Chapter 6
Six
“The Duke of Wharton will be with you shortly, Your Grace,” the young footman said, bowing low with the solemnity of a priest delivering a benediction.
Ramsay gave a short nod, withholding comment. The boy scurried off, boots whispering against the marble floor.
It was one of many things that grated on him about London: the endless dawdling, the politeness, that masked pettiness, the suffocating choreography of it all.
Every interaction had a script, and every gesture a lineage.
He stood now in the entry hall of Wharton Manor, back straight, hands clasped loosely behind him, taking in the cold splendor that surrounded him.
Polished wood gleamed in the morning light.
Gilded mirrors lined the walls, multiplying the image of a man who did not belong.
Ancestral portraits gazed down from above, eyes flat and knowing.
Everything reeked of wealth so old, it had forgotten what purpose it once served.
Brocade curtains hung in perfect stillness like guards at attention.
Ramsay hated waiting.
He paced slowly, boots silent on the thick carpet.
The room was cold despite the fire crackling behind the marble grate.
Ornate sconces flickered against the green silk wallpaper, casting a flattering glow on the long-dead Egertons staring down from their frames.
He imagined generations of them whispering disapproval.
What was a Highland brute doing in their civilized halls?
He didn’t particularly care.
He’d come to settle this mess. To stare down the brother. To make it clear that no one threw punches or accusations without cause. To show the lass—
No.
To speak with her. That was all.
The silence settled deeper, pressing against his ribs. Ramsay turned toward the hearth again, idly studying the grotesquely carved mantelpiece, when the whisper of footsteps broke the quiet.
Ramsay looked up.
Eleanor.
She crossed the threshold like she’d been thrown forward by the force of her own resolve. Her hair was neatly pinned, but a single tendril had come loose and danced at her temple. She wore a simple dress in soft blue, the hem whispering along the marble as she moved.
She looked nothing like the women who always flinched when he entered a room. There was something steel-bright about her. Unpolished. Intentional.
She didn’t smile. She merely dipped her head in polite greeting. “I don’t have long.”
Ramsay inclined his head but said nothing. He watched her cross the room. There was purpose in every step, but her hands betrayed her, curling briefly in the folds of her skirts before releasing them.
“I wanted to thank you,” she said, her voice quiet. “For what you did yesterday. You didn’t have to.”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”
She looked toward the corridor behind her then back at him. “You could have let it unfold as it would. You didn’t owe me anything. And now you’re… well… inconvenienced.”
Ramsay stepped forward. Slowly. “I’m capable of deciding for myself what is an inconvenience. And this,” he said, eyes steady on hers, “is not it.”
Her lips parted slightly. He could see the faint color rise to her cheeks.
Before she could protest, he took her hand. Gently, but without asking, he brought it to his lips. Not rushed. Not exaggerated. Just a quiet defiance of every rule she’d been raised to follow.
His lips brushed the skin above her knuckles, warm and unhurried.
Then he looked at her. Her breath hitched.
Ramsay felt it like a pulse under his skin.
That sound—the soft, startled catch in her throat—struck him low and hot, straight to the gut.
God help him, he liked it. Too much. He liked the way she stilled, the flush creeping up her throat, the way she held herself like she might bolt but hadn’t yet.
It made him feel powerful and reckless all at once.
She didn’t pull her hand away. That was the part that undid him.
She didn’t pull away.
And that small, damning truth made his entire body burn.
“You shouldn’t…” she murmured.
“But I did,” he said.
She pulled her hand back with practiced grace though he saw the tremor at her wrist. She dipped a curtsy. “I should return to my room.”
She turned, gathering her skirts.
“Why the rush?” Ramsay asked, his voice stopping her. “Isn’t this your home?”
She turned halfway, her posture careful. “It isn’t proper to speak with a man unchaperoned—whether I’m at home or not.”
He gave a low chuckle. “We’ve already been pressed against each other twice, lass. I know your curves better than propriety would like.”
She stiffened, scandalized. “A gentleman would never say that.”
Ramsay found that amusing. Her horror, so delicately painted, did little to mask the spark in her eyes.
She was affronted, yes, but she wasn’t retreating.
And the contrast between her pristine posture and the fire he’d seen in her fists just yesterday made his mouth twitch with something dangerously close to a grin.
“Aye,” he said, stepping closer. “And the last time I saw you, you sent a man flying to the floor. Let’s not pretend either of us is overly concerned with decorum.”
