Chapter 20
Twenty
She was still beneath him, breathing unsteadily, hair mussed from the grass, lips kiss-swollen. The sun caught on the edges of her lashes. Her chest rose and fell, slow and heavy, and her hand was still pressed against his back.
Ramsay looked down at her and knew, without question, that he was damned.
He didn’t move. Couldn’t. The weight of her under him had rooted him to the earth, and the imprint of her body seared into every part of his skin. She hadn’t become fully his yet, but the way she’d kissed him—the way she’d let him, wanted him—that was something no oath or title could fabricate.
She’d wanted it. Wanted him. And not because he was a duke, not because the marriage required it, but because something wild and unwritten between them had finally broken open.
He ran his hand along her waist, slowly, fingers brushing over the thin fabric. She shivered beneath his touch. He felt it like lightning.
“Are ye cold?” he asked softly, voice rough from restraint.
“No.” Her voice was barely there. “You?”
He smiled. “I’m burnin’, lass.”
Her eyes fluttered open. She stared at him, and something about her gaze—unguarded, half-dazed—made his chest ache. Then she blinked, as though returning to herself all at once.
She touched his shoulder. “We should… return.”
“Aye.” But he didn’t move. He needed to feel her a little longer.
“Ramsay,” she said, a little more firmly this time.
He leaned down, kissed the corner of her mouth, soft and slow, then pushed himself upright with a groan. She followed, cheeks flushed, gown rumpled, hair falling loose over her shoulder.
He offered her a hand. She didn’t take it. She grabbed it. And when he pulled her up, her body collided with his chest.
They stilled.
His pulse pounded so hard he could hear it.
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” she whispered, eyes locked on his mouth.
He smirked. “Never.”
They rode back together, silent. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty but thick with everything that had just happened, and everything that still might. Her thigh brushed his with each step of the horse. He didn’t adjust, just let himself feel it.
Let himself want her.
But the second they neared the house, he noticed something odd. Raised voices. Not one, but two. Female. High-pitched and growing louder by the second.
He slowed the horse.
Eleanor straightened, brow furrowed. “Is that—?”
“Aye,” he muttered grimly. “That’s indoors.”
As they approached the front steps, a servant darted out looking vaguely traumatized. Ramsay dismounted, helped Eleanor down—though it cost him greatly not to pull her right back into his arms—and strode into the front hall just in time to hear—
“I do not understand a word you say!”
“You’re simply too vain to admit your hearing is going!”
He froze.
Lady Fraser, his grandmother, stood by the fireplace in full tartan and a scandalously feathered bonnet, nose turned up like a hawk about to strike. Opposite her was Lady Mulberry, adorned in lavender lace, a ridiculous plume rising from her curls like a peacock mid-preen.
“I arrived first,” Lady Mulberry was saying, her chin high, voice cutting.
“I was announced like a poor tax collector,” Lady Fraser barked, throwing her shawl onto the nearest chair like it had personally offended her. “No bagpipes. No bannocks. No whisky. And you have the decency to complain?”
Lady Mulberry gasped. “This is my granddaughter’s home. If anyone deserves a proper welcome, it’s me.”
“Your granddaughter?” Lady Fraser scoffed. “My grandson owns the damn house. You’re a guest.”
“I’m family,” Lady Mulberry shot back. “And I was invited indefinitely. I can come as I please.”
“Was I not?” his grandmother thundered. “Am I not blood? And yet I find out my only grandson was married through a bloody letter. I could have died.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I am dramatic! I can be as dramatic as I’d like to be! I’m Scottish.”
Lady Mulberry sniffed. “Well, I’m English and mortified. Imagine coming all this way and being greeted by a maid who offered me ginger biscuits.”
“Those biscuits were homemade, you dried-up crone.”
“Grandmother,” Ramsay snapped, cutting through the din, his voice hard enough to slice through tartan. He heard Eleanor stifle a laugh beside him. “Lady Mulberry.”
Both women turned. Lady Fraser’s face broke into a grin.
“Ah! There’s my savage boy!” she declared. “You’ve finally married and didn’t think to inform your own grandmother?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Lady Mulberry hissed at her. “I was not as involved in the wedding as I’d have liked to be!”
“That’s because no one likes you.”
“I’ll have you know, I received a personal invitation—”
“From whom, your dressmaker?”
“Ladies,” Eleanor said swiftly, stepping in. “Please, allow us to explain—”
“Eleanor, I see you’re already neglecting your duties as lady of the house,” Lady Mulberry cut in, nose wrinkling.
Lady Fraser arched a brow. “And what duties would those be, exactly?”
