Chapter 11
Eleven
“Isaid leave it,” Ramsay growled, swatting the comb away like it had personally insulted him.
Belson, unshaken, stood behind him with the solemn patience of a priest preparing a particularly combative sinner for confession.
“Yes, Your Grace,” he said smoothly. And then, without missing a beat, reached right back in and tugged at another unruly knot. “However, Your Grace must also recall that it is customary for a man to look mildly presentable on his wedding day.”
Ramsay narrowed his eyes at the mirror. His hair was staging a full-scale rebellion. It always had. Wild, thick, obstinate—like the rest of him.
“It’s not presentable,” he muttered. “It’s dishonest. I’ll have her thinking I’m tame.”
The comb snagged again. Ramsay’s eye twitched.
This was torture. A Highland man shouldn’t be groomed. He should be thrown in a river, hacked at with a dull blade, and sent into battle half-dressed, if at all.
This… this was a French opera.
He muttered a curse in Gaelic under his breath, something particularly creative involving combs, vanity, and Belson’s ancestry.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Belson replied placidly. “Though I must remind Your Grace that I’m the only man in this house who knows how to tie a proper cravat. And you did promise not to frighten the clergy.”
“I made no such promise.”
“You grunted yesterday when I mentioned the bishop.”
“That was not agreement.”
“It was not disagreement, Your Grace.”
Ramsay slumped lower in the chair. “This is all madness.”
“Yes, Your Grace. But it’s madness with a guest list and florals.”
Ramsay exhaled through his nose and sat still—barely.
His reflection in the mirror looked back at him with the same scowl he’d worn since boyhood.
Broad shoulders crammed into a black formal coat.
Hair—tamed for now—pulled back and tied.
Collar stiff and white against his neck. The picture of a proper English duke.
He felt like a bloody impostor.
“You’ve the same hair as your brother,” Belson said suddenly, quieter now. “Thick, stubborn, defiant. Got it from your mother’s side.”
Ramsay’s fingers flexed against the arm of the chair. “George used to call it cursed. Said it refused to part for anyone.”
“Hmm.” Belson tilted his head, giving a final adjustment to the tie. “He used to say that like it was a bad thing.”
Ramsay met the old man’s eyes in the mirror. “It’s not?”
“Depends who you ask,” Belson said, stepping back. “But in my experience, a little defiance never hurt a man as long as he learns where to aim it.”
Ramsay gave a faint snort and stood. “Aim it at the girl?”
“I should hope not.” Belson handed him his coat.
Ramsay grunted. He wasn’t sure whether it was agreement or denial.
He shrugged into the coat. It fit too perfectly. And here he was—dressed like a proper gentleman, about to be married in a city he couldn’t stand, surrounded by people who thought Highlanders wore fur pelts and drank from skulls.
He reached for his signet ring, twisting it once around his finger. “Is Penelope ready?”
Belson hesitated. A bad sign.
“She’s been fussing all morning,” he admitted. “Locked herself in the nursery after breakfast. Refused her frock, threw her hairbrush across the room, and told her governess that weddings are for fairy tales.”
Ramsay grunted and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“She’s overwhelmed,” Belson offered. “Too many strangers. Too many rooms that don’t smell like Greece.”
“She’s had many days to adjust.”
“She’s four.”
Ramsay scowled.
I am not fit to raise this child… This is why I am getting married.
Eleanor.
The memory of her lips against his flickered like heat, soft and trembling and far too brief. He had meant it as a promise to her, but he’d felt the weight of it long after she turned away. He still did.
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and tried to shake the feeling away.
Ramsay glanced at the clock on the mantel. The ceremony was set to begin in an hour.
“Don’t force the child,” Ramsay said finally. “Not today. But she’ll come down tomorrow. After breakfast.”
Belson nodded. “I’ll let the governess know.”
Ramsay stood at the window, jaw tight. It didn’t feel like his life. It felt like a trap that he somehow chose.
His mind slipped north. To the steadiness of the Highlands.
To Inverness, with its sharp air and brutal clarity.
The kind of place where a man knew what things cost. Where nights didn’t demand conversation.
Where the horses didn’t give a damn whether your father had a title or your coat had buttons.
And then, unbidden, the memory of that letter surfaced. No seal. No signature. ‘I remember what you did in Inverness.’
The other reason I’m getting married…
He would wed her. In the eyes of the law, of society, of every whispering guest out there, she would be his duchess. And once that ring was on her finger—once she bore his name—there would be no more threats. No leverage.
Let them wag their tongues. Let them call her ruined and him a brute. He didn’t care. He’d carry her through that church if he had to. Because once this was done, the past would stay buried where it belonged.
Belson cleared his throat softly.
Ramsay turned. “You still here?”
“Always, Your Grace.”
Ramsay gave him a long, level look. “You planning to hold my hand in the carriage too?”
“Only if asked, Your Grace.”
A beat.
Then, very faintly, the corner of Ramsay’s mouth twitched. “Remind me to fire you.”
“I shall make a note, Your Grace.”
Ramsay squared his shoulders, rolled his neck once, and strode past the butler, out into the corridor.
His boots echoed against marble. The house was warm and perfumed, as if it had something to hide.
