Page 85 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Of course, she didn’t. Nothing short of a red carpet and a three-piece orchestra would ever satisfy her.

Ramsay’s temper flared—not hot and loud but cold. Controlled. Cutting. “Yes. You have,” he said, voice low. “This is how I treat my guests. And I can see you’ve gotten quite comfortable in a matter of minutes.”

He felt Eleanor shift beside him, quiet as ever, but her arm brushed his slightly, steadying. A silent thread between them.

“If you do not enjoy our company,” Ramsay went on, meeting Lady Mulberry’s eyes squarely, “you are free to do as you please.”

There was a beat of silence. Eleanor’s grandmother blinked, as if the sheer gall of such a remark had momentarily knocked the words from her throat.

Lady Fraser grinned. “That’s my boy.”

Lady Mulberry huffed. “He’s positively uncivilized.”

“He’s Scottish,” Fraser beamed.

“I heard that,” Ramsay muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Eleanor, ever the diplomat, stepped in before sparks could fly again. “Grandmother,” she said brightly, “why don’t I show you to the garden? It’s lovely this time of day. Perfect for… cooling off.”

“I never—” Lady Mulberry began, scandalized.

“Come,” Eleanor said, all sweetness and silk. “I’ll have tea sent.”

Lady Mulberry huffed, muttered something about the decline of the aristocracy under her breath, and swept out with her nose in the air.

Ramsay exhaled. One down.

Lady Fraser watched her go. “She’s sharper than you deserve.”

“I know.”

“Pretty too.”

“I know that as well.”

Lady Fraser gave him a sideways glance, one brow lifting. “And you’re in love with her?”

Ramsay’s jaw worked. He didn’t answer right away. His hands had gone still on the edge of the desk.

“I didn’t say that,” he muttered finally, voice low. Almost defensive.

“You didn’t have to,” Lady Fraser said simply, as if the matter were already settled.

Ramsay dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply. His skin was still warm from Eleanor’s touch—her mouth, her body, the way she’d melted into him like she had nowhere else to go. And now here he was, in the hallway of a house he’d never planned to inherit, standing opposite the sharpest woman north of the Highland border.

He straightened. “Come,” he said. “I’ll show you the studio.”

Lady Fraser didn’t smile, but there was something approving in the way she followed him. She was the only person alive who could walk like royalty while wearing a cloak three decades out of fashion.

They passed through the corridor without speaking. He opened the door to the studio and stepped back, letting her enter first.

Lady Fraser glanced around once then took the seat with the worn armrest. “It suits you.”

He didn’t answer. Just shut the door and took the other chair, dragging a hand over the back of his neck.

He could feel her watching him the way she always did, with quiet, practiced scrutiny, like she was measuring the shape of the man he’d become against the boy she’d raised.

Finally, he spoke. “The wedding happened quickly. The invitation took too long to reach you.”