Page 76 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Across the room, Gifford did the same.

Oh no. Not again.Eleanor’s heart sank. This was not going to be subtle.

The auctioneer brightened, sensing drama. “A fine piece of Hellenic craftsmanship, recovered just outside of Athens. Shall we begin at forty?”

Ramsay raised a brow. Nodded once.

“Forty-five,” Gifford called immediately.

“Sixty,” Ramsay said, voice booming through the room.

Eleanor bit down on a groan.

They were no longer bidding on a vase. They were battling with numbers—each one sharper than the last. Bows exchanged instead of swords. Salvos delivered in the form of crisp nods and slow, deliberate raises.

A gentleman near Eleanor whispered, “What on earth is in that thing? Ambrosia?”

She might’ve laughed if her chest didn’t feel like it was made of stone.

Ramsay didn’t even blink. “Eighty.”

“Eighty-five.”

“Ninety-five.”

Someone gasped.

Eleanor could feel every muscle in her neck tighten.

It was madness. Ludicrous. The vase was cracked, likely worthless, and yet here they were—two grown men engaged in a bidding war over a misshapen antique, all because one of them couldn’t stand to lose and the other refused to yield.

Gifford hesitated. Only for a breath. “One hundred,” he said, like he meant to bite it.

Ramsay lifted his hand again. “One hundred and fifty.”

A collective murmur rippled through the room.

The auctioneer nearly fell over his lectern. “One hundred and fifty. Once. Twice?—”

At last, the auctioneer slammed his gavel. “Sold. To the Duke of Stormglen.”

Ramsay.

There was a strange sort of hush. Everyone else moved on. Ramsay, however, did not.

He picked up the vase himself and carried it.

To her.

She blinked.

“You seem surprised,” he said, pressing it gently into her hands.

“It’s… Greek,” she murmured.

“Obviously.”

“I don’t understand.”