Page 77 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

He nodded toward the vase. “The last one broke. This one won’t. Consider it a replacement.”

It took her a moment to understand. Their very first meeting. The hallway on the ship. Her falling. The crash. The vase intended for Norman, breaking on the ship.

“You remembered,” she said quietly.

“I remember everything you’ve thrown at me,” he said, lips tugging. “That includes ancient pottery.”

She should have smiled. Should have teased him.

But all she could do was look at the vase. She didn’t care for it—not really. It wasn’t even particularly beautiful. But the fact that he’d noticed, remembered, bid for it…

Something caught in her throat.

“Thank you,” she said, meaning it more than he would ever know.

So much for ignoring him. That plan had just gone up in smoke—and she was the one fanning the flames.

Nineteen

The second week of their marriage passed in unusual calm. Mornings indoors, painting with Penelope. Afternoons out in the field. They fell into something like a rhythm—no, aroutine. And though Eleanor would never say it aloud, they felt dangerously close to a family.

She began to wonder, despite herself, how Ramsay would behave with a child of their own. But she knew better than to dwell on it. The weeks were ticking down. He would leave. And dreams, as she’d learned before, were a poor thing to cling to when the wind changed.

The following week, Eleanor found herself standing beside the stables, arms crossed, watching the afternoon sun catch on the copper strands of Ramsay’s hair as he rode in easy circles with Penelope.

He looked… relaxed. That in itself was a rare sight.

Penelope let out a delighted squeal, tugging too hard on the reins. Ramsay didn’t scold. He just corrected her hand, adjusted the strap, and leaned close to explain something.

It should have looked awkward. A Scottish brute trying to teach a half-Greek four-year-old how to hold her seat. But it didn’t. It looked like a family.

Her family.

The thought startled her so much, she nearly gasped aloud. She glanced down at her shoes, the hem of her gown, anything to stop the image from planting itself further. But it was too late. The vision had bloomed—Ramsay beside her, a child on either side, and this impossible steadiness between them.

Would he be gentle? Stern? Likely both. Their children would grow up knowing every inch of the moor, fluent in English and Brogue and the unspoken language of their father’s silence.

She pressed a hand to her chest.Stop it. He’s leaving.

Hewas. He’d said it himself. But that didn’t keep the thought from returning again. Or again.

She heard laughter. Looked up. Penelope had just been taken inside by her governess while Ramsay stayed behind, dismounted, then stripped off his shirt and tossed it over the fence.

Eleanor stared.

He was golden.

Not just tanned but gleaming. Every line of him defined, sun-kissed, and unapologetic.

He caught her looking at him, smirking.

“Afternoon, Duchess.”

“You’re sweating.”

“Aye,” he said. “That’s what happens when you work.”

She could have turned and gone back inside, but her feet didn’t move.