Chapter 16 #2
“That’s because you get on my nerves, my dear husband,” she replied with infuriating calm.
He glanced over his shoulder, a wicked curve at his mouth. “Careful, lass. Keep provoking me, and you’ll find out exactly what Highland men do with mouthy wives.”
Ramsay sat with one boot propped on the corner of the desk in his studio, a half-empty glass of scotch in his hand. He wasn’t drinking it so much as letting it sit, forgotten, while he reviewed the accounts for the south estate.
He was halfway through circling the number when Belson appeared. “Your Grace.”
Ramsay sighed and set the pencil down. “Well?”
The butler cleared his throat, eyes flicking briefly to the window. “The staff and I were pleasantly surprised to hear you’d be staying at Stormglen longer than expected, Your Grace. We’d assumed you’d return to Inverness immediately after the wedding.”
“My plans got delayed a bit, but I’m still heading to Scotland,” Ramsay said.
“And when do you plan to leave?”
“In three weeks.”
Belson nodded slowly. “And how often shall we expect Your Grace’s return?”
Ramsay gave him a look. “I’ll come when necessary.”
“Meaning rarely?”
“Meaning when necessary.”
Belson folded his hands behind his back. “And Her Grace?”
“She stays here.”
She had asked for faithfulness in London. Not warmth or affection. Just for him not to embarrass her. He’d said yes. Of course, he had; it had seemed the least he could do.
No lovers. She hadn’t even looked at him when she said it, just spoken in that even, careful way of hers, as if she was negotiating a contract.
He leaned back in the chair and rubbed a hand over his jaw.
The silence that followed wasn’t tense, but it wasn’t entirely comfortable either. Belson shifted his gaze to the window.
“If I may,” he said carefully, “Miss Penelope seems to be adjusting well.”
Ramsay’s brow lifted. “You think so?”
Belson went on, tone neutral. “Lady Penelope wasn’t seen in public while under her father’s care. I’m told she rarely left the nursery. No governess, no outings, certainly no ponies. She was… tucked away. As if she were a shame to be solved, rather than a child to be raised.”
Ramsay’s expression darkened. He’d been tucked away once too. Shipped off like a problem to be managed. Spoken about rather than spoken to. It hadn’t left him. Not really. And now, here was Penelope, silent and strange, her eyes too old for her face.
“She deserves better,” Ramsay said.
Belson inclined his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Ramsay leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly.
Eleanor had accused him of marrying her because he needed a mother for the child. And maybe that was part of it. But it wasn’t all of it. He’d told himself it was practical—cold-blooded necessity. But the truth was messier.
He’d watched her walk into that ballroom with her chin lifted and her name in tatters, and something in him had decided. She wasn’t a prize to be claimed. She was a flame.
And now, she thought he’d only wanted her for convenience. Well, of course, she did. He hadn’t said otherwise. He’d dragged her into this mess because of the bloody blackmail, because he was backed into a corner and hadn’t seen any other way out.
But she didn’t know the rest. Didn’t know he’d already made the decision long before the letters. Didn’t know how long he’d been watching. Didn’t know how much she unsettled him.
Ramsay cleared his throat. “Miss Penelope’s governess will remain on staff, but I’ll be overseeing her education myself from now on.”
Belson blinked. “Your Grace?”
“You heard me.”
“Very good, sir.”
Ramsay turned back toward the window.
It was raining now. The soft, persistent London sort. Thin and grey and constant, like a memory that wouldn’t let go.
“She’s a duchess,” Ramsay said at last. “She has everything she needs.”
Belson nodded. “And you believe that’s enough.”
“It should be.” Ramsay stared out into the garden. “She’s…” He exhaled through his nose. “She makes this place different.”
Belson waited.
“I don’t know what she expects. She asked for a month. She made rules. We both agreed. Now suddenly—” He broke off. “Now suddenly, I’m wondering if it’s enough.”
Belson studied him for a moment then said, very gently, “Your Grace, may I ask a question?”
“No.”
“I’ll ask anyway.”
Ramsay sighed.
“Do you believe she’ll wait for you?”
He turned from the window. “What kind of question is that?”
“A fair one.”
Ramsay’s voice dropped. “Do London ladies wait?”
Belson blinked. “That… depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether they’re happy. Or lonely. Or loved.”
Ramsay frowned. “That’s not an answer.”
Belson’s voice came soft. “No one wants to be left alone, Your Grace. Not really.”
So, she didn’t want to be alone. Good. He’d show her what that meant.
He’d fill her bed, her breath, her nights—leave no corner of her untouched, no inch of her unclaimed. She’d forget what it was to ache without relief. And maybe, if he took her hard enough, often enough, she’d stop trying to pull away.
Ramsay didn’t speak again for a long while.
Eventually, Belson excused himself, and the room fell back into quiet.
The fire crackled. The scotch sat unfinished on the desk.
And Ramsay, Duke of Stormglen—the Highland wolf, who had once made peace with solitude as if it were an old friend—found, for the first time in years, that the silence didn’t suit him at all.