The Scottish Duke’s Deal (Ton’s Unlikely Brides #2)

Chapter 1

One

Lord Gifford, I’ve tried, truly, but the more I get to know you, the more I realize I cannot imagine being your wife. You deserve better.

Eleanor had chosen that last line carefully, hoping it might soothe Lord Gifford’s pride. Pacing restlessly along the ship’s deck, she replayed the last few weeks in her mind. He had asked her brother Norman for permission to court her during their voyage back to England from Greece.

Greece.

Her fingers tightened around a small ceramic vase from Corfu, painted with an image of Hercules wearing the skin of a lion.

It was one of the few mementos she had kept from what had otherwise been a delightful journey with her brother and his wife.

That is, until Lord Gifford’s overbearing presence began to sour everything.

It had not taken long for his condescension and controlling nature to show. Eleanor had seen enough. She did not want to marry him, nor, if she was honest, anyone she already knew. But the longer she delayed, the more heartless she feared she would appear.

He might think I had led him on…

She practiced the words she would say once more until she was interrupted by the sharp, unmistakable sound of a child crying. Eleanor paused, brow furrowed, then clutched the vase tighter and hurried toward the sound.

The passage narrowed. Crates were stacked haphazardly along the corridor, damp with sea spray. Her skirts caught on a protruding nail, and she tugged them free with irritation before turning the next corner—

And she collided, quite firmly, with what she thought was a wall. It jarred her shoulder and knocked the breath from her lungs. The vase slipped from her hands, linen wrapping unspooling midair. She reeled backward—

—but before she could fall, strong arms caught her. One at her waist, the other bracing her back. Her face landed against cloth stretched over a broad, unyielding chest. Not a wall. Alive. Warm. Startlingly firm.

Her breath caught. The sudden stillness in the air, the heat of his grip, the absurd closeness—all of it struck in a single, stunned heartbeat.

“Watch yourself,” said a voice, rough and Scottish.

Her mouth fell open.

The man set her back on her feet. She blinked up at him, flushed and breathless. He was tall. Ridiculously so. Grey eyes, like storm clouds caught mid-turn. A severe sort of face. Brown hair, wind-tossed.

For weeks, she had wandered through sunlit ruins gazing up at carved heroes—Theseus, Achilles, especially Hercules. Always Hercules. Muscle-bound and impassive with arms capable of bearing the world.

And now, here one stood, scowling on the deck of a British vessel.

Solid and unyielding with an arm still wrapped around her waist. She could feel the heat of him through layers of clothing, the press of his body where he had caught her just in time.

Her breath came shallow, almost trembling.

Her chest rose against his, drawn to him.

Eleanor, dazed, noticed a faded scar along one cheekbone, as if the sculptor had grown bored of perfection and carved in something human.

He looked altogether too heroic. Until he spoke again.

“Next time, try looking where your pretty little feet are headed, lass,” he said flatly, glancing down at the shards on the floor.

How dare he? Honestly. Eleanor could hardly believe the man. He’d practically barreled into her like a cannon shot and now stood there, towering and unrepentant, as though she were the problem.

Her face was still warm from the collision, her skirts damp at the hem, and her pulse doing a most undignified jig. And still—still—he had the audacity to smirk at her. Eleanor tightened her spine. If smugness were a crime, he’d be in chains by now.

Eleanor drew herself up. “That’s no way to speak to a lady,” she snapped. “And it was you who turned the corner like a charging bull. My vase is ruined.”

The man lifted a brow. “Do you own the deck, then? Shall we all request your permission to pass through it?”

“I beg your pardon—”

“A fragile object ought not to be waved about like laundry on a line.”

“I wasn’t waving it about!”

“Could have fooled me.”

He looked amused, and it made her blood boil.

“It was a gift,” she said icily. “For my brother. He’s expecting his first child.”

“Then I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to receive it in pieces.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’ve ruined the surprise.”

