Chapter 14
Fourteen
“Much better now,” Eleanor stood before the mirror, unmoving after pinning the last bead in her hair.
Her reflection stared back with familiar restraint—every curl pinned into place, every pearl where it ought to be.
But something in the woman behind the glass felt…
unanchored. She smoothed the collar of her morning gown for the fourth time.
It was soft blue muslin, demure and proper and utterly incapable of hiding the chaos beneath her skin.
Last night, she’d hardly slept. Not only because the sheets were unfamiliar or because the clock in the hall chimed every hour like a reprimand, but because she’d spent most of it waiting.
Waiting for footsteps. Waiting for a knock. Waiting to be told it was time to leave her borrowed sanctuary and return to the agreement she’d just broken.
But he never came.
Instead, she’d woken to find her gown laid out, her maid tight-lipped, and a note from the head maid letting her know that breakfast would be served in the small dining room. No mention of Ramsay. No mention of what last night had meant—or hadn’t.
She exhaled slowly, pressing her hands to the edge of the washstand.
So, he’d changed his mind about the room.
Good.
Or… she wasn’t sure it was relief she felt. And what about the rule? Has he changed his mind about having an heir too?
Her grandmother’s voice rang in her head: Study him. Observe him. Don’t try to win—just learn how he plays the game. Except Ramsay didn’t seem to play by any rules.
He was direct when she expected evasion. Distant when she braced for heat. Soft at the strangest moments, and then solid stone the next. He was a contradiction in human form—and Eleanor had no idea what he would do next.
That was the problem with marrying a man who didn’t belong to her world. She couldn’t guess which direction the storm would blow.
Gathering her composure, she squared her shoulders and stepped out of the room—down the corridor, past portraits of unfamiliar faces and carpets that muffled every step. A maid greeted her with a curtsey and led her to the breakfast room.
The door creaked open.
He was already there. Seated at the head of the table, dark coat fitted tight to his shoulders, a cup of tea held lightly in one hand. He looked up as she entered and didn’t rise. Just held her gaze with that unreadable steadiness that always made her want to do something foolish.
“Good morning,” she said, too quickly.
“Morning,” Ramsay replied.
She stepped inside, stomach knotted, and took the chair to his right. Not across the table—too distant—but not beside him either. She didn’t quite trust herself with that much proximity before eggs.
The footman poured her tea. She thanked him softly and adjusted her napkin like it was a weapon.
Ramsay set down his cup. “You’ll keep your own room.”
She looked up, startled. “Pardon?”
“From now on,” he said, voice even. “It’s yours. You don’t have to move.”
She hadn’t expected that. Not from him. Not after the way she’d walked out of his room with her chin up and her heart racing.
She’d braced herself for tension, for one of his clipped remarks or another reminder about the rule.
But this quiet gesture, this calm reversal of position, caught her completely off guard.
A beat passed.
She blinked. “Thank you.”
Her fingers curled around the cup. It was hot, but her hands were colder. She wanted to ask why. Did he sleep at all last night? Did he pace the floor and fume about her stubbornness, or did he sit with a drink in hand and think it through like this was all just politics and protocol?
But instead, she said, “I never meant to… exclude you.”
His brow lifted.
She went on, quietly, “I’ve lived here all my life. London has rules. Rules I was born memorizing. A duchess has her own chambers. It’s not about distance—it’s about… order.”
Ramsay tilted his head, like a wolf sniffing out something confusing. “So, I’m disorder.”
She flushed. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
She set down her cup a little too firmly. “You’re twisting my words.”
“I’m Scottish,” he said, as if it were the same thing.
Her jaw twitched. “Is everything a competition with you?”
“Only when I’m winning,” he replied and took another sip of coffee.
She stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“Deadly.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you married me,” he said, setting down his cup with a thud.
Her breath caught.
She hated how quick he was. How calm. How infuriatingly… attractive when he said things like that, his mouth just crooked enough to make her question if it was a threat or a promise.
“You don’t make it easy,” she said.
He leaned in slightly. “Do you want it easy?”
Her spine straightened. “I want it to make sense.”
He stood then, suddenly, and walked around the table. She turned in her chair, her napkin sliding to the floor, but neither of them moved to pick it up.
He stopped in front of her. Just close enough to steal the space between them.
“You want it to make sense,” he repeated, voice low.
She looked up at him, heart hammering against her ribs.
“Do you know where I slept last night?” she asked, quiet now.
“In a room full of perfume, meant to be mine, that I don’t recognize.
Dresses meant for me. I lay in a bed that didn’t feel mine, in a house that doesn’t feel like mine, married to a man I can’t predict.
And I didn’t sleep. Not for a minute. Because I didn’t know if I was supposed to stay where I was or go to you. I didn’t know where I belonged.”
The words hung in the air like heat.
Ramsay watched her for a long moment. Something in his face shifted, and it became softer, almost careful.
“Were you awake,” he murmured, “thinking about spending the night with me?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. That’s not what I—
He stepped closer. “You could’ve knocked.”
“You could have come,” she whispered against all judgement.
He gave a quiet laugh. “I didn’t think you wanted me to.”
“I don’t.” She stood now too. They were inches apart. “Not when you’re smug.”
He arched a brow. “So only when I’m apologetic and reverent.”
“Exactly.”
“Dangerous combination. Might make me obedient.”
