Chapter 4
Four
“Eleanor!”
Eleanor barely had time to step back before Norman surged forward, taller than anyone in the crowd, dark coat billowing behind him like a storm.
She thrust herself between them.
“Wait—please don’t—he didn’t do anything wrong!”
Norman halted, only barely. His eyes snapped to her, wild and disbelieving.
“You’re defending him?” Norman jabbed a finger toward the Scottish Hercules without looking. “After I just watched you tumble into his arms like—like—”
“Like a woman nearly pushed off the ship,” the man cut in, voice low and unhurried. “That bampot made a move. I stopped it.”
Norman turned fully to him now. The man didn’t flinch.
“If that offends your sense of honor,” he continued, “we can settle it properly. But if you’re just here to shout, I’d rather go back to hunting dolls.”
The silence that followed was taut. The man tilted his head slightly, not aggressive—just prepared. Ready, if Norman wanted to make something of it.
Eleanor blinked as she felt her cheeks turn into a mortified shade of pink. She hadn’t expected that.
“And you are?” Norman growled.
The Scotsman stepped forward, broad shoulders taut with barely veiled aggression. “Ramsay Brooking,” he said. “Duke of Stormglen.”
No bow. No courtesy. Just words, sharp and flat, like a gauntlet thrown.
A ripple moved through the gathered passengers.
Norman narrowed his eyes. “Stormglen?”
“Dispute it,” Ramsay said, voice darker now. “But I doubt your English courts would appreciate the spectacle.”
He took one more step forward, close enough that Norman would have to crane his neck to meet his eyes.
“Unless you’d rather settle it here,” he added, quiet and dangerous. “I much prefer fists. They don’t need paperwork.”
Eleanor bit her lip. This could not possibly be worse.
Gifford, who had begun to rise again, cradling his swollen nose, suddenly found his courage.
“He attacked her. He even attacked me!” He pointed at Ramsay with a trembling finger, eyes wide and desperate. “Ask anyone here. He’s been—looming around her all voyage. I caught him in the act—”
“I’ve never had the patience to loom,” Ramsay cut in lazily. “Though if I did, you’d be the last man I’d let find me doing it.”
“You’re lying!” Gifford barked. “You pushed her! I saw it. I—”
Ramsay stepped forward. “Careful.”
The word was quiet. Sharp as a blade unsheathed. Norman moved at once, stepping between them.
“I don’t care who started it,” he said tightly. “You’ll both stand down now.”
Ramsay didn’t move. “Then perhaps your man should stop spitting lies before I throw him in myself,” he said, voice low and dark. “Let the sea decide which of us she believes.”
Eleanor stood frozen just behind them, fingers clenched in her skirts. She couldn’t speak.
Everything felt heightened—the scrape of boots on wood, the slap of wind in the sails, the rush of blood still pounding in her ears. She’d nearly gone overboard. Nearly died.
And now, here she was, watching three men circle like wolves—Ramsay towering over the rest, rough and magnificent and utterly unbothered by the scandal forming around them.
He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t posture. He didn’t explain. He simply was dangerous, male, and maddeningly solid.
She stared. Couldn’t help it. Her mind kept replaying the way he’d pulled her back, the way his chest had felt against hers, the press of his hand at her back.
Heat bloomed beneath her corset. She looked away, breath catching in her throat.
God help her.
Ramsay let out a quiet laugh beside her. She did not look at him.
Gifford’s face turned a blotchy shade of red. “Your Grace,” he said to Norman, his voice strained, “surely you’re not going to believe a Scotsman and a hysterical woman over—”
“I’ll believe my sister,” Norman snapped.
He glanced around then. So did Eleanor. And what they saw froze the blood in both their veins.
Dozens of passengers and crew had gathered at the rails and across the promenade. Eyes—dozens of them—watching. Some with curiosity, some with pity. A few, Eleanor was certain, were already thinking how swiftly they could pass along what they’d witnessed.
She felt her stomach turn.
