Chapter 13
Thirteen
Ramsay pushed open the front door, letting Eleanor step through first. He hadn’t carefully planned for this part. Not really.
He’d handled the vows. He’d endured the pastries. He’d told off every powdered parasite in London with practiced calm. But now she was in his house, walking across his marble floors, and he was standing behind her like some daft farmhand about to offer a tour of the cowshed.
He watched her look around and could still feel the ghost of her skin against his palm.
Still taste her from the kiss they hadn’t spoken of.
It was the way he hadn’t touched her all day, the restraint it took.
The way his hand had hovered, just an inch from her waist when she leaned in, flushing pink beneath her veil.
She probably thought he was being noble. That he was offering space. Being respectful. But truthfully, it had taken everything in him not to shove those swans off the table, drag her onto his lap, and show the entire room precisely what kind of man she’d married.
Not a gentleman or a saint. Just a man—starving for her.
And now, she was here in his house. His gaze drifted to her neck, where a single curl had loosened from its pins. He wanted to press his mouth there. Slide his hands into that ridiculous white gown. Let her see what she’d done to him.
Instead, he cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said. “This is your home now.”
She turned slightly, lips parted as if to reply, but she didn’t. Her eyes wandered over the chandelier, the twin staircases, the polished banisters like white spines curling upward.
He didn’t know what to say next. Welcome? Do you want a biscuit?
He just turned and started walking, hoping she’d follow so they could get this damned tour over with.
He’d never had a wife before. Definitely never had to host one. He’d had women in his home, yes—but they came in through side doors, and they didn’t stay long enough to redecorate.
Belson appeared in the corridor, tall and gaunt with the air of a man who had survived a great many household dramas and was unimpressed by all of them.
“Your Grace,” the butler said, bowing to Ramsay then to Eleanor. “And Your Grace.”
“This is Belson,” Ramsay said, gesturing between them. “He manages the household when I’m not glaring at it.”
Belson didn’t flinch. “An honor, Your Grace,” he said to Eleanor.
She gave a polite nod. “Thank you, Mr. Belson.”
Ramsay cleared his throat. “I’ll show you around.”
He hadn’t meant for it to sound like an order. Or like an afterthought. But her brow lifted slightly, and he felt that familiar itch crawl down the back of his neck—the one that said you’re not built for this.
He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and started walking, motioning for her to follow. She did, her skirts brushing softly against the stone, her steps too light to echo.
“Kitchen’s downstairs. Gardens are through there. Library has got more dust than books—unless you like sea journals and bad Gaelic poetry.”
She gave a soft laugh behind him. It made something tighten low in his back.
He glanced over his shoulder. “You’ll get used to it.”
“This house?”
“This life.”
It wasn’t meant to sound ominous, but it did. Everything he said sounded like a threat when he wasn’t careful.
He stopped in front of a dark oak door at the end of the hallway. His rooms. The only part of this house that still felt like his.
He opened the door and stepped aside. She moved past him into the chamber. The fire had been lit. Someone had turned down the sheets. There was a vase of flowers on the windowsill—something pink and hopeful that he was fairly certain had not been his idea.
He shut the door behind them, and that was it. They were alone. Finally.
She turned to him, hands folding in front of her gown. Her expression was calm. Polite. Much too composed for someone who’d just married a man like him. He took a step closer. His fingers twitched. The line of her neck was exposed just enough to make him forget his name.
She spoke before he could reach her. “When will I see Penelope?”
The words landed like cold water.
Ramsay blinked. “What?”
“Your niece,” she said gently. “You said she was here.”
He cleared his throat, the heat in his blood turning to stone. “The governess put her to bed at her usual time. You’ll meet her tomorrow.”
She nodded once. “Of course.”
Silence followed.
Ramsay gestured toward the chamber. “You can have your things brought here. You’ll want to settle in.”
She tilted her head. “Settle in?”
“In here,” he clarified. “This is our room.”
She blinked. “You mean… tonight?”
He stared at her. “Aye. We’re married.”
There was a pause. She looked at the bed then back at him, something tightening behind her eyes.
“I assumed,” she said carefully, “that I would be given my own chambers.”
Ramsay felt a spark ignite somewhere in his gut. “Why would you assume that?”
“Because,” she said, her voice crisp now, “that is what’s done. A duke and duchess have their own rooms. Whether or not they… share a bed at night, separate chambers are customary.”
Ramsay frowned. “That’s idiotic.”