He passed portraits of ancestors he didn’t recognize and chandeliers that seemed designed to fall on unsuspecting Scots.
Ramsay stepped down from the carriage, adjusting his cuffs as he stared down at the ring on his little finger. Stormglen’s ring. His brother’s once. The weight of it never sat right, but it was his now. Like everything else. The land. The responsibility. The damn dukedom.
The church was white stone, flowers draped in neat arches over the entrance. Vines tied with pink ribbons. He nearly groaned aloud.
Inside, the nave was packed. The church gleamed with candlelight and ceremony. White flowers. Gold trim. Lace-draped pews.
Not a single familiar face.
The whispers began almost immediately.
That’s him.
The Scottish duke.
The one who punched the Earl of Gifford.
No, I heard she punched him.
Well, they both hit someone. It was all very violent.
He strode past them and took his place at the altar. Alone.
He stared straight ahead.
This was Eleanor’s world. Not his. Not even close.
These were her people, her flowers, her musicians. Her rules. The aunts avoided him like a particularly contagious rash. Even Norman, who was civil enough, watched him the way a man watches a hound he hasn’t quite decided to trust.
Ramsay clenched his jaw.
He didn’t want their trust. Or their approval. He just wanted to go back. Back to the cold hills of home, where people spoke plainly and expected nothing polished. Where no one tied ribbons on doors or wore shoes that clicked like clocks.
A hush fell over the church like snowfall, the doors at the end of the aisle swinging open.
And there she was.
Ramsay’s breath caught.
Eleanor was walking slowly. Alone. Like a flame moving through shadow.
Her gown clung to her waist and spilled into a long sweep of white that moved like water.
Her ash-blonde hair was caught half-up in soft curls, and the light made her skin look impossibly pale and warm at once. She wasn’t smiling. She didn’t need to.
She looked like something ancient and holy and alive.
Ramsay’s hands curled at his sides.
He’d seen her angry. He’d seen her clever. He’d seen her hold her chin high in rooms that tried to break her. But he had never seen her like this.
Not in this way, looking at him with that little flicker of nerves behind her eyes—as if he was the one who might run.
She walked slowly. Each step closer, and he forgot where he was. Forgot that the pews were packed with Egertons and their titled entourage. Forgot the smell of flowers and the absurd music and the fact that his neck still itched from that blasted cravat.
All he knew was the sway of her hips beneath silk, the column of her throat, the pink curve of her mouth…
For one month, she would share his bed. Sleep in his rooms. Breathe the same air. And when she kissed him again—if she touched him or whispered anything at all—he would not be gentle. Not this time.
He shifted, jaw tight.
He could do this. For one month. Maybe more. Maybe—
Maybe he didn’t want to think about after right now.
Her eyes met his. There it was again—that flicker. That tension in her posture, held so carefully in check. She was trying not to fidget. Her fingers gripped the bouquet too tightly. She was nervous.
And God help him, he found it entrancing.
He hadn’t expected that. But he felt it now, like heat gathering under his collar. That someone like her—controlled, calculating, perfectly sharp-edged—could walk toward him looking just a little uncertain. It undid him more than he liked to admit.
She stopped beside him. Her perfume reached him first—something soft and floral and sweet. She didn’t look up right away.
He leaned into her and murmured, “You look like sin in white.”
Her gaze snapped to his. “What?”
He shrugged, voice low. “Meant as a compliment.”
“I’m deciding whether to thank you or slap you.”
His smile turned wicked. “I’ve noticed the violent streak. I just thought you might restrain your wilder instincts inside a house of God.” A pause. Then, quieter, as heat spread through him, “Not that I’m complaining, but you might consider saving those impulses for tonight.”
Her eyes widened, a quick inhale betraying her shock or perhaps her interest.
The clergyman cleared his throat. Ramsay blinked, as if waking from a trance. They turned toward him together, and the ceremony began.
The words were formal—sanctity of marriage, honor and obedience, forsaking all others—heavy with tradition, echoing against the stone walls like judgment.
Ramsay barely heard them. He was too busy watching her. Eleanor stood still beside him, spine straight, bouquet clasped in both hands like something sacred. She wasn’t trembling, but tension radiated off her in careful, controlled waves, the kind a person only learned from years of being watched.
The way her lashes dipped as she repeated her vows. The way her lips parted around each word. She was steady. She didn’t tremble. But he saw the pulse at her throat beat a little faster.
He repeated his own vows in turn, voice gruff but clear, and when the ring slid onto her finger, it felt like anchoring something that had always been drifting. When she looked up at him again, calm and steady beneath the weight of it all, it felt like surrender.
The priest gave the final blessing. “You may kiss the bride.”
Ramsay didn’t hesitate.
He leaned in and kissed her slowly. Like a man who intended to do it again, properly, when no one was watching. Her lips were warm. Her fingers brushed the side of his coat. And for the first time all morning, he felt still.
The church erupted in applause. A few cheers. Somewhere in the back, someone actually sniffled.
Ramsay didn’t care. He looked down at his wife.
“Ready?” he murmured.
She gave him a look—half smile, half warning. “For the walk or the part after?”
He felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “Both.”