Chapter 19
Nineteen
The second week of their marriage passed in unusual calm. Mornings indoors, painting with Penelope. Afternoons out in the field. They fell into something like a rhythm—no, a routine. And though Eleanor would never say it aloud, they felt dangerously close to a family.
She began to wonder, despite herself, how Ramsay would behave with a child of their own. But she knew better than to dwell on it. The weeks were ticking down. He would leave. And dreams, as she’d learned before, were a poor thing to cling to when the wind changed.
The following week, Eleanor found herself standing beside the stables, arms crossed, watching the afternoon sun catch on the copper strands of Ramsay’s hair as he rode in easy circles with Penelope.
He looked… relaxed. That in itself was a rare sight.
Penelope let out a delighted squeal, tugging too hard on the reins. Ramsay didn’t scold. He just corrected her hand, adjusted the strap, and leaned close to explain something.
It should have looked awkward. A Scottish brute trying to teach a half-Greek four-year-old how to hold her seat. But it didn’t. It looked like a family.
Her family.
The thought startled her so much, she nearly gasped aloud. She glanced down at her shoes, the hem of her gown, anything to stop the image from planting itself further. But it was too late. The vision had bloomed—Ramsay beside her, a child on either side, and this impossible steadiness between them.
Would he be gentle? Stern? Likely both. Their children would grow up knowing every inch of the moor, fluent in English and Brogue and the unspoken language of their father’s silence.
She pressed a hand to her chest. Stop it. He’s leaving.
He was. He’d said it himself. But that didn’t keep the thought from returning again. Or again.
She heard laughter. Looked up. Penelope had just been taken inside by her governess while Ramsay stayed behind, dismounted, then stripped off his shirt and tossed it over the fence.
Eleanor stared.
He was golden.
Not just tanned but gleaming. Every line of him defined, sun-kissed, and unapologetic.
He caught her looking at him, smirking.
“Afternoon, Duchess.”
“You’re sweating.”
“Aye,” he said. “That’s what happens when you work.”
She could have turned and gone back inside, but her feet didn’t move.
“Come here,” Ramsay said, low and coaxing.
She didn’t.
He tilted his head, mouth curving. “Would you rather I come get you?”
Her breath caught. She stepped forward, slowly. “You are impossible,” she said, barely above a breath.
“And you’re stalling.”
“For what?”
“For this.”
He closed the distance before she could retreat. His hands came to her waist—broad, warm, shockingly gentle—and in one fluid motion, he lifted her clean off the ground.
“Ramsay!”
“Easy,” he murmured, holding her like she weighed nothing. “You’re lighter than Penelope.”
“That is not a compliment.”
“It is,” he said, voice a little rougher now. “She’s half your height and three times the menace.”
He swung onto the horse, settling her in front of him, her spine flush against his chest. His thighs bracketed hers. His arm came around her, firm and certain, fingers grazing her skirt.
“If you’re going to object to every flattery,” he said near her ear, “this is going to be a very difficult ride.”
“I’m not dressed for this—”
“If you don’t like your dress,” he said, breath ghosting across her skin, “remove it.”
Her whole body tightened.
He didn’t move. Didn’t touch her inappropriately. Didn’t press.
But the way he said it. The heat beneath it. The challenge laced through the teasing. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a provocation. And it worked.
Her pulse pounded in places it had no business reaching.
She twisted slightly in his hold, just enough to glance back at him. “Is this how you charm women in Scotland?”
He smiled without showing teeth. “No. In Scotland, I don’t bother with charm.”
“God help them.”
“They don’t complain.”
“I’m sure they don’t dare.”
He flicked the reins once, and the horse began to move—smooth and steady. Every step sent a ripple through her. Every shift of his body behind her was a spark waiting to land.
She didn’t speak again.
Not because she had nothing to say.
But because her heart was already speaking far too loudly for her to hear anything else.
They rode together. She should have hated it. The heat, the proximity, the complete lack of propriety. But his body was warm against her back, and when the horse moved, she could feel the shift of his chest, his breath at her ear.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
The fields opened before them, and Eleanor forgot why she’d come to speak with him in the first place. She forgot about the vase, the ton, even Scotland.
There was only this—sunlight, the rhythmic gait of the horse, and Ramsay’s breath near her skin.
The world had gone still. Just a field of gold and a man behind her who smelled like sweat and summer and something rougher—something that made her dizzy.
