Page 92 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

He smiled.

“And Ramsay?”

“Aye?”

She tilted her head, all innocence. “It’s hardly the hardest thing we’ve done together.”

He grinned fully then—one of those real smiles, rare and disarming. “Not yet.”

Twenty-Two

Ramsay stood still as Belson adjusted the fall of his cravat with the reverence of a surgeon preparing for amputation.

“Hold still, Your Grace,” Belson said, frowning at the silk. “If you ruin this knot again, I’ll be forced to start over.”

Ramsay said nothing. He was already dressed in a deep navy coat, brushed black boots, and a waistcoat buttoned with military precision. The only thing left was the blasted cravat—and his patience.

“I could wear it loose,” he offered, knowing it would cause offense.

“You could,” Belson replied evenly.

Ramsay smirked. “Sounds about right.”

Belson gave him a look. “You’re going to a ball. Afamilyball.”

“Terrifying.”

“Indeed.” Belson stood back, inspecting him critically. “Though I’ll admit, you’ve improved. Last week, you looked like a Highland hoodlum. Today… almost like a man with a conscience.”

Ramsay arched a brow. “Careful. I might blush.”

Belson didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth tugged. He turned toward the trunk in the corner, lifting the lid and sifting through a stack of folded shirts. “Shall I arrange for the rest of your things to be sent to Inverness? If we start tonight, they might be waiting for you when you arrive.”

Ramsay paused.

His voice, when it came, was quiet. “No need.”

Belson turned. “No?”

“My plans have changed.”

A beat passed. The butler blinked once then shut the trunk. He didn’t ask questions.

“Very good, Your Grace,” was all he said. “The carriage is waiting.”

Ramsay nodded, adjusted his cuffs, and reached for his gloves.

He was staying. Not just for the week. Not just until the scandal passed. And not because of duty. He could lie to himself about a great many things but not that.

He walked out of the room and found her in the corridor just outside the drawing room, fastening a pearl earring with unhurried grace. Eleanor wore a gown the color of dusk—something smoky and soft with a neckline that made Ramsay want to burn down the house and cancel every social engagement for the foreseeable future.

She looked up at him with that infuriating composure. “You’re late.”

“I was being strangled by Belson.”

Her eyes flicked to his neckcloth. “He did a fine job.”

“Then pray for my soul.”