Page 93 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

She smiled—barely. The kind that played at the edge of her mouth like a secret.

Lady Fraser’s voice carried down the corridor. “Well, look at them. A matched set.”

Behind her trailed Eleanor’s grandmother, who was already adjusting the feathers in her turban and lamenting the quality of this season’s refreshments.

“Are we ready?” Lady Mulberry asked, wrinkling her nose.

“I believe so,” Eleanor said. “Unless Ramsay forgot his sense of decorum somewhere.”

He offered her his arm. “You’re in a mood.”

“I’m in a corset.”

“Ah.”

She took his arm anyway.

They exited through the main entrance, the evening cool and gilded with lamplight. At the waiting carriage, Ramsay offered his hand; Eleanor accepted it without hesitation, her fingers warm against his glove as she stepped inside.

He followed, settling beside her on the plush seat while both grandmothers arranged themselves opposite—Lady Fraser with imperial calm and Lady Mulberry already launching into a critique of the internal décor.

The ride to the ball was short but not short enough.

The grandmothers chattered endlessly from across the carriage—Lady Mulberry detailing the ball’s social importance, Lady Fraser scoffing at the state of English pastries—but Ramsay barely registered them.

He was seated far too close to Eleanor.

The velvet of her skirt brushed his thigh every time they turned a corner. Her perfume—something floral and maddening—lingered in the air. And when she crossed her legs, he felt it in every inch of his spine.

“You’re brooding,” she said quietly, eyes forward, lips barely moving.

“Am I?” he replied, dragging his gaze from the hem of her gown—where the silk had pooled against his boot—back up to her mouth.

“Yes. You’re also sitting like a man preparing for war.”

“Iama man preparing for war.”

“Oh?” she leaned in, just slightly, enough for a lock of her hair to brush his sleeve and drive him insane. “And what is the battlefield this time? Pastries?”

He glanced at her, slow and deliberate. “Dancing.”

She laughed—soft, knowing, like the sound of sheets being drawn back. “You’re not a bad dancer.”

“I’m a reluctant one.”

“Is that what you were in the Highlands?” she teased, arching a brow. “Reluctant?”

“No,” he said, voice low. “There, I was terrifying.”

She turned fully to him now, amusement flickering behind her lashes. “And now?”

“Now,” Ramsay murmured, gaze dropping to the curve of her collarbone, “I’m distracted.”

Her lips parted—just slightly—and he caught the faintest sound of breath catching in her throat. It did things to him. Awful things. Wonderful things. He imagined dragging the tip of his finger from the base of her neck to the dip between her breasts and had to curl his fist to stop himself from moving.

She didn’t look away.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she whispered.