Chapter 5
Five
The collar was too stiff.
Ramsay tugged at it once, then again, fingers blunt and impatient as he turned from the mirror.
He looked nothing like himself. English tailoring never sat right on him, no matter how fine the cloth or straight the line.
The cut was too tight across his shoulders, too narrow in the sleeves, too damned ceremonial.
It made a man look as though he’d never swung a sword in his life.
And maybe that was the point.
They wanted to tame him. They wanted the Highland wolf in a velvet muzzle. Ramsay reached for his coat and shoved his arms into it, moving with the same gruff energy he gave everything, never mind that the fabric strained slightly over his back.
He moved to the hearth where a small fire licked quietly at the grate.
The morning was grey and sharp, the kind of London chill that didn’t so much sting as seep.
He watched the flames, jaw tight. The room was too quiet.
Too elegant. Even the silence in England felt different—less natural, somehow. More staged.
What was he doing here?
The Egertons.
Or more precisely: her. Eleanor.
The name sat like a stone in his chest. Every time he tried to reason his way past it, it rose again. Wide eyes. Wild hair. That impossible mouth. The sort of face that shouldn’t haunt a man after just one encounter, and yet she did.
He didn’t know what to do with that.
He hadn’t asked for her defense. And yet, when she’d stood there, trembling but brave, he had felt something ancient and uncomfortable stir in him.
So now, thanks to one damned moment on the upper deck, he was embroiled in some sort of scandal before his boots had even touched English soil.
He could have stayed quiet. Let the girl explain herself.
Let the brother do what older brothers do best—punch first, think later. Instead, he’d interfered.
He didn’t know why. And he didn’t like not knowing.
“You’ll wrinkle the cuffs, Your Grace.”
Ramsay turned to see Belson, his butler, standing in the doorway with a tray and that particular expression he always wore when pretending not to judge him.
“Let them wrinkle,” Ramsay muttered. “I didn’t ask for the damned starch.”
Belson entered, setting the tray on a side table with precise care. “Shirt starch is a science, Sir. And a tailored coat is not meant to be fought into.”
“I’ve never had help dressing before,” Ramsay said, brushing past him. “I won’t start now.”
Belson folded his hands. “Forgive me, but your title has changed. You are not simply Ramsay Brooking now. You are the Duke of Stormglen.”
“I was the Duke of Stormglen yesterday,” Ramsay replied, flat as stone. “And I dressed myself just fine then.”
“Indeed,” Belson said patiently. “And yesterday, you did not have an appointment with the Duke of Wharton and his entire menagerie of expectations.”
Ramsay said nothing. He poured himself a cup of tea from the tray and drank it scalding.
Belson cleared his throat delicately. “Might I suggest you take the carriage?”
“No.”
“It would be warmer.”
“I don’t mind the wind.”
“It would be faster.”
“I’m not in a hurry.”
“It would be considerably less conspicuous.”
Ramsay looked up at that, dark brows arching. “Do I strike you as a man who cares about being conspicuous?”
Belson allowed himself the faintest smile. “I was hoping you might begin.”
Ramsay drained the rest of his cup and set it down with a muted clink. “How is Penelope?”
Belson, to his credit, answered without missing a beat. “Restless. She hardly speaks. I’ve given her the upstairs library—it’s warmest—and she’s taken to drawing pictures of birds.”
“Birds?”
“Yes, sir. Owls and sparrows. Nothing terribly cheerful.”
Ramsay exhaled and stepped closer to the window, resting his hand against the cold pane as he stared out at the slate-colored sky. The clouds hung low, thick and oppressive. Rain, maybe. Or just the London sky being its usual mournful self. His reflection stared back at him, grim and sharp-edged.
“She needs more than this,” he said suddenly. “More than me. A woman’s presence. A proper home. Someone who won’t lose their temper every time she throws a fit over bloody ribbons or dolls.”
Belson, who had entered soundlessly with the day’s post, paused just inside the room. “Indeed, Your Grace.”
Ramsay didn’t turn. “George loved her. But he never brought her into the world. Kept her tucked away like some fragile heirloom he couldn’t bear to show off. As if hiding her made the rest of it less real.”
There was a beat of silence.
“She’s not a secret,” Ramsay said. “She’s a child. A stubborn, brilliant, impossible little girl.”
“Quite right,” Belson replied softly. “She trusts you, you know.”
That landed heavier than Ramsay expected. His mouth tightened. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
Trust. The one thing he’d never learned how to offer, let alone return.
He tugged on his gloves—harder than necessary.
“I’ll find someone,” he muttered. “Someone worthy. She deserves that much.”
Belson inclined his head. “Your brother would have agreed.”
Ramsay said nothing. His mind had drifted far north—Inverness, grey stone and colder stares, the sharp ache of being twelve and left behind. His grandmother had done what she could. But the rest… the rest had been his to claw through alone.
Let the English whisper that he was unrefined. He’d earned every inch of his title with blood and silence.
He adjusted his cuffs one last time and strode toward the door.
“Your mare is ready,” Belson called after him. “Though she’ll be offended if you ride her in that coat.”
Ramsay smirked without turning back. “She’ll survive. It’s a coat, not a declaration of war.”
He stepped into the corridor, only to pause after a few strides. The manor truly was quiet—too quiet for a house with a child in it. That was rarely a good sign.