“You?” She nearly laughed. “I’d like to see it.”
Their eyes locked, and something flickered. The tension between them tightened, pulled taut like a bowstring. Her breath shortened. His jaw flexed.
They weren’t touching, but she could feel the heat radiating between them like a storm on the verge of breaking.
He reached up, slowly, brushing one of her curls back from her face.
“There will always be room in my bed for you, lass,” he said, voice so low it scraped against her spine.
Her heart beat so loud she was sure he could hear it.
His hand was almost at her cheek now, his eyes darker than she remembered, the promise of something unspoken blooming in the air between them—
A knock at the door. They both froze.
A servant stepped inside. “Pardon, Your Graces. Miss Penelope is awake and waiting to meet you.”
Ramsay’s hand dropped. Eleanor stepped back, as if the spell had been broken. He looked at her once more—long, slow, unreadable—then turned to the servant.
“Well send her in.”
Penelope entered through the doorway, small fingers twisting the hem of her pinafore. Her dark curls were tangled at the ends, and one sock had begun to slip down her calf. She didn’t speak. Just looked. First at Ramsay, then at Eleanor. Wide eyes, solemn and searching.
Ramsay took a slow step forward. “There you are.”
The girl didn’t move. Her hands stopped fidgeting then clasped behind her back in a prim little pose Eleanor recognized instantly as defensiveness masquerading as decorum.
Eleanor forced her feet to move. She smoothed her skirts and walked toward the child, careful not to tower. She knelt once she reached her, smiling gently. “Good morning, Penelope.”
The girl blinked. “It’s not morning.”
“Well,” Eleanor said, tilting her head, “I suppose it’s just past breakfast. Shall we call it second morning?”
There was a pause.
Then, very faintly, Penelope said, “That’s not a real thing.”
Eleanor smiled wider. “No. But it sounds nicer than ‘nearly afternoon’.”
Ramsay gave a quiet huff behind them. Eleanor ignored it.
She held out a hand. “Would you like to show me your room?”
Penelope hesitated then glanced at Ramsay.
“She’s your duchess,” he said evenly. “Not a governess.”
“She’s not wearing a crown.”
Eleanor tried not to laugh.
“Most duchesses don’t,” she said. “Though perhaps I’ll commission one, just for you. Something made of daisies and ribbon. Would that do?”
Penelope studied her for another long moment then gave a tiny nod.
“Well then,” Eleanor said, rising. “Lead the way.”
She walked ahead with small, deliberate steps, pausing every few turns to glance back and make sure Eleanor followed. Her slippers barely made a sound on the polished floor, and Eleanor found herself adjusting her pace to match.
At last, they reached a painted door near the end of the nursery wing, its edge smudged with fingerprints and a faint trail of blue crayon. Penelope pushed it open with both hands, revealing the room inside.
The girl’s playroom was a warm, sunlit space tucked near the nursery wing, all soft rugs and overstuffed shelves and too many forgotten toys lying sideways on the floor.
Ramsay lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, looking like he’d stumbled into enemy territory.
Eleanor walked further in and crouched beside a wooden table covered in crayons and smudged paper.
Eleanor felt herself blushing under his tense look, but she wasn’t one to cave in without a fight.
“You draw?” she asked.
Penelope nodded. “Birds.”
“May I see?”
A little shuffle. The girl retrieved a drawing from the corner. It was rough—charcoal strokes, heavy on the wings—but clearly a bird. Or a phoenix if the dramatic plume was any indication.
“I like the feathers,” Eleanor said. “They look proud.”
Penelope beamed. “That one’s called Hesper. She’s from Greece.”
A pang struck Eleanor’s chest. She remembered Penelope’s story and how Greece had been her home. That attachment hadn’t faded.
“She’s lovely,” Eleanor said softly. “May I try to draw one too?”
The girl’s eyes lit up. “Yes. But you mustn’t get the beak wrong.”
“I shall endeavor not to disgrace myself.”
As she took her seat beside Penelope, Ramsay cleared his throat. “That’s enough. We’ve things to discuss.”
Eleanor didn’t look up. “She’s been waiting all morning.”
“And I’ve been planning her schedule.”
At that, Eleanor did look up, slowly. “Her schedule?”
Ramsay crossed the room in three strides, resting a hand on the edge of the table. “Riding lessons. With me.”
“She’s four.”
“So was I when I learned to ride.”
Eleanor blinked. “You cannot compare her to yourself.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s a young lady.”
“She’s my niece.”
Eleanor set down her crayon, approached Ramsay, and whispered, “You married me so she can have a mother.”
“She needs structure.”
“She needs kindness,” Eleanor snapped. “Which, I daresay, is not best conveyed with a riding crop.”
Penelope had gone quiet, watching them with wide, blinking eyes. Ramsay noticed and swore under his breath. “Fine,” he muttered. “Do as you please. Draw your birds.”
“Thank you,” Eleanor said crisply.
Penelope reached over and touched Eleanor’s sleeve. “Can we draw daisy crowns?”
“Of course,” Eleanor said. She glimpsed Ramsay’s unreadable look but ignored it. He turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.
Silence.
Then Penelope peeked up at her, and they both burst into giggles.
Eleanor leaned in, brushing a curl from the girl’s cheek. “Shall we draw those birds, then?”
Penelope nodded solemnly.