She looked at him—really looked. Her brow furrowed. “That man…”
“Who was he?”
She hesitated. Then, “He is the Earl of Gifford. Until yesterday, there was an expectation that I would marry him.”
Ramsay stopped, blinking. “You?” There was a beat of stunned silence.
No, there was no way. He had seen the man—spineless, clumsy, and arrogant in all the wrong ways—and he had seen her—strong, clear-eyed, more flame than porcelain. The idea of her tethered to a man like him felt not only wrong but insulting. He almost laughed, except nothing about it felt funny.
“Yes.”
“That soft-bellied worm?”
Her spine went rigid. “He was considered a noble man and—”
Ramsay chuckled. “‘Considered’? By whom exactly? I don’t know what kind of criteria you use here, but you were meant to marry him?”
He scoffed under his breath. “And they call the Highlands backward.”
She looked away. Her lips pressed together, white at the edges. “I wouldn’t expect a man whose first instinct is to throw himself into a fight to understand how society’s rules work—”
“Oh, those precious rules you’re breaking just to bat words with me?” Ramsay stepped a little closer, voice deliberately amused. “Remind me, was it a charging bull you called me when we first met? Not very ladylike, now, was it, lass?”
Eleanor’s eyes snapped back to him, glaring thunder. “Sometimes, a woman ought to reflect the treatment she’s given.”
He stepped forward again. One step. Two.
Each one slow, deliberate, with the kind of tension that settled low and heavy in his spine.
There was no way—no damned way—she had once been promised to a man like Gifford.
The thought of her tethered to such a creature soured his mouth.
It was absurd. Offensive. He hadn’t even meant to move, but something in him refused to let the distance stand.
“I’ve figured you out,” he said.
She didn’t blink. “I doubt that.”
“You play the part well,” Ramsay continued. “Dutiful daughter. Obedient sister. Quiet. The good one. But I saw your face when you punched that man. I heard your voice when you stood between me and your brother. That wasn’t obedience.”
“What you saw was a moment of anger,” she said, but even as she spoke, he could see the flush rising in her neck, the way her hands fidgeted at her sides.
Her words were steady, but her delivery wasn’t.
It had the awkward edge of someone trying to downplay something she didn’t fully understand herself. ”
“I saw clarity.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it again.
He moved closer. The air between them changed. Warmer. Tighter.
“You crave more,” he said, low and certain. “More than balls and polite conversation. You want something real. Adventure. Passion. Freedom.”
She took a half-step back but not far. Her eyes stayed locked on his.
“You don’t know me,” she whispered.
“I know enough.”
He moved his arm behind her—not touching her but bracing his palm against the wall behind her head. He leaned in, not close enough to be improper but enough that she could feel the strength of him, the heat.
Eleanor didn’t flinch. She was breathing fast now, but her gaze never broke.
“You know I am right,” he said.
She swallowed. “Even if you were right, what does that have to do with you?”
The tension snapped taut between them, silent but roaring. She didn’t run. Didn’t protest. And Ramsay didn’t press forward. He held still. He let the truth sit between them, unspoken but undeniable.
Then—footsteps.
Soft but distinct. Coming from the west corridor.
Eleanor blinked, as if waking from a spell. She turned her head slightly, listening. Ramsay dropped his arm and stepped back. He couldn’t give her any more trouble.
Her hand fluttered to her skirts. She took a steadying breath, but just as she was about to leave, a voice rang from the corridor.
“Well, this is a scene.”
The Duke’s wife.
Ramsay straightened slightly as the woman strolled into the room, eyes narrowed with theatrical delight. She was dressed in cream and rose, a confection of ruffles and ribbons, but her gaze was all sharp edges. The kind of girl who wore softness as armor and sarcasm as a blade.
She gave Eleanor a knowing look then turned to Ramsay. “The Duke of Stormglen, I presume?”
“Indeed,” Ramsay said. His voice was even, but his posture remained watchful.
Her Grace’s gaze slid to Eleanor again. “You’ll forgive me if I interrupt. It seems I’m only ever invited to the aftermath.”
Eleanor recovered quickly though the pink in her cheeks lingered. “You’re early.”
The Duchess raised a brow. “And you’re flushed.”
Ramsay watched, amused, as Eleanor tried to retort until footsteps echoed down the corridor. The tempo was purposeful, echoing against marble. The Duke of Wharton entered first, shoulders squared, followed by another man Ramsay recognized at once.