Chapter 17
Seventeen
It had been two weeks since the wedding.
Eleanor sat before the mirror, brushing out her hair with long, even strokes. Forty-three of them to be exact. She had not meant to count, and yet her hand kept moving, and the number kept rising, and somehow, the brush felt like the only thing anchoring her to the room.
To the strange quiet of it. The too-still air.
Her bedroom was beautiful. Tastefully furnished, large enough to host a small assembly with a four-poster bed that felt far too grand for one person.
The curtains were lavender. The hearth was marble.
Her slippers were warming by the fire, and the scent of orange blossom clung faintly to her nightgown.
And still, she felt slightly absurd.
Married. Installed. Not quite spoken for and not quite free. She had moved through the day like a woman performing someone else’s role—smiling at the steward, nodding politely to the cook, asking Penelope about her drawing as if she had always belonged here.
But she hadn’t. Not really. And Ramsay—
She shook her head and set the brush down.
What was she supposed to make of him? There was nothing clear about what he wanted.
Nothing tethered. One moment he was speaking gently to Penelope, the next he was glaring at a biscuit as though it had insulted his honor.
He barely looked at Eleanor across the breakfast table—except when he did. And then he looked too much.
She stood and crossed the room, tugging the ribbons at her waist loose. Her nightgown slipped over her shoulders like a sigh. She was halfway through unpinning her hair when a knock came.
“Come in,” she said without thinking, assuming it was Margaret with the lavender water.
The door opened.
And Ramsay stepped in.
Eleanor froze, hair falling in a silken curtain around her face, hands still half-raised.
He paused in the doorway, one brow lifted in faint amusement. “I must say,” he murmured, “I hadn’t expected to be greeted quite so intimately.”
Her stomach dropped.
She turned sharply and reached for the robe draped over the bedpost, tying it with slightly more aggression than was necessary. “What are you doing here?”
He shut the door behind him. “Curiosity.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He glanced around the room as if taking inventory of her furniture. “I wanted to see, in person, the room that keeps you so far from me every night.”
She gaped at him. “You make it sound like a prison.”
“On the contrary,” he said mildly, “I rather think you enjoy it.”
Eleanor pressed a hand to her temple. “Ramsay, if you’ve come to quarrel, I should like to reschedule.”
“I haven’t come to quarrel.” He took a step closer, boots silent against the carpet. “I’ve come to thank you, actually.”
That, somehow, startled her more.
He continued, tone almost offhand. “Penelope’s been markedly less terrifying since your arrival.”
“She was never terrifying,” Eleanor said, folding her arms. “She’s grieving.”
“Grieving with scissors,” he muttered. “But yes.”
There was a pause. The fire cracked. Somewhere, a clock chimed the half-hour.
Eleanor could feel the air shift between them. Something taut and humming beneath the silence. She cleared her throat. “Is that all?”
He looked at her then. His gaze slid over her robe, her bare feet, the hair still falling loose down her back. And for one unbearable moment, he did not blink.
Her mouth went dry as he stepped closer. The air changed—thicker somehow, like velvet soaked in heat.
She took an involuntary step back, the hem of her robe catching against her ankle.
“Careful,” he said, voice low, almost amused. “You’re in retreat.”
“I’m being sensible,” she replied though her voice betrayed her—quieter, breathier than she meant it to be.
“You’re in your nightgown.”
“Because it’s night.”
Another step. Close enough that she could see the gold flecked in his eyes. Close enough to feel his presence like static against her skin.
“And I’m your husband.”
“Which I’ve not forgotten,” she murmured. “Though you do an admirable job of reminding me.”
His hand hovered near her elbow, not touching but close enough that it made her spine ache with anticipation. That maddening closeness—intimate and unspent.
“You never seem quite prepared for me, Eleanor.”
Her throat tightened. She tried to speak, failed.
He smelled of cedar and whisky and something colder underneath, something northern, something she couldn’t name.
And suddenly she hated him—hated him for standing so still, for looking at her like that, for making her want something she hadn’t asked for.
Something she didn’t dare reach for.
“I never know what version of you is going to walk through the door.”
“And which version is this?”
She hated that her voice went soft. Hated more that her heart fluttered, stupid and traitorous in her chest. “I don’t know yet.”
He was close enough now to kiss her. And for one suspended beat, she was certain he would. The air between them was steeped in unspoken things. She could feel the heat of him, like a question her body already knew the answer to.
