Chapter 12
Twelve
The applause still rang in her ears, long after the church doors had closed.
Eleanor moved as if underwater, the air thick with petals and perfume and congratulations she couldn’t quite absorb.
People smiled at her—strangers who’d once whispered behind fans and turned their backs.
Now they beamed, delighted to witness her return to grace, as if ruin could be rewritten with flowers and white silk.
She nodded at them all. She smiled. She let Ramsay lead her toward the gardens where the wedding celebration had been set, aware of the strength in the arm guiding her. Her thoughts betrayed her, drifting back to that night he’d kissed her; slow, possessive, unforgettable.
She had wanted him to hold her tighter then, to press her closer until the strange hunger inside her was quenched.
Stop it, Eleanor. Focus.
“Is this…” She hesitated, still blinking at the silver flatware and three-tiered cake crowned in sugar violets. “Did you arrange this?”
Ramsay’s arm flexed under her hand as he guided her to their table. “Aye.”
She stared. “You planned a party?”
Her tone was light, nearly teasing, but she couldn’t quite hide her disbelief. Ramsay didn’t strike her as a man who knew the difference between a boutonnière and a breakfast plate—let alone one who arranged guest lists and flower towers.
The very idea of him poring over menus and seating charts made something flutter beneath her ribs.
She thought he’d want this day over with.
She thought he’d show up, take the vows, and be done.
But now he was standing beside her in the sunlight, jaw square, expression unreadable, having done something… thoughtful.
“For the wedding,” he said.
The simplicity of it caught her off guard.
No flourish. No defensiveness. Just a statement of fact, like it had been obvious all along.
Her gaze swept the garden—the delicate climbing vines, the blush-colored linens, the lace tents that billowed like sails.
It hadn’t been obvious. Not even a little.
“With swans sculpted from pastry,” she added, half under her breath.
He gave a grunt that might have been amusement. “I told the cook to make it memorable.”
She glanced up at him, struck silent for a moment. There was no softness in his tone, no obvious sweetness. But there was something careful behind the words. Had he done this for her?
She looked away, pretending to study the champagne tower. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I did,” he said. “I want them to see it’s done. That there’s no scandal left to whisper about.”
Eleanor froze, her chest tightening. She pressed her palms together, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up her neck. It meant nothing. It was just the church. The stares. The weight of the wedding.
Not him. Certainly not his voice. Or the fact that when he looked at her like that, she felt—
She straightened her spine and fixed her gaze ahead, willing her face cool again.
Her gaze drifted across the terrace. Pale dresses fluttered like sails.
Ladies sipped from porcelain cups, their voices pitched just high enough to be overheard.
Some of them had dined with her mother not long ago.
Some had looked her in the eye when they called her ruined.
And now, they offered toasts and admired her gown as if the last few months had simply not happened.
“They’ll whisper anyway,” she murmured, and she wasn’t even sure if she meant to say it aloud.
“Let them,” he replied. “But not about you.”
Something snagged in her chest. Her breath caught in surprise. She’d grown used to men who acted out of obligation. Who offered protection with caveats. Who chose her because they had to, not because they wanted to make a point of it.
But Ramsay wasn’t like them. He didn’t dress his intentions in charm or lace. He said what he meant, and what he meant, in this moment, was that she mattered more than the noise.
It was not a romantic line. It was not gentle. But it was… something. And it steadied something in her that had been drifting all morning.
The musicians struck up another reel, cheerful and forgettable. Couples swirled in blurred pastels across the floor, but Ramsay didn’t glance at any of them.
He looked at her.
“Come,” he said simply, voice low and rough with intent. “Dance with me, lass.”
Eleanor blinked, caught off guard. “Now?”
“Unless you’re planning to run,” he smirked.
“I might,” she said coolly, raising a brow, “if you keep calling me lass.”
His mouth twitched in amusement. “That’s what I thought.”
Before she could protest, he took her hand gently but with the surety of a man who never second-guessed a decision. As if the choice had already been made and she was only now being informed.
His palm was warm. Firm. Her fingers curled instinctively into his, even as her pulse jumped. The contact wasn’t improper—he hadn’t pulled her flush against him, hadn’t whispered something wicked in her ear—yet every nerve in her body lit up as if he had.
