Chapter 9
Nine
Eleanor could not speak.
The words hung between them, charged and impossible, suspended like dust in lamplight. She stared at him, her mouth parted, but no sound came. Every breath she took felt like it scraped against something sharp.
He had asked her to marry him.
Not gently. Not romantically. Not with any pretension of flowers or poetry. Not as a rescue, either.
But with all the blunt finality of a man who had made up his mind. Who had chosen her, not because she was perfect but because she was necessary. Because she was, in his eyes, the only one.
She didn’t believe it.
No—there was no way. Not when women prettier, gentler, more docile had been raised for this role their entire lives. Not when her name was already half-wrecked, her reputation clinging to shreds. Why would a man like him, fierce and silent and powerful, want her?
The scandal-ridden sister of a duke, bruised and cornered and barely breathing in a room full of wolves. What could she possibly offer that he couldn’t buy tenfold in the next ballroom?
She swallowed. “You can’t mean it.”
Ramsay didn’t blink. “I never say things I don’t mean.”
Eleanor stepped back, barely a pace, but the air between them cooled. Her hands found the edge of the chair again. She gripped it. “But why me?”
A beat passed. Then another.
“You could marry anyone,” she said, more breath than voice. “You’re a duke. Women with perfect reputations would throw themselves at your feet for the chance. You don’t need me.”
His expression didn’t change. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
Her brows drew together. “Is this about the scandal? You’re using it, aren’t you? Turning my ruin into your opportunity.”
That landed like a slap.
Ramsay’s jaw tensed. His hands flexed once at his sides. Then he stepped forward, slowly, until the space between them thinned like a drawn breath. “I’m proposing to you,” he said, “because ever since I inherited the title, you are the only woman I’ve met who might be able to handle Penelope.”
Eleanor stilled.
“And believe me,” he continued, lower now, his voice sliding beneath her skin like velvet over steel, “I’ve met many.”
There was something in his tone. Something dangerous. Something… reverent.
You are the only one.
It bloomed in her chest before she could stop it. Deep. Warm. A dangerous, traitorous bloom that made her knees feel unsteady and her thoughts scatter like startled birds.
There was no reason for it. None. And yet, the certainty in his voice, the steadiness of his eyes, made her wonder if perhaps she hadn’t been wrong about everything. Maybe this man, for reasons she still couldn’t begin to name, had truly chosen her.
A pause followed. Heavy as velvet.
Eleanor forced herself to breathe. “You need me.”
He said nothing. Only looked at her. Which was answer enough.
She lifted her chin. “Is this to be one of those cold arrangements then? A marriage of convenience?”
Something flickered in his eyes. Not offense. Not quite.
“If you expect us to play happy family in London,” Ramsay said, “you’ll be disappointed. I hate this place. The rules. The eyes. I intend to spend as little time here as possible.”
“And Penelope?”
“Needs a home, a mother. Not a ballroom.”
Eleanor looked away. Her heart galloped. The fire behind her cracked, as if answering the pressure building in her chest.
She knew what he was offering. And what he wasn’t.
Still, she spoke. “If I say yes… I want to set some terms.”
His brow rose, but he nodded once. “Go on.”
She steadied her voice. “First, you will not take me away from London. Not for good. Not without discussion. My family is here.”
“Fair.”
“Second,” she continued, “you will not humiliate me in front of the ton. I won’t be one of those women whispered about because her husband keeps a mistress.”
His eyes darkened. Something old and furious passed across his features. “I don’t keep women in London.”
“Good,” she said, lifting her chin. “Then this won’t be an issue.”
A pause. Then she added, voice quiet but unshaking, “Third. For the first month of our marriage… we will act as husband and wife. Publicly. Privately. We’ll get to know one another.”
Ramsay tilted his head. “So you would have us begin with terms. A probation of sorts.”
“I want a beginning,” she corrected. “Not a transaction.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. But it wasn’t amusement. It was something far more dangerous. Something that sent a flicker of heat from her chest to her throat.
“Fine,” he said. “But one rule of my own.”
She met his gaze. The heat in her face made her feel both braver and more exposed than she liked.
“During that month,” he said slowly, “we fulfill all our duties.”
Her throat tightened. “What duties?”
He stepped closer again. Near enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the faint rise and fall of his chest, the tension coiled in his shoulders.
The space between them all but vanished, breath and pulse tangled in the quiet. She felt it in her stomach, in the prickling air between their bodies. Not a touch, yet, but it hovered like something inevitable.