He lifted a hand, slowly brushing a loose curl from her cheek. His fingers trailed just barely along her jaw.
“You must get cold,” he murmured. “In this bed. Alone. Night after night.”
Her breath caught.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I could fix that.”
“Ramsay—”
“I could keep you warm. Every inch of you.” His voice was low, rough velvet. “You wouldn’t be alone. Not once. Not ever.”
His hand slid to the back of her neck. She didn’t move. She thought he would finally kiss her.
And he might have—would have—if she hadn’t spoken.
“What happens,” she asked quietly, “after our weeks are up?”
The question hung in the air like smoke.
His expression didn’t change. “I return to Scotland.”
“Alone?”
He paused. A long, slow pause.
She waited because she wanted—needed—to hear it. To be chosen. To be invited. To be told she wasn’t just part of the furniture he was leaving behind.
“You’re the one who said you belonged in London,” he said with a shrug. “Wasn’t that one of your terms?”
Her chest tightened—sharp, hot, humiliating. Like the sting that comes just before tears.
She looked at him then. Just his eyes. And what she saw there wasn’t malice. It wasn’t cruelty.
It was distance. And that, somehow, hurt worse.
“I see,” she said after a long moment.
He didn’t answer.
So, she pushed further. “And how often should we expect you here in London?”
“Whenever necessary.”
“That’s vague.”
He sighed. “A few times a year. The dukedom—”
She heard enough.
“Yes, yes. The dukedom needs you.” Her voice was sharp now, brittle. “And what of your duchess?”
Ramsay’s jaw tensed.
Eleanor forced a smile. “Will I receive a note before your arrival, or shall I wake one morning to find my husband lurking in the corridor?”
He blinked. “Lurking?”
“You’re very good at it.”
“I don’t lurk.”
She turned from him, fists clenched at her sides. “You made a bargain, Ramsay. You gave me a month. I haven’t asked for much, and I’ve done everything asked of me. I’ve tried. With Penelope, I mean…”
Eleanor bit her tongue. There was one specific rule she hadn’t yet obeyed. And yet, Ramsay didn’t mention it—not now and not in a while. Even though he could.
He didn’t move.
“And if you’re going to disappear,” she said, her voice shaking, “then the least you can do is say it.”
She knew she was being unreasonable. The bargain had always been clear. He owed her nothing after that one month. So why was she standing here, picking a fight?
He looked at her for a long, still moment. Then finally, he said, “We’re expected together at the auction tomorrow, lass.”
She let out a breathless laugh. “Right. Of course. The auction.”
He turned to leave.
“Ramsay.”
He paused in the doorway.
But no words came.
If it’s so easy for him to abandon London, abandon Penelope—abandon me—then it should be easy enough for me to ignore him until then.
“I shall see you tomorrow, Your Grace,” she said evenly.
His mouth twitched. “I look forward to it, Duchess.”
And then he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him.
And Eleanor was left standing in the firelight, heart racing, breath uneven, robe tangled at her waist like an accusation.
She was already standing by the carriage when he arrived.
Ramsay slowed as he crossed the gravel, one hand adjusting his gloves.
Eleanor wore lavender today— her pelisse buttoned high at the neck, sleeves fitted tight at the wrist, not an inch of frivolity to her.
Her hair was swept up neatly, but a curl had come loose against her cheek.
It moved with the wind, soft and defiant.
She didn’t look at him as he approached. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. He should have expected as much.
“Good afternoon,” he said evenly.
Her chin lifted half an inch. “Is it?”
Ramsay smirked and climbed in first. “It will be.”
She followed in silence, and they sat facing forward as the carriage rolled into motion.
A few long, unbroken moments passed before he finally said, “I’ve been thinking.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“I’ve decided,” he went on, ignoring the jab, “to take a more active role in Penelope’s education while I’m still in London.”
She turned to him at once. “You’ve decided.”
“Yes.”
“And when, precisely, did you become qualified to—?”
“She’s my niece, Eleanor.”
“And she’s been doing very well under my care.”
“She’ll do even better with both of us.”
She stared at him, lips parted, clearly trying to form a protest elegant enough to hurl across the leather seat. He beat her to it.
“I’ll speak with her tutors this week. Begin sitting in on lessons.”
“That is unfair.”
