Page 96 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“You know, I was ready to hate you,” Norman continued conversationally. “Even if it was all my fault. I was ready to loathe the man who would get to keep her, even if I’d ruined her chance at doing it any other way.”

“You still can,” Ramsay said. “I’m not here to be liked.”

“No,” Norman said, studying him. “But you’re still here.”

That, for some reason, struck harder than it should have.

Ramsay glanced away. “You’re lucky,” he said quietly. “She still listens to you.”

“She always listens,” Norman said. “She just doesn’t always do what I want.”

They both looked over again. Kitty had her hands on her hips now, glaring at the dessert tray. Eleanor appeared to be judging a tartlet with the gravity of a French diplomat.

“Do you love her?” Norman asked.

Ramsay exhaled through his nose. “Do you always ask questions like that in ballrooms?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t speak, but his jaw shifted, and Norman said nothing.

A soft rustle of skirts announced the arrival of Lady Fraser at his side.

She didn’t look at him at first—just surveyed the room, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Then, with a hum low in her throat, she remarked,“Have you met your wife’s cousin, Andrew? That sly little fox is a handsome lad, right enough, but indecisive as a cow at a gate.”

She turned slightly toward Ramsay, one brow arched in dry amusement. “We ought to drag him north. Let the Highland air slap some sense into him. Find him a wife and settle the matter once and for all.”

Then, with a brisk nod, she moved on—leaving Ramsay no more than a lingering whiff of sharp judgment in her wake.

Norman patted Ramsay’s shoulder once and turned back toward the room. “I guess the Mayfair Fox is on borrowed time.”

Ramsay let out a low breath, half a laugh, half something else. He didn’t belong here. Not entirely. But somehow, in that moment, he felt less like an outsider.

Twenty-Three

The ride home was silent, but it wasn’t quiet.

Eleanor sat beside him, gloved hands folded neatly in her lap, the curve of her mouth betraying nothing of the evening’s laughter or the too-long glances they’d exchanged across the ballroom. But her thigh was still pressed lightly to his, and Ramsay could feel every ounce of restraint in her spine. He wasn’t immune.

Not to the way her gown had moved with her. Not to the echo of her laugh or the half-daring look she’d given him when she’d licked frosting from her fingertip. He should have stayed on the other side of the carriage. He should have done a thousand things differently.

As they crossed the threshold of the house, something shifted.

The candlelight was low. The staff gone to sleep. The grandmothers retreated to their chambers with many fusses and instructions, leaving only the two of them and the quiet.

“I suppose I’ll retire,” Eleanor said softly, turning toward the stairs.

He followed.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked after a moment.

Ramsay shrugged, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “It was less dreadful than I feared.”

She smiled faintly. “That’s the highest praise you’ve ever given London.”

“I may yet survive the season.”