“All,” he said, “of them.”
The fire hissed behind her. Her back straightened instinctively. She understood exactly what he meant.
And the worst part—the part that made her want to scream and laugh and curl into herself—was that her body didn’t recoil. It warmed. Deeply. Shamefully.
She looked at him, heart hammering.
“That’s bold of you,” she whispered.
Ramsay didn’t flinch. In fact, her words seemed to please him. Slowly, he stepped even closer, and this time, Eleanor’s back found the wall as she staggered backwards.
The cool paneling met her spine as heat surged through her. They were touching now. His chest skimmed hers with every breath. Her skirts brushed his legs. And his hands, braced on either side of her face, caged her without cruelty but completely.
The world outside the room dimmed. The laughter and violins, the rustling silk and murmurs of judgment, all fell away. There was only the silence, taut and electric, and the two of them in it.
“You understand what I mean,” he murmured.
She could smell him—warm skin and leather, the faint tang of salt and something darker. There was heat to it, male and elemental, a scent that had clung to him since the ship and now wrapped around her like a second skin. She had never known a man to smell like that. Like sin.
He tilted his head, voice dark and dry. “We are to share a bed, Eleanor. Produce an heir. That is what marriage entails in case no one has told you.”
Her breath caught. Her throat tightened, words momentarily lodged there, but then she found herself again. She shoved her hands firmly against his chest, halting his approach. “I understood the first time.”
He smiled then, but there was no warmth in it. Only danger, sharp as a blade and just as thrilling. It was the kind of smile that warned and promised all at once.
“There it is,” he said. “That spirit of yours. That sharp little tongue. That’s what I like best about you.”
Her pulse roared in her ears. She felt his nearness like a tide. It wasn’t just heat. It was gravity. Her hands slowly sliding down and away from his chest.
Still, she held his gaze. And then, with a breath that felt like breaking glass, she extended her hand between them.
“We have a deal.”
He took her hand but didn’t shake it. Instead, he turned it palm up and traced the edge of it with his thumb, as if he meant to memorize the lines. Her knees nearly buckled. Her breath shivered.
“A deal,” he echoed. “Then let me give you your first lesson as a half-Scot’s future duchess. Leave the stiff English sentiments behind. You won’t need them where we’re going.”
“Is that so?” she murmured, trying to sound flippant. But her voice betrayed her, just slightly. There was breathlessness in it.
“You’ve already begun,” he said. “Look at you. Letting me close. Speaking your terms. Taking mine.”
She tried to break the spell. She had to, or it would swallow her whole.
“Is that all?” she asked, chin lifting.
Ramsay’s eyes glittered, a darker gleam now.
“After our first month, I’m no longer bound to remain in London.”
That did it.
Her brows arched. “What man leaves his wife to manage his house and ward alone?”
He didn’t answer with words.
His hand moved to her face. Fingers firm, he tilted her chin upward. Not roughly but with that same commanding steadiness that ran through everything he did. His gaze fell to her mouth then lingered.
“I’ll show you what a man can do,” he said.
And then he kissed her.
It was not tentative. It was not polite. It was not patient.
It was fierce.
It was a claim, a question and an answer all at once. His mouth met hers with raw intent, with possession veiled in silk and fire. She felt it like a jolt. Like her own breath turning traitor. Her body stilled then ignited.
It was devastating.
His mouth claimed hers with a hunger that startled her—as if he’d been waiting for this, starving for this. She gasped, and he took the sound like an invitation, deepening the kiss. His hand moved to her waist, drawing her flush against him. Heat exploded in her body.
She had never been kissed. Not like this. Never touched like this. Never wanted like this. And if she had been asked to describe it, she would have failed. His lips were rough, insistent. His body was solid against hers, every inch of him reminding her just how real this was.
It was ruin.
It was surrender.
And she never wanted it to stop.
He kissed like a man who didn’t believe in second chances. Like a man who had chosen this, chosen her, and meant to claim what he had decided was his.
His fingers slid into the loose edge of her sleeve. Not far. Not improper. Just enough to set her skin on fire.
Her hand fisted in his coat. Not to push him away. To anchor herself. To hold on.
When he pulled back, it wasn’t far. Their breath mingled in the space between them. Her lips tingled. Her body trembled, but she didn’t move.
“Still think I chose you for convenience?” he said, voice hoarse.