“Not entirely. It’s still very Greek.” He glanced at the floor. “If a bit more… deconstructed.”

Her jaw dropped. Oh, he was impossible. Arrogant, uncivilized and infuriatingly handsome which only made it worse.

“If it matters that much,” he continued, maddeningly calm, “you could always return to Greece and fetch another one. Perhaps avoid brandishing it through corridors next time.”

“I wasn’t brandishing—!”

“Is that what passes for gratitude in London?” he cut in. “I save you from falling over, and you curse me over a bit of clay?”

“Clay?” she sputtered. “That was a 4th-century replica—”

“Ah, not original then.”

A gasp escaped before she could stop it. That smirk of his deepened, slow and shameless, like he’d meant to provoke her all along.

She opened her mouth again but was interrupted by the soft sound of a sniffle. Then a tug on her skirts.

They both looked down.

A small girl stood between them. Her eyes were wide. She wore a sailor dress a little too short for her, and her hands were balled into fists at her sides. Her cheeks were wet, lower lip trembling.

She looked at Eleanor first.

“You have the same hair as my doll,” she said.

Eleanor blinked then glanced down at her loose brown curls which had evidently escaped their pins in the collision.

She gave a breathless laugh and knelt in front of the girl. “You have very fine taste, then,” she said gently. “May I ask your name?”

The child did not answer immediately. Her eyes, still wide and glassy with unshed tears, flicked from Eleanor’s face to the broken shards of ceramic.

Her bottom lip quivered, and something trembled in her countenance, a delicate hesitation blooming behind her lashes.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “P-Penelope.”

Eleanor softened her voice. “Is something the matter, Penelope?”

And just like that, the girl crumpled. Her mouth wobbled, and tears spilled down her cheeks in quick succession. A sob welled up and burst from her like a wave, as if she’d been holding it in far too long.

“Oh no,” Eleanor whispered, reaching out instinctively. “What is it? Did you hurt yourself?”

“I lost her,” the girl wailed. “I lost her. and now. I’ll never find her again.”

Eleanor blinked. “Her?”

“Marigold! My doll!”

The name, said with such anguish, tugged at something in Eleanor’s chest. She placed a steadying hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“Blast it,” came the man’s voice, sharper now. “And now, thanks to you, she’s weeping all over again.”

Eleanor looked up, startled. “Me? All I did was speak to her.”

He crossed his arms. “Aye. That was your mistake.”

She rose to her feet slowly, brushing off her skirts. Her gaze moved from the child’s damp cheeks to the man’s scowl. “She mentioned a lost doll. Is that why she’s crying?”

Penelope gave a watery nod.

Eleanor turned back to the girl. “Where did you last see her, do you remember?”

“She was with me when we got on the ship,” Penelope sniffed. “I had her in my arms; I know I did.”

“She left it in Greece,” the man said brusquely. “And I’ve told her five times already to stop pestering me about it.”

Eleanor stared at him. “She’s a child. She isn’t pestering; she’s upset. There’s a difference.”

“She’s been upset for hours. That won’t make the doll appear.”

Eleanor arched a brow. “And yet, she remembers having it when she boarded. Doesn’t that seem worth investigating?”

The man did not reply. His jaw tensed. A muscle in his cheek ticked.

“What does she look like, this doll of yours?” Eleanor asked, crouching beside Penelope again.

“She has brown hair and one eye. Her dress is blue. And her name is Marigold.”

“That’s a very good name,” Eleanor said. “I like her already.”

Penelope sniffled again, but her shoulders eased slightly. Her small fingers twisted into the hem of her dress.

Eleanor glanced up. “We’ll help you find her, won’t we?”

“Speak for yourself,” the man muttered.

Eleanor straightened slowly. “I am. Because clearly someone must. A child does not deserve to be spoken to like this, and she certainly doesn’t deserve to grieve alone over something she clearly loved.”