Like salt and saddle leather and something darker that made her stomach twist and her thighs press a little tighter.
Her breath caught as he shifted, his body firm and solid at her back. She felt it everywhere—his arm braced around her waist, his thigh against hers, the undeniable fact that she was in his hold and had no desire to leave it.
This, her traitorous mind whispered, is what it would feel like. The raw, breathless reality of what it meant to share a bed with him. Of what it would mean to give him an heir.
She swallowed hard, heat flooding low in her belly.
He tugged gently on the reins, and the horse slowed, eventually coming to a stop beneath a crooked ash tree. The branches dappled the ground in shade, and above them, the sky stretched endlessly blue.
“We’ll stop here,” he said, voice soft against her ear.
She nodded. She couldn’t have spoken even if she tried.
He dismounted first, his body brushing close, far too close. Then he turned and held out his hands.
“Come,” he said.
She hesitated.
One breath. Two.
Then she placed her hands in his and let herself fall.
He caught her. Of course, he did. And for one lingering moment, he didn’t let go.
She landed with her hands on his chest. Bare skin. Warm skin. Her fingers flexed without permission.
He was looking at her differently now. As if the air between them had changed shape. As if she were something to be unwrapped.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, letting her go slowly, “about Penelope.”
Eleanor stepped back. Cleared her throat. “What about her?”
“I want to stay involved. Keep working with her. Not just the riding. Other lessons too,” he said stepping just a little closer. “With your permission, of course, lass. I wouldn’t dare disturb your sense of order.” His smile was all mischief, but the heat in his eyes said he meant every word.
She blinked, heat curling at the base of her spine. “So, you were serious about that?”
He nodded once then hesitated. “You’ve been good for her, but I think she’s… growing on me.”
His voice wasn’t steady, and he looked away as he said it, as if the words embarrassed him.
Eleanor felt something flutter in her chest, unsure whether it was affection or dread.
After a beat, he cleared his throat and added, more briskly, “There’s a ball. I’ve arranged for us to attend.”
She stared at him. “You what?”
“I sent word this morning,” he said, gaze still fixed on some distant point beyond her shoulder. “It’s the Countess of Wexley’s gathering.”
“You arranged it?” she asked, voice catching slightly.
He nodded again—just once—but there was something strangely vulnerable in the motion. As if he’d stuck out his hand and wasn’t sure if it would be taken or slapped away.
She turned away and walked a few paces into the grass, gathering herself. The sunlight had turned honeyed, the wind tugging gently at the hem of her dress.
“You’re released,” she said at last.
“What?”
“You’re released from the rule. About spending time together.”
There was a pause behind her.
“I no longer want it,” she said.
When she turned back, his brow was furrowed. “Why?”
“I don’t think it’s necessary anymore.”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s changed?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she said, “It’s time for you to step aside from Penelope’s education.”
He froze.
“What?” Ramsay’s voice sharpened, eyes narrowing.
“It’s not proper,” Eleanor said, lifting her chin, trying—failing—to keep her tone even. “You’re a duke, Ramsay. You shouldn’t be giving riding lessons. There are instructors. Tutors. That’s what they’re for.”
He stepped forward, just once “Is that what this is about? Propriety?”
“It’s about doing what’s right,” she bit out.
“For whom?” he asked, incredulous now.
“For her,” she snapped. “And for you.”
Ramsay stared at her. His mouth opened as if to speak then closed again. The muscle in his jaw ticked.
“You’re not meant to be here playing the husband and father,” Eleanor continued, heat rising behind her words. “I was born here, Ramsay. Raised here. I know what it takes to make a proper lady—”
“Ah,” he said bitterly, eyes flashing. “There it is.”
She blinked, thrown. “There what is?”
“You always circle back to it, don’t you?” His voice had gone flat. “That I’m not gentleman enough for you.”
“That’s not my concern.”
“No?” he asked, voice low.
“No.” Her throat felt tight. “My concern is that Penelope will get used to having you around, and then you’ll leave.”
He inhaled sharply, chest rising. “And what if I do?”
She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t find a word.
So she looked at him instead—this maddening, reckless, beautiful man who had come crashing into her life like a storm and would, no doubt, leave it just the same.
“This was never meant to be a family, Eleanor. That wasn’t the arrangement.” His voice was quieter now but laced with something dangerous.
“I know that,” Eleanor said, her voice quiet but firm. “I know.”