Page 91 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

She pretended to study him, tapping her lip. “Mmm. Not the windows. Just the occasional footman.”

“I knew it,” he muttered. “She’s been filling your head with stories.”

“Are you denying them?”

Ramsay didn’t answer. His gaze lingered too long. It was the sort of look Eleanor had grown used to—slow, unblinking, entirely indecent. The kind that made her skin tighten under her stays.

She felt absurdly warm.

“Depends,” she said, lifting her chin. “Are you here to glare at me or grovel?”

“Neither.” His voice had gone low. “I’m here to steal you.”

“Steal me?” Her pulse fluttered.

“For something terrible. For something infinitely more dreadful than painting birds.”

“Oh?” Her voice dipped in spite of herself. “Do tell.”

He leaned in, close enough for her breath to catch. “A ball.”

She groaned and stepped back, dizzy from his proximity, though it did nothing to cool her. “You’re joking.”

“It’s tonight.”

She narrowed her eyes. “We are not going alone, are we?”

“No. Your entire family will be there. And the ton.”

“Perfect.” Eleanor made a face.

Ramsay smirked. “So, you’re thrilled.”

“I’d rather face a Highland winter.”

“You might yet,” he said lightly. “If I manage to convince you.”

Something about the way he said it—quiet, dangerous, like a dare—made her thighs clench.

Her pulse ticked. “Is that a threat?”

“A promise,” he said softly. Then, “Will you come?”

“To the ball?”

“To the rest of it. For as long as I can stand being here.”

Eleanor arched a brow. “You can’t simply ask a lady to abandon her whole life on the off chance you grow fond of England.”

He shrugged. “Then say no. I’ll ask again later.”

She hated him, just a little, in that moment. For making it sound like such a simple thing. For looking at her like that. For making it harder every time to say no.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll come.”

“To the ball?”

“To the ball.”