Page 79 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

The fields opened before them, and Eleanor forgot why she’d come to speak with him in the first place. She forgot about the vase, the ton, even Scotland.

There was only this—sunlight, the rhythmic gait of the horse, and Ramsay’s breath near her skin. The world had gone still. Just a field of gold and a man behind her who smelled like sweat and summer and something rougher—something that made her dizzy. Like salt and saddle leather and something darker that made her stomach twist and her thighs press a little tighter.

Her breath caught as he shifted, his body firm and solid at her back. She felt it everywhere—his arm braced around her waist,his thigh against hers, the undeniable fact that she was in his hold and had no desire to leave it.

This,her traitorous mind whispered,is what it would feel like.The raw, breathless reality of what it meant to share a bed with him. Of what it would mean to give him an heir.

She swallowed hard, heat flooding low in her belly.

He tugged gently on the reins, and the horse slowed, eventually coming to a stop beneath a crooked ash tree. The branches dappled the ground in shade, and above them, the sky stretched endlessly blue.

“We’ll stop here,” he said, voice soft against her ear.

She nodded. She couldn’t have spoken even if she tried.

He dismounted first, his body brushing close, far too close. Then he turned and held out his hands.

“Come,” he said.

She hesitated.

One breath. Two.

Then she placed her hands in his and let herself fall.

He caught her. Of course, he did. And for one lingering moment, he didn’t let go.

She landed with her hands on his chest. Bare skin. Warm skin. Her fingers flexed without permission.

He was looking at her differently now. As if the air between them had changed shape. As if she were something to be unwrapped.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, letting her go slowly, “about Penelope.”

Eleanor stepped back. Cleared her throat. “What about her?”

“I want to stay involved. Keep working with her. Not just the riding. Other lessons too,” he said stepping just a little closer. “With your permission, of course, lass. I wouldn’t dare disturb your sense of order.” His smile was all mischief, but the heat in his eyes said he meant every word.

She blinked, heat curling at the base of her spine. “So, you were serious about that?”

He nodded once then hesitated. “You’ve been good for her, but I think she’s… growing on me.”

His voice wasn’t steady, and he looked away as he said it, as if the words embarrassed him.

Eleanor felt something flutter in her chest, unsure whether it was affection or dread.

After a beat, he cleared his throat and added, more briskly, “There’s a ball. I’ve arranged for us to attend.”

She stared at him. “You what?”

“I sent word this morning,” he said, gaze still fixed on some distant point beyond her shoulder. “It’s the Countess of Wexley’s gathering.”

“You arranged it?” she asked, voice catching slightly.

He nodded again—just once—but there was something strangely vulnerable in the motion. As if he’d stuck out his hand and wasn’t sure if it would be taken or slapped away.