Page 94 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“I’m not looking,” he said, throat thick.

“You are.” Her voice was quiet, but her tone wasn’t.

Ramsay leaned back just a little, enough to give himself space, though it didn’t help. Every inch of her was still pressed against his awareness. Her thigh near his. Her perfume. The way her body moved with the sway of the carriage, like something meant to be held.

He let his gloved hand rest on his thigh, fingers twitching once.

“You wore that on purpose,” he said, eyes narrowed, voice almost accusatory.

She turned her head, smug. “I didn’t even know what I’d choose until tonight.”

“But you knew I’d be there.”

She didn’t answer.

The grandmothers, mercifully, were now knee-deep in a disagreement about the decline of modern sopranos.

He watched Eleanor for another moment, watching the way her lashes dipped as she blinked. The way her mouth curved like it knew every wicked thought he was having and had plans of its own.

He imagined lifting her into his lap. He imagined her hands gripping his coat, that breathless sound she made when he kissed her too hard.

He shifted in his seat, jaw tight.

The carriage hit a bump, and she swayed into him slightly.

Neither of them moved away.

Then, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the townhouse. Light spilled down the stone steps, and music filtered through the high windows—soft and distant, like the memory of laughter.

Footmen appeared, flinging open the door with mechanical grace.

“Ready?” Ramsay asked.

Eleanor met his gaze. “Do I have a choice?”

“No,” he said and stepped down first then turned to offer his hand.

She placed hers in it, warm and bare and sure.

When she stood beside him, he leaned in just enough to speak beneath the noise.

“Try not to look too pleased,” he murmured. “We’re supposed to be a scandal.”

She didn’t smile, but her fingers curled slightly tighter around his arm.

They entered the ballroom together, Eleanor steady on his arm, her chin lifted in that particular way of hers that made her look untouchable—and also, for some godforsaken reason, made Ramsay want to touch her even more.

Inside, the chandelier blazed above them. Strings swelled in the far corner, and the scent of beeswax and perfume drifted on warm air. Everywhere, there were diamonds and silks and ridiculous feathers—some pinned to hair, some drifting sadly from headpieces that looked more like dying birds than decoration.

Lady Fraser made a small noise beside him. “Looks like a henhouse in heat.”

Ramsay bit the inside of his cheek.

Across the room, Kitty spotted them. She waved, her grin bright enough to shame the chandeliers. Norman stood at her side, regal and a touch harassed, his cravat slightly skewed like someone had tugged on it.

They approached.

“You’re late,” Kitty said cheerfully.