followed, breathless, unsettled. And aching in ways she hadn’t let herself feel in years.

The next item up for bid was nothing of note. A vase, slender and cracked in one place near the base, but Ramsay lifted his hand, and the bidding began.