Chapter 16
Sixteen
It had been precisely eighteen minutes and a half.
Ramsay knew this because he’d glanced at the clock—twice—and because Penelope, seated three feet away from him in a tiny chair that made his knees creak in protest, had yet to say a word.
She was painting. Or rather, she was dabbing a fine brush into a pot of purple, lifting it mid-air with great care, and letting the color drip back down again, over and over, without so much as touching the paper.
He remembered watching Eleanor and Penelope paint together the other day. He’d envied how easily the got along.
The lass looked like she was made for this life.
He felt a small sting that his own niece hadn’t warmed to him yet. Not that it mattered. Penelope had been nothing but difficult from the start. But then, seeing her smile at Eleanor instead of throwing things or tearing through the rooms, he had to admit, maybe the child wasn’t so bad after all.
Eleanor.
That lass would be the death of him. But now was not the time or place for these thoughts.
He cleared his throat.
Penelope’s hand stilled for half a breath then resumed its ritual.
“Did you know,” Ramsay began, tone conversational as he shifted in the too-small chair and tried not to knock over the basket of buttons beside him, “that in the Ottoman Empire, purple dye was so valuable it could only be worn by royalty?”
Silence. She blinked slowly. Not at him. At the paint.
Ramsay forged ahead. “They called it ‘tyrian purple.’ Sourced from sea snails. Smelled like rot, I hear, but terribly impressive once dried. Your… princess bird from yesterday might’ve liked it.”
Nothing. Not a twitch of interest, not even a sideways glance.
He pressed his palms to his knees and leaned forward. “I’ve wrestled goats in the mountains of Scotland, you know.”
Penelope blinked.
“That’s true,” he added with mild defensiveness. “Wild ones. Quite terrifying. Excellent balance, no manners at all.”
Still nothing.
He had known, of course, that bonding with children was not his strong suit. He had always assumed he would be the sort of uncle who tossed coins into hands and vanished behind newspapers.
And he was trying with Penelope, but God help him, it was difficult when she stared through him like a particularly persistent ghost.
He tried again. “Do you like horses?”
“No,” she said without missing a beat. Then she dipped her brush into the purple and slowly, agonizingly, touched it to the very edge of the page.
Ramsay sat back, exhaling through his nose. “Why?”
Penelope did not reply.
Right. So. Not inclined to horses. Not inclined to history. Not inclined to goats nor to him.
He ran a hand through his hair, vaguely aware he was getting paint on his temple. “You know,” he muttered, half to himself, “I was considered rather charming in Scotland.”
Penelope gave him a long look then went back to her painting.
Ramsay rubbed at his jaw. He was getting the distinct impression he was being studied and dismissed in the same breath.
The door creaked open behind him.
He stood almost immediately. “Eleanor.”
Her eyes moved from him to Penelope then back again, taking in the small, defeated hunch of his shoulders and the purple streak on her face. “How long have you been trying?”
“An eternity,” he said gravely.
Penelope made a small sound, too quiet to be a laugh, too loud to be an accident.
Eleanor crossed the room, her smile patient. “May I?”
The girl nodded.
Eleanor crouched beside her, lowering herself onto the rug without complaint, skirts spreading around her like a calm sea.
Ramsay watched the way Penelope leaned toward her almost at once, how her hand stopped shaking when Eleanor touched her wrist. He tried not to let it wound him, but it did.
“You’re painting Melpomene again?” Eleanor asked gently.
“She needs new wings,” Penelope murmured. “She fell.”
“Fell?” Ramsay echoed, keeping his voice soft. “Is she all right?”
The girl’s brush paused mid-air. Her fingers curled tightly around the handle.
“She was… riding. And then she wasn’t. She hit her head.”
Ramsay stilled. Eleanor met his eyes.
Eleanor stood and walked over, kneeling beside Penelope with practiced ease. “Sweetheart,” she said softly, “do you not like horses?”
Penelope’s brush stilled.
She didn’t look up, but she said, voice very small, “They’re too big.”
Eleanor glanced over her shoulder at Ramsay.
His jaw flexed. He stepped forward and crouched beside them, bracing one hand on his knee. “Did something happen?”
Penelope shrugged. “I fell.”
Eleanor’s expression softened. “Were you hurt?”
Penelope gave the tiniest nod.
“Was this in Greece?” Ramsay asked.
Another nod.
He exhaled, slow and quiet. The room suddenly felt smaller. “A big horse?”
“Too big,” she whispered.
Ramsay nodded. “Aye. That’ll do it.”
There was a pause, and he suddenly knew the right thing to do.
Then he stood, dusted off his hands, and said, “Only one way to fix that.”
Penelope looked up.