Ramsay tilted his head toward the gawking crowd and said, conversationally, “If we’re going to brawl, might I suggest we do it elsewhere? Somewhere less…public. Though I’m happy to fight two at once if you’d rather.”
Eleanor nearly choked.
Norman, to his credit, did not rise to it. He straightened, eyes scanning the onlookers with dread sinking into his features. He cursed under his breath then fixed his attention back on Ramsay.
“You. My house. Tomorrow.”
“Which one?” Ramsay said idly. “You look like the sort who owns several.”
“Wharton Manor. In London. Eleven o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
Ramsay turned then looked at Eleanor. Just briefly. And something in the look made her shiver. Not from fear. From recognition. He had taken the heat for her. Willingly.
And now, he would face consequences.
Norman turned on his heel and barked at the crew to start unloading the carriages. Passengers began disembarking in small clusters, the commotion now dissipating into murmurs and glances cast sideways.
Gifford slinked off the deck, muttering about the unfairness of it all. And Ramsay stood beside her, silent and still, as if waiting for her to speak.
He was giving her the chance to say something, she realized. To acknowledge what he’d done.
At last, he spoke, voice low and maddeningly casual. “That’s twice now.”
She blinked. “Twice?”
“You fell into me with a vase,” he said, still not looking at her. “And then nearly into the sea.”
“I didn’t fall,” she snapped.
He turned to her now, slow and deliberate, grey eyes glinting. “Aye, that’s right. You launched.”
“I would have managed.”
“You’d have drowned.”
The words hit harder than she expected, and she hated that he wasn’t wrong.
She lifted her chin. “Well. It’s done now.”
“It is,” he agreed. “And you owe me.”
Her brows drew together. “I beg your pardon?”
“I saved your life, lass. And I fully intend to collect.”
“Collect what, exactly?”
He didn’t answer. Just gave her a lazy, unreadable, amused look and walked away, the crowd parting for him like water around a stone.
She hated how right he’d been. And most of all, she hated that some traitorous part of her couldn’t stop watching him go.
The thought of owing him—this towering, arrogant brute—set her teeth on edge. It was bad enough he’d seen her like that, clinging to him like some fainting debutante. Worse that he had the gall to enjoy it. And worse, she had enjoyed it too, far more than she’d like to admit, even to herself.
Eleanor stood there longer than she ought to have. The bustle of passengers disembarking washed around her like a tide, but she did not move. The weight of Ramsay’s parting words still hung in the air, and her limbs felt strangely unmoored. Her breath caught on something she couldn’t name.
“Eleanor!” Norman’s voice jolted her back. She turned sharply, startled to find him halfway down the gangway, already watching her with a mixture of concern and impatience. She quickened her pace to follow.
By the time they reached the carriage, Eleanor had lost count of how many times she’d smoothed her skirts.
Her expression. Her thoughts, however, refused to be soothed.
They roamed restlessly, like gulls in a storm, circling back always to one thing: the weight of Ramsay’s hand, the heat of his gaze, the impossible calm in the eye of her shame.
Kitty entered first and slid across the seat with theatrical elegance, her silk skirts rustling like dry leaves. “I am devastated,” she said, clasping her hands with mock sorrow. “To have missed all the action. A brawl. A scandal. A duke. Eleanor, truly, you are living the dream.”
Eleanor gave her a flat look. “If this is a dream, I should very much like to wake up. Preferably in a convent.”
Norman entered last. He did not speak until the door was shut, the driver summoned, and the wheels had lurched into motion. Then he spoke, and his voice was tight enough to cut glass.
“This is not amusing,” he said. “Eleanor was seen. She was in a compromising position.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” Norman said, not unkindly but with the tone of a man already cataloguing consequences. “The entire upper deck witnessed it. You were sprawled in the arms of a stranger.”
“He’s not a stranger,” Eleanor muttered though the words rang hollow even to her. She hesitated, then cleared her throat. “I mean—not entirely. He’s a duke, isn’t he? That must count for something.” Her tone wavered between defense and doubt, as though she wasn’t entirely convinced herself.