She let him guide her to the edge of the dancers. Her steps were stiff at first, shoulders tight with awareness. The crowd hadn’t vanished. Dozens of eyes were still watching. But then—
His other hand slid to the small of her back. The warmth of it, the weight, the quiet possessiveness.
Her breath caught. She forgot the wedding. Forgot the ton and their looks, the flowers and champagne and forced laughter.
“You’re flushed,” Ramsay murmured, lips grazing the shell of her ear as they turned. “What have you been thinking about, Duchess?”
She narrowed her eyes, even as her cheeks burned hotter. “Not you.”
“Liar,” he said softly.
She pulled back just enough to glare, but the look lacked conviction, and they both knew it. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Of course, I am.” His teeth flashed, wolfish. “You’re too proud to admit you like being touched.”
Her breath hitched.
The way he said it—like being touched—sent a bolt of memory straight through her. The kiss. The way he’d held her jaw, the feel of his mouth on hers, firm and careful and utterly devastating.
She couldn’t think. Her skin felt too tight, her stays too restrictive. Her legs moved on their own, matching his rhythm, but inside, she was a mess of heat and confusion.
“Do all Scots treat their wives this way?” she asked, arching a brow to cover the way her voice had gone slightly breathless.
Ramsay spun her then, one hand never leaving her waist, and caught her as she returned, pulling her closer than before.
“You don’t even know the half of it.”
The reel ended. The musicians paused, but he didn’t let go. His hand lingered at her side, thumb brushing the silk of her gown, just beneath her ribs.
His voice dipped. “D’you know what the Scots call a marriage?”
She swallowed hard, barely able to nod. “What?”
He didn’t speak right away. His eyes moved over her face, unhurried and intent, then down to her mouth. His thumb slid lower, grazing her hip, dangerously close to indecency.
“Two hands clasped before God,” he said finally. “No priest. No papers. Just a promise—and a bed.”
Her stomach tightened. She should have said something. Pulled away. But she stood there, heat pooling low in her abdomen, mind racing in directions no proper wife should allow on her wedding day—especially not with her husband smirking at her like that.
Ramsay gave her a little twirl before pulling her back again. “There’s a tradition,” he said, almost casually. “In the older villages. It’s dying out now, unfortunately.”
“And that is?” Eleanor asked, trying—and failing—to sound unaffected.
“After the ceremony,” he said, “the guests would walk the bride and groom to the marriage bed. Everyone would crowd in—old women offering advice, young men cheering. Some threw coins. A priest stood near the foot of the bed.”
She stared at him, scandalized. “Why?”
“To make sure the marriage was… consummated,” Ramsay said evenly. “Properly.”
Eleanor froze mid-step, horror chasing down her spine. He swayed with her, steady, amused.
“You can’t be serious,” she whispered.
He turned to her with a perfectly serious expression. “I sent word home. They’ll arrive by sunset.”
Her mouth dropped open.
Then—
His lip curled, just slightly. “Jesting.”
A laugh escaped her, half-relief, half-outrage. She shoved his arm, palm pressed against solid muscle. His low chuckle rumbled in his chest—and she felt it in hers.
She looked up at him. He was still smiling. Not mocking. Not smug. Just that maddening, devastating calm that made her want to strangle him and kiss him in equal measure.
And God help her, they still had the night ahead.
And for the first time since the kiss, since the vows, since the dizzying descent into celebration—Eleanor felt something shift. A flicker of something simpler, dangerously close to joy.
The last of the guests were beginning to drift from the terrace, murmuring their goodbyes between slices of cake and lukewarm tea.
Eleanor’s gown whispered against the floor as she stepped away from the head table, her limbs light with champagne and something else—something like delight, if she let herself name it.
She turned too quickly.
“Ah, Your Grace,” came a voice, high and bright as sugar left too long in the sun.
Eleanor turned and walked directly into the path of Lady Berle, her towering, feathered hat bobbing like a swan mid-drowning. Three other women flanked her, all in silks more expensive than sense, smiles stretched tight enough to crack.
“So lovely to see you enjoying yourself,” the Viscountess said, peering at her over her fan. “It’s rather inspiring, isn’t it, the way love rises from… ash?”
There it was. Eleanor kept her expression pleasant though her stomach dipped. “How poetic of you.”
“Oh, not my words,” Lady Berle tittered. “Everyone’s been saying it. Really, quite the story. A ruined girl, a rogue duke… It’s practically a novel.”