“Excuse me?”
He stepped forward. “We’re married. We share a life. We share a house. What possible reason would there be for separate rooms?”
She folded her arms. “Privacy.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “We’ve had precious little of that since we met.”
She bristled. “That doesn’t mean I don’t value it.”
He stared at her. The tension in his body, coiled all afternoon, surged to the surface. Not anger exactly. Just a gnawing pressure that wanted release.
“You remember the rule,” he said quietly.
Her jaw tightened. “Yes.”
“Then you’ll stay here.”
“And if I refuse?”
He took a long breath. His voice was calm when he spoke. “I’m not forcing you to do anything. But this is my house. My room. And you’re my wife. You won’t be tiptoed around like a guest.”
She stared at him for a long moment, color high in her cheeks.
He expected her to argue. To shout. To do that cutting thing with her voice that always made him feel like a country boy with mud on his boots.
Instead, she turned on her heel.
“I’ll speak with the head maid,” she said, voice clipped, “to see that my things are brought up.”
He nodded once, wary.
But she didn’t stop. She walked to the door, opened it, and stepped into the corridor without another word. The door clicked shut behind her.
Ramsay stood alone in the flickering firelight.
He stared at the door. It just… shut. As if the conversation hadn’t rattled anything at all. As if she hadn’t just walked out of the room where he’d half-expected they’d finally touch each other like husband and wife.
Ramsay rolled his shoulders, the tension biting deep into his spine.
One month, he reminded himself. One month of this arrangement, and then—
Then what?
He rubbed the back of his neck. The fire crackled behind him, too warm, too loud. The room felt strangely still without her in it. As if the air had pulled tight in her absence.
He had not expected gratitude. Nor immediate surrender.
But he had imagined something simpler. A quiet understanding.
They were married. The bed was wide enough.
He had seen the way she looked at him sometimes when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.
She’d kissed him. She’d said yes. She’d worn his ring and his name.
And now, she wanted to set up camp in some room like a guest.
This is too confusing.
He muttered something sharp under his breath then crossed the room, yanked the bell rope with more force than necessary, and waited.
A few minutes later, the door creaked open. The head maid stepped in—a tall, tight-laced woman with silver streaks in her hair and an expression that suggested she feared God and no one else.
“Your Grace,” she said with a curtsy. “You rang?”
“Aye,” Ramsay said, crossing his arms. “I need your opinion.”
That startled her. Just slightly. Her spine didn’t move, but one brow twitched upward. “On what, Your Grace?”
He gestured to the door. “My wife just left this chamber. She talked about separate rooms.”
The maid did not blink. “I see.”
“Do you?” he asked, irritation edging into his voice.
The woman hesitated, hands folded neatly in front of her apron. “It’s customary, Your Grace, for a lady to have her own chambers.”
Ramsay narrowed his eyes. “Customary where?”
“In England,” she said. “Among titled households.”
“Ah,” Ramsay muttered. “This again.”
The maid tilted her head, trying—but not succeeding—to hide her smile.
He paced once across the hearth rug. “You’re telling me it’s tradition for a man and wife to sleep in separate rooms?”
“Often, yes. Especially in the early days of marriage.”
“Early days,” he repeated. “So the wedding’s done, the name’s changed, the contracts signed, but heaven forbid we share a pillow?”
“It allows the lady comfort and autonomy, Your Grace. It’s not a rejection. Simply a… formality.”
Ramsay gave a low, skeptical sound. “Formality is a disease in this city.”
“Some say it is also the only thing that keeps it from collapsing.”
He scowled. She didn’t flinch.
“She won’t be more comfortable across the hall,” he said. “She’ll just be more alone.”
The maid’s expression softened, just slightly. “You are the master of this house, Your Grace. I shall see to it that the Duchess settles here.”
He let out a breath. “You don’t need do.”
Ramsay ran a hand down his face and muttered, “Clean up the late Duchess’ damn chambers. Let her have those.”
“I’ll arrange it at once, Your Grace.”
He paused as she moved toward the door. “And tell her, I’ll see her at breakfast.”
The maid dipped into another curtsy. “Of course.”
Then she was gone. The door closed again. Another quiet exit.
Ramsay stood alone in the room. Again.
He looked at the bed. Empty. Perfectly made. Mocking him.
This wasn’t going to be easy. He had not been expecting easy, but he had at least expected possible.
A month, he reminded himself.
One month.
And he was already losing sleep.