Kitty leaned forward, ever the peacemaker. “Norman, you cannot blame Eleanor. Gifford—”
“Lord Gifford,” Eleanor interrupted, voice sharp, “is the only reason any of this happened. He followed me. He pressured me to accept his hand in marriage. He grabbed me. His Grace, he pulled me back. If he hadn’t, I would have gone over.”
That made Norman finally look at her. Not as the Duke of Wharton but as her brother. His brows knit, a flicker of real fear in his eyes.
He exhaled, long and slow, and leaned back against the velvet-lined seat. “I should never have let that man near you. I knew there was something off about him. I knew it. If I had been there…”
“But you weren’t,” Eleanor said gently. “And His Grace was. He may be rough, but he wasn’t cruel. He could have let me fall. Saved himself the trouble. But he didn’t.”
Norman said nothing. The silence that followed was not quite accusing, not quite comfortable.
She hesitated.
“He may be rough,” she went on, “uncivilized even—but not cruel. He could have let me fall. He didn’t. He—” her voice caught slightly. “He pulled me back.”
Norman didn’t reply. The silence between them stretched.
And somewhere beneath the tight lace of her corset and the residual flush in her cheeks, Eleanor felt the weight of her own words. He had saved her. Whatever else he was, whatever sharp words they’d exchanged… the truth was plain.
She owed him her life.
And suddenly, the way she’d spoken to him before—brisk, defensive, biting—gnawed at her. Because he deserved her gratitude.
The carriage wheels creaked beneath them. Outside, gulls cried overhead, circling the docks like ghosts of the sea. The salt air had followed them inland, clinging to their clothes and hair.
Kitty adjusted the lace at her cuff. “None of the passengers were our acquaintances. No one from Town. No baronesses or marchionesses with nothing better to do than gossip at tea. We can still carry on normally. No one of consequence saw.”
“No,” Norman said, too firmly. “That’s not how it works. Eleanor is a duke’s sister. One whisper, one half-true story in the wrong drawing room, and it won’t matter who saw what. She’ll be condemned. And Lord Gifford, no doubt, will shape the story to suit himself.”
Eleanor turned toward the window. The sea was still in sight, pale and glittering, painted gold at the edges where the sun met the horizon. So lovely. So misleading.
“Then what do you suggest?” she asked, her voice barely audible.
“I suggest,” Norman said, straightening, “that we leave this behind us. Completely. We find a match for you. Fast.”
Kitty blinked. “You mean a betrothal?”
“I mean a marriage.”
Eleanor stared at her hands. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding onto herself—her composure, her dignity, the last threads of a life that had felt so perfectly mapped just days ago.
“To whom?” she asked, numb.
“We’ll sort that out,” Norman said. “Someone with a title. Discreet. Respectable.”
“Someone blind and deaf, preferably,” Eleanor muttered.
Kitty squeezed her knee. “Don’t joke.”
“I’m not.”
Because her thoughts were still tangled with him. With the Duke who had caught her like she weighed nothing, who had stared down a scandal as though it bored him and then walked away like it hadn’t cost him a thing.
Ramsay Brooking, Duke of Stormglen. A Highland brute in title and temperament. Improper. Abnormal. Not like anyone she’d ever met.
He hadn’t bowed. Hadn’t apologized. Hadn’t looked at her like a lady to be pitied. And that voice—so deep it still echoed somewhere behind her ribs—had practically dared her to keep up.
Her heart gave a thud.
Adrenaline. Still, surely. She’d nearly drowned. That was all.
And now, she was expected to forget it. To trade one stranger for another, as if today’s chaos had never happened.
Eleanor leaned her forehead against the windowpane. The glass was cool. The weight of everything settled on her, heavy as the sea. And in the space between one breath and the next, she made a silent vow: she would not be handed off again. Not without a choice.
No matter what Norman thought.