He turned on his heel. Instead of heading to the stables, Ramsay made his way up the eastern staircase, his boots dull against the runner, hand grazing the polished banister out of habit.
He passed the tall windows lining the upper landing, each one muted by grey daylight.
The scent of lemon oil, paper, and something vaguely floral—lavender, maybe—grew stronger as he neared the library.
The door was ajar. Just enough to hint at rebellion.
He pushed it open and was greeted by chaos.
Books were strewn across the rug, pages askew as if the shelves had coughed them up.
A black ink blot spread across a tablecloth.
Several cushions had been stacked like a fortress in the corner.
Near the hearth stood the young governess, her cheeks blotched crimson, skirts askew, and one hairpin dangling from a loose curl near her ear.
“Your Grace,” she gasped, startled. She attempted a curtsy but nearly stumbled over a volume of moral instruction. “I—I wasn’t expecting—”
Ramsay surveyed the scene with a grimace. “I can see that.”
He stepped forward, avoiding a toppled ink bottle with practiced precision. “What happened?”
“She wouldn’t sit,” the governess said, wringing her hands. “We began with her letters, but she said she hated the alphabet. Then she poured the ink into the flower vase.”
He turned to look at Penelope. She sat with her legs tucked neatly beneath her, chin slightly lifted, and the faintest smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.
There was something shameless in her composure, almost theatrical.
As if she had watched the ink bloom in the vase like it was a science experiment then declared the results unsatisfactory and flung it with purpose.
When the governess scolded her, she responded with the slow, unbothered blink of a cat, unrepentant and unamused.
There was no tantrum, no tears—just an air of indifference, like a duchess observing the missteps of inferior company.
It wasn’t misbehavior, not really. It was a performance.
And she played the part with maddening precision, as though everyone else had failed to read their lines.
He arched a brow. “A creative compromise.”
“I asked her to stop,” the girl continued helplessly. “She threw the vase.”
Just then, a thud echoed from behind a stack of cushions. Ramsay glanced over his shoulder and caught the flick of a small foot disappearing behind the door.
“More diplomacy,” he muttered.
The governess, red-faced and thoroughly defeated, gestured helplessly. “She says she’s not talking to anyone unless it’s her bird drawings.”
Ramsay rubbed a hand across his jaw. “She’s four,” he said evenly. “She doesn’t get to negotiate terms.”
He strode past the girl, his legs eating the distance down the narrow corridor lined with portraits of long-dead Brookings. He stopped just outside the room and crouched low.
“Penelope.”
Nothing.
“Penelope.”
He tried the latch. It wasn’t locked.
The room was small and dim, lit only by the pale wash of winter morning leaking through a half-frosted window. She was curled up behind the long window seat, knees pulled tight to her chest, her dark curls tumbling over her face. She looked up, just barely.
There was ink on her fingers, smudged across the hem of her pinafore. Ramsay crouched down beside the bench, resting his forearm on one knee.
“I brought you something.”
Penelope didn’t move. Her small arms wrapped tighter around her legs. She was small for her age, but the defiance in her chin could have belonged to a queen.
He reached into his coat and drew out a small parcel. It was wrapped in brown paper, tied with rough string—neatly but plainly. He held it out without forcing it into her hands.
“I saw it in a shop window near the Strand. It reminded me of you.”
Still, she didn’t move.
“I thought you might like her.”
A long moment passed. Then, finally, Penelope reached out—slow, cautious—and tugged at the knot.
The string gave way with a snap. She peeled back the paper.
Inside was a doll. Porcelain. Hand-painted.
Pale face, golden hair, blue gown with puffed sleeves.
A ridiculous little bonnet sat askew on her painted curls.
Penelope frowned. “I hate her.”
Ramsay raised a brow. “Why?”
“She looks like she cries a lot.”
“I see.” He glanced at the doll. “Maybe she’s dramatic.”
“Maybe she’s spoiled,” Penelope muttered.
“Then she’ll fit right in.”
Penelope didn’t smile, but her grip on the doll loosened. She turned it over in her hands, inspecting its painted shoes, then set it gently on the floor.
“I want to go home.” Her voice was small now. Not angry. Not stubborn. Just honest.
Ramsay was silent for a beat. Then he said, “This is your home now.”
Penelope looked away.
Ramsay stood slowly. He didn’t like long goodbyes. He didn’t like rooms full of questions either, and Penelope’s eyes, when she let them meet his, always asked more than he could answer. He moved to the door then paused and looked back. Her feet were pressed flat against the woven rug.
“I’ll be back before supper,” he said quietly.
She didn’t answer.
He left the door slightly ajar as he stepped out, walking back into the corridor. The governess was waiting, flustered, smoothing her skirts.
“Will she come out?” she asked.
Ramsay gave her a steady look. “If she does, don’t assign her another copy exercise. Give her something to draw. And let her pick the subject.”
The girl blinked. “But she—”
“She’s not ready to be taught,” Ramsay said. “Not like that. Let her pretend she’s not learning until she is.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He nodded once then descended the staircase with measured steps, the sound of his boots echoing against the walls.
It was a long ride ahead. He didn’t care about the chill or the road. But Eleanor Egerton’s voice had already found its way into the back of his thoughts.
And Penelope’s last words followed close behind.