He tilted his head. “Unfair?”
“You can’t just—change the rules midway through.”
Ramsay blinked. “Why ever not?”
“Because—” She floundered, visibly irritated, visibly flushed. “Because it’s destabilizing.”
He turned in his seat to face her fully, thigh brushing hers. “And what exactly is wrong with destabilizing you?”
Her eyes flashed. She shifted but not away. “I find predictability comforting.”
He leaned forward, voice lower now, rough around the edges. “Liar.”
“I beg your pardon—”
“Comforting?” he scoffed. “You, who married a Scotsman, crossed a continent, and punched a man in the face before tea?”
Her shoulders went stiff, the faintest tremble at her collarbone. He saw it—felt it—and it made something coil low in his gut.
“That does not sound like a woman who values comfort.”
Eleanor’s lips parted. Her breath hitched just enough to make his pulse jump.
He leaned closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. “What happened to her?”
“She’s still here,” she said, but it came out faint. Almost ashamed.
He studied her for a long moment. Her lashes trembled. Her jaw clenched like she was trying to hold something in.
“Then why are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Coward.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You absolute—!”
“You heard me,” he said and couldn’t contain a smirk.
“That,” she said tightly, “was me trying to keep things from spiraling out of ordinary.”
“Would me kissing you be out of the ordinary?”
She froze. Entirely. Her back pressed lightly to the seat, lips still parted in the shape of a protest—but no sound followed. Her gaze dropped, first to his mouth then lower, like she couldn’t stop herself. When she looked back up, her pupils had darkened.
Her breathing had changed. Shallower. Faster. Her robe shifted just slightly at the chest.
“This is a carriage,” she said, but her voice was soft now. Almost helpless.
“Yes,” he murmured.
“We are en route to a public event.”
“Yes.”
His gaze dropped to her throat, to the place where her pulse fluttered. He tilted his head, watching her like a storm about to break. Like a man who had waited long enough.
“You cannot just—do that—now.”
He tilted his head. Watched her like a storm about to break. He could taste her breath now. Could see every tremble she tried to suppress.
He wanted to push her back against the seat, press his weight into her, and feel how soft she was under all that pride. He wanted to pull the dress aside and leave his mouth on every inch of skin she pretended not to know he noticed.
“I said, would you stop me?”
And before she could answer, he kissed her.
It was not soft. It was not careful.
It was every sleepless night, every argument, every stolen glance pressed into one desperate, shattering instant. His mouth caught hers with the force of something long denied, and the sound that escaped her was small, breathless—shock and surrender intertwined.
Her hand went to his chest instinctively, meaning to push, but his heartbeat thundered beneath her palm and her fingers stayed there, caught between resistance and need.
He deepened the kiss, and she met him—God, she met him—her other hand clutching the lapel of his coat, pulling him closer as if she could make sense of the madness that had just overtaken them. The carriage rocked with the uneven rhythm of the road, and every sway pressed her closer still.
He drew back just enough to look at her, their foreheads nearly touching. His breath came rough. “Say no,” he murmured. “Say it, and I’ll stop.”
Her chest rose and fell too fast. “Don’t you dare,” she whispered.
That was all it took. His restraint snapped like thread.
He kissed her again, deeper this time—slow, consuming. The world outside vanished. Her fingers slid up, tangling in his hair, and when he caught her waist, she didn’t resist. He pulled her against him, the space between them gone entirely now, her breath mingling with his.
The air in the carriage grew thick, heated, heavy with everything neither of them had been willing to say. His hand traced her back through the fabric of her gown, and she felt every movement as if it were fire beneath her skin.
The carriage jolted over a stone, and she gasped against his mouth. He swallowed the sound, answering it with a low groan that made her knees weaken. His hand came up to her neck, his thumb brushing the corner of her jaw, his touch rough and reverent all at once.
She arched into him without thought. Her fingers fisted in his coat; his breath hitched. He pulled back again, just barely, his lips still grazing hers as he spoke. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said hoarsely.
“Neither do you,” she breathed.
A faint, broken laugh escaped him—something dark and tender all at once. Then his mouth was on hers again, slower now, as if he couldn’t decide whether to claim her or worship her.
When they finally broke apart, the silence was deafening. The wheels clattered on, the horses’ hooves striking the road in steady rhythm, but inside the carriage, the world had stopped.