Chapter 6 #2
Gifford. The Earl’s expression twisted the moment he saw Ramsay.
“This is a farce,” he announced, his voice pitched to command the room. “It is unacceptable to value the word of a woman—and a Scot—over mine.”
Ramsay turned slowly, his gaze cool. “And yet, here we are.”
Gifford’s lips curled. “You may have fooled her and her brother, but I will not forget such disrespectful treatment.”
“No,” Ramsay said. “You strike me as the sort who nurses a grudge because he can’t hold his own.”
Gifford flushed crimson. “You’ll regret—”
“Enough,” Norman said sharply. His tone was quiet but edged with steel. “Lord Gifford, you’re excused. You forget who Eleanor’s brother is. This is your reminder.”
The Earl blinked. “Excused?”
Norman met his gaze without flinching. “You are no longer welcome here.”
Gifford turned to Eleanor, clearly expecting intervention. She didn’t look at him. Her silence struck harder than any words. He muttered something incoherent, spun on his heel, and stalked out of the room.
The silence he left behind was heavier than any argument.
Norman turned back to Ramsay. “I owe you an apology.”
Ramsay’s brow arched. “Do you?”
“Yes.” Norman extended his hand. “For yesterday. And for my assumptions.”
Ramsay took the offered hand. His grip was firm, steady but brief—just enough to acknowledge the apology without granting more intimacy than was warranted. There was no warmth in the gesture, only resolve. He wanted the Duke to feel the weight of it, the boundary clearly drawn.
“We’d be honored if you joined us for dinner,” Norman said.
Ramsay inclined his head. “Gladly.”
The dining room at Wharton Manor was a portrait of inherited perfection.
Everything—down to the candlesticks—was polished, symmetrical, and terrifyingly precise.
The long table groaned beneath the weight of silver and porcelain, and the chandelier overhead glittered coldly, like it disapproved of conversation altogether.
Ramsay took his seat beside Kitty. Eleanor was directly across from him, and his features lit in shifting gold by the flickering candlelight.
She had chosen the seat on purpose—curious, intent on learning more—but the moment their eyes met, she almost wished she hadn’t.
The closeness, the quiet scrutiny, the sheer presence of him…
it was too much. Too immediate. Too real.
She kept her eyes down, pretending not to notice the strong way he looked at her. She folded her hands in her lap and did not touch her wine.
Formal introductions were exchanged again, the barbs dulled but not gone. The first course arrived. Silver clinked faintly against porcelain.
Norman lifted his glass. “We’ve not heard much of your family, Your Grace. You have a brother, yes?”
“I had,” Ramsay said. “He passed last winter.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Kitty said softly. Her voice had lost its usual lightness.
Ramsay inclined his head. “Thank you. He wasn’t much for titles, but he was a good man. Better than I ever was.”
“And that made you Duke,” Norman said.
“Aye. Not something I asked for, but I don’t ignore duty.”
A pause.
Eleanor’s fingers tightened slightly around the stem of her glass.
There was something in his tone—flat, heavy—that lodged itself in her chest. She hadn’t expected him to speak of duty with such weight or such finality.
He was a brute, yes, but there was something under it. Something proud. Wounded, perhaps.
Eleanor raised her glass, and across its rim, she looked at him. “Forgive the question, but… how were you brothers with the late Duke of Stormglen? I thought you were Scottish.”
His knife paused mid-slice. His eyes locked onto hers, and instantly, she regretted asking.
Still, he answered.
“Our mother was Scottish,” he said, his voice lowered. “After she passed, my father sent me away to the Highlands to be raised by my grandmother… He decided keeping my brother—the heir—here was enough.”
She felt the words strike deep. Even Norman had no reply.
Softly, she asked, “You stayed?”
“I’ve business here first. Private matters. Then we’ll see.”
Her eyes dropped. She didn’t know why she felt… something. Sympathy? No. Not for a man like him. And yet, the image of him on the ship—trying to calm down a trembling little girl, voice low and firm as he faced down chaos—rose unbidden in her mind.
He hadn’t coddled Penelope, but he hadn’t looked away either. There had been a strange sort of steadiness in him. Not fatherly, not warm. But present. Solid.
She cleared her throat softly. “How’s Penelope? Did she find her doll?”
Ramsay’s expression soured, the line of his mouth tightening. “No. Not yet. She’s… her usual self.”
Kitty turned her head toward him. “Penelope. She’s your ward?”
Ramsay shifted. “Not legally. But she’s under my protection. I don’t plan to abandon her.”
Eleanor looked up again. Something about the way he said it made her throat tighten.
“That’s admirable,” Norman said. “A child needs stability.”
“I’ve seen what happens to girls without it,” Ramsay said. “And I’ve seen the sort of men who benefit from their ruin.”
The words landed like a stone on the table. No one spoke.
Then Norman cleared his throat. “About Lord Gifford—”
Eleanor’s back stiffened. Her napkin crumpled between her fingers.
“The ton won’t forget what happened. And my sister… well. She’ll be at their mercy.”
He can’t be serious.
Kitty turned, sharp-eyed. “Norman.”
“I was in a similar position last year,” he went on, eyes fixed ahead. “Kitty was tied to a scandal. A man with no decency. I did what was required.”
“You married her,” Ramsay said. His voice was flat, but Eleanor caught the subtle weight beneath it.
“Yes.”
Her skin went cold.
Her voice came out strained. “Surely you don’t mean—”
Norman turned to Ramsay. “I’m saying we must consider every solution.”
Her pulse spiked. For a breath, she couldn’t move—couldn’t think past the heat climbing up her neck. Every solution? The words rang in her ears, cold and calculated.
She rose slightly from her chair, her pulse pounding. “You cannot be serious. This dinner—was it meant to trap him into a proposal?”
Kitty reached beneath the table, but Eleanor pulled her hand back, heart thundering in her ears.
“No one said—” Norman began.
“I’m still here,” Ramsay said.
His voice was quiet, and yet it cut through the room like steel.
Eleanor froze.
Ramsay stood, unhurried, controlled.
“Where I was raised, we value directness. We don’t corner men like livestock—or trade women like livestock either.” His eyes moved across the table—from Norman to Eleanor. She couldn’t look away. “If your concern is reputation, say so plainly. But don’t dress up ambition as virtue.”
“Your Grace…” Norman started, but his voice lacked its usual weight.
“I came here in good faith,” Ramsay said. “I’ve already had more than enough of being treated like a solution to someone else’s problem. I won’t be used to fix another man’s mistake. I don’t care for schemes. Or for silence passed off as consent.”
He looked at her—really looked at her—and she felt her breath catch. Her cheeks burned, but she didn’t look away.
“I’m leaving for Scotland soon.”
He bowed first to Kitty then to her. Not just polite. Sincere.
To Norman, he gave only a nod.
Then he turned and walked out, his footsteps unhurried, his back impossibly straight.
No one followed.
And not a single voice dared to stop him.
He’s leaving soon…