The man looked like he might argue. His brow furrowed, and his mouth opened then closed again. He exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Very well, lass,” he said coolly. “We’ll search. But if she starts claiming she left a horse on board, I’m leaving you to console her.”

Eleanor’s mouth dropped open at the implication. “She is a child, not fanciful. And I should think even if she claimed to have left a carriage behind, the adult thing to do would be to investigate with a bit of patience.”

“You know nothing about her,” he said, low. “You’ve been here for five minutes.”

“Sometimes,” Eleanor said coldly, “five minutes is all it takes to see what the child’s own father has refused to notice.”

He looked at her then, long and level. For a moment, something shifted in his gaze.

“He’s not my papa,” Penelope said suddenly.

A silence settled between them. The girl’s small voice rang out like a pebble dropped in a still pond.

Eleanor blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

The girl stood a little straighter now. Her small chin lifted. Her cheeks were still tearstained, but her eyes no longer looked quite so frightened.

“He’s not my real papa.”

Eleanor’s gaze darted to the man’s face. His eyes had narrowed, but there was something weary there. Not angry. Not even defensive. Just tired.

“I see,” Eleanor said carefully.

She turned slightly, stepping between the man and the girl in one instinctive movement. “And who is he, then?”

Penelope crossed her arms. “He’s my other father. The mean one.”

Eleanor tried not to smile. But inwardly, something had shifted. Her protective instinct, always a quiet hum, now surged like a drumbeat.

“I’m her uncle,” the man said. “And if the lass is finished drawing out her own conclusions, we really do need to find that doll.”

Just as he passed her, he added over his shoulder, voice lazy and unmistakably amused, “Come along then, Penelope. Let’s find the doll that resembles this lass—both in beauty and in being a pain.”

Eleanor’s breath caught.

The nerve.

By the time she’d gathered herself enough to respond, he was halfway down the corridor, unconcerned and completely unapologetic.

And she was left standing there—scandalized, speechless, and annoyingly aware of the heat creeping up her neck.

He held out his hand toward Penelope. She looked at it for a long moment then turned and walked past him.

He followed. They moved together but did not quite touch. Eleanor noticed that his hand remained open for a moment longer then closed into a loose fist.

Eleanor stood watching, uncertain whether she wanted to sigh or shout. Her heart still beat oddly in her chest, too fast for something that was supposedly over.

She had half a mind to go after them herself, to take Penelope by the hand and search every last deck board until Marigold was recovered.

But something held her still. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he would take her interference poorly.

Or perhaps it was the realization that she’d already overstepped.

And then came a voice from behind.

“Eleanor! There you are.”

She turned.

Gifford approached at his usual languid pace, hands clasped behind his back. His hair was perfectly combed, his boots polished even here, at sea. He wore a pale cravat and that perpetually pleasant expression that suggested he had never once in his life experienced discomfort.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Lady Eleanor,” he said, his tone commanding.

She smiled though her heart was still thudding from the upcoming confrontation. She could feel the heat rising on her cheeks and quickly tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

“I was walking, Lord Gifford,” she said. “Or—I suppose—chasing after a child’s distress.”

Gifford’s brow creased slightly. “Chasing? That sounds beneath you, doesn’t it?”

Eleanor hesitated. Then she laughed, soft and self-conscious. “It was a… scene. A little girl lost her doll.”

“Tragic, truly,” he said, shifting closer with a confident ease. “In any case, I’m glad I found you. Look—England’s shore is already in sight.”

Eleanor searched for a way to delay the conversation. “Well, My Lord, perhaps we should find Norman and Kitty. They’ll want to prepare for disembarking.”

He clearly missed the hint. “I actually have a question for you. It’s something that will change your life and make your return to London a victory.”

Eleanor felt something still inside her. The corridor seemed narrower now; the sea air was sharp and stale.

She already knew what the question would be.

And suddenly, she wished she had stayed with Penelope and her storm cloud of an uncle.