Eleanor blinked. “Ramsay—?”
He was already heading for the door. “She doesn’t trust them. So we start small.”
Eleanor frowned. “Small how?”
He looked over his shoulder. “You’ll see.”
Eleanor extended her hand to Penelope, who hesitated for only a second before taking it. The sight made something snag unexpectedly in Ramsay’s chest. He turned back around before either of them noticed.
They stepped outside together, Penelope keeping a tight grip on Eleanor’s fingers, shoes crunching against the gravel path as they made their way around the side of the stables. The early sun sat low over the paddock, casting long shadows and gilding the tops of the grass in gold.
“She doesn’t have to touch it,” Ramsay muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Just look. That’s all. Looking’s an achievement.”
Eleanor gave him a sideways glance. “You seem nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” he said. “I just prefer my failures indoors.”
At the far end of the paddock stood the pony.
Ramsay had led her out earlier that morning and tied her to the low post beneath the chestnut tree, just beyond the gate. He’d gotten her a week before the wedding for Penelope but hadn’t had the chance to show her, and now, it was the perfect—or worst—moment to.
She was nibbling indifferently at a hay net, the picture of unbothered calm, her round belly rising and falling like a bakery on legs.
Penelope halted.
Ramsay saw it—the full-body pause, her shoulders stiffening, her fingers clenching tight around Eleanor’s.
The girl did not speak, but her feet anchored to the ground.
Eleanor bent slightly. “Oh, she’s very small,” she murmured.
“She won’t come near us,” Ramsay added. “She’s offended we interrupted her breakfast.”
Penelope’s eyes flicked toward the pony. Then to Ramsay. Then quickly back down to the grass.
“She won’t throw you,” he said. “You could sneeze, and she’d fall over before you would.”
“I don’t want to ride her,” Penelope whispered.
“You won’t,” Eleanor said gently. “We’re just visiting.”
A long silence.
Then Penelope gave a slow, reluctant nod and took another step forward.
Another.
Ramsay stayed where he was, arms folded, letting them approach first. Penelope stopped just short of the fence. The pony flicked an ear.
“What’s her name?” Penelope asked, barely above a breath.
“She doesn’t have one,” Ramsay said. “Not yet.”
The girl blinked up at him.
“You get to choose.”
She looked back at the pony. The animal gave a slow huff and finally turned her head, snuffling toward the gate with all the energy of an aging duchess summoned to court.
Penelope’s eyes widened. “She’s… fat.”
“She’s well-fed,” Ramsay corrected.
The girl’s lips twitched. “She looks like a muffin.”
Ramsay blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“A muffin,” she said, more certain now. “A big one. With a fluffy top.”
He gave her a look. “Muffin? You want to call her Muffin?”
Penelope nodded, this time without hesitation.
Eleanor looked as though she were swallowing a laugh.
Ramsay grunted. “Right. Of course. That’s… fearsome.”
Muffin—a ridiculous name, truly—was about as intimidating as a loaf of bread. Ramsay brushed her mane, muttering apologies for what was about to be asked of her.
The pony took another indifferent step forward and lowered her nose toward the girl’s outstretched hand.
Penelope froze. Then—very slowly—she reached up and touched the velvety muzzle. A sharp, audible breath left her lungs.
“She’s soft,” she whispered.
“She likes you,” Eleanor said warmly.
“No,” Ramsay murmured. “She likes hay. And not being bothered. But you might be tolerable to her.”
Penelope gave him a look that was half glare, half wonder. Her hand stayed where it was, buried now in the pony’s mane. The animal huffed again and leaned into her touch.
“She’s really mine?” Penelope asked.
Ramsay shifted. “Well. She’s not going anywhere.”
Penelope turned her head and beamed—beamed—at Eleanor.
Eleanor smiled back and leaned in to whisper, “Why don’t you stay with her a while? Let her get used to you.”
The child nodded gravely.
Eleanor stepped back, brushing her hands together and turned to him. “She’ll be talking to that pony all afternoon,” she said softly. “You’ve done something good.”
Ramsay looked at her then, the way the sun caught in her hair. Her face was soft, open in a way he hadn’t seen in days.
And just like that, Ramsay’s lungs forgot how to work.
He cleared his throat. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” Eleanor asked, all innocence.
“Like you want me to kiss you.”
She huffed. “Please. You are insufferably full of yourself.”
He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “Go on, then. Pretend you’re not thinking about it.”
Eleanor lifted her chin. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he murmured, brushing past her shoulder, “you keep blushing in my presence.”
She turned, flustered. “That is not—”
“You think I don’t notice the way your breath quickens when I’m near?” he asked, eyes dark. “The way your chest rises… then falls… just a little faster?”