Ramsay groaned and stepped forward, placing himself squarely between Eleanor and the two women. “Lady Mulberry. Lady Fraser. You will both calm down and listen to me for a moment.”
They both stiffened.
“Grandmother,” he said again, slower this time, “you were not invited because I did not expect you to come to England. You made it very clear you were staying in Scotland for the Season.”
Lady Fraser didn’t blink. “Plans change,” she said curtly, chin lifting with Highland pride, as though her mere presence in this foreign place ought to be treated like a royal visit. “I’d have come if I knew you were getting married.”
He exhaled hard through his nose, turning then to the other woman. “Lady Mulberry, you… have no reason to complain. You were at the wedding. And you arrived at this house to find the door open, the staff waiting.”
Lay Mulberry placed a hand to her chest like he’d struck her. “I did not get the treatment I deserved,” she said, aghast.
Of course, she didn’t. Nothing short of a red carpet and a three-piece orchestra would ever satisfy her.
Ramsay’s temper flared—not hot and loud but cold. Controlled. Cutting. “Yes. You have,” he said, voice low. “This is how I treat my guests. And I can see you’ve gotten quite comfortable in a matter of minutes.”
He felt Eleanor shift beside him, quiet as ever, but her arm brushed his slightly, steadying. A silent thread between them.
“If you do not enjoy our company,” Ramsay went on, meeting Lady Mulberry’s eyes squarely, “you are free to do as you please.”
There was a beat of silence. Eleanor’s grandmother blinked, as if the sheer gall of such a remark had momentarily knocked the words from her throat.
Lady Fraser grinned. “That’s my boy.”
Lady Mulberry huffed. “He’s positively uncivilized.”
“He’s Scottish,” Fraser beamed.
“I heard that,” Ramsay muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Eleanor, ever the diplomat, stepped in before sparks could fly again. “Grandmother,” she said brightly, “why don’t I show you to the garden? It’s lovely this time of day. Perfect for… cooling off.”
“I never—” Lady Mulberry began, scandalized.
“Come,” Eleanor said, all sweetness and silk. “I’ll have tea sent.”
Lady Mulberry huffed, muttered something about the decline of the aristocracy under her breath, and swept out with her nose in the air.
Ramsay exhaled. One down.
Lady Fraser watched her go. “She’s sharper than you deserve.”
“I know.”
“Pretty too.”
“I know that as well.”
Lady Fraser gave him a sideways glance, one brow lifting. “And you’re in love with her?”
Ramsay’s jaw worked. He didn’t answer right away. His hands had gone still on the edge of the desk.
“I didn’t say that,” he muttered finally, voice low. Almost defensive.
“You didn’t have to,” Lady Fraser said simply, as if the matter were already settled.
Ramsay dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply.
His skin was still warm from Eleanor’s touch—her mouth, her body, the way she’d melted into him like she had nowhere else to go.
And now here he was, in the hallway of a house he’d never planned to inherit, standing opposite the sharpest woman north of the Highland border.
He straightened. “Come,” he said. “I’ll show you the studio.”
Lady Fraser didn’t smile, but there was something approving in the way she followed him. She was the only person alive who could walk like royalty while wearing a cloak three decades out of fashion.
They passed through the corridor without speaking. He opened the door to the studio and stepped back, letting her enter first.
Lady Fraser glanced around once then took the seat with the worn armrest. “It suits you.”
He didn’t answer. Just shut the door and took the other chair, dragging a hand over the back of his neck.
He could feel her watching him the way she always did, with quiet, practiced scrutiny, like she was measuring the shape of the man he’d become against the boy she’d raised.
Finally, he spoke. “The wedding happened quickly. The invitation took too long to reach you.”
“That, or your handwriting’s gotten worse,” she said dryly.
He gave a huff. “I didn’t expect you to come even if it reached you in time.”
Lady Fraser folded her hands in her lap. “You didn’t expect me to want to see you marry?”
“I didn’t expect you to forgive me.”
Her head tilted. “For what?”
“For leaving. For being gone so long. For not writing as often as I should have.”
She seemed to consider that. “I’m not so frail I require daily correspondence, Ramsay.”
“But I left you alone. After all you’ve done for me.”
Lady Fraser’s expression softened—barely, but he caught it. “I didn’t raise you to stay tethered. I raised you to survive. And you’ve done that. You’ve more than done that.”
He let the silence stretch. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t easy, either.
“Your friends are asking for you,” she said after a pause. “Niall’s boy got married. Robbie’s joined the navy. Your old horse took ill, but he’s still breathing, stubborn as ever. And the rest… well, they’re waiting. They want to know when you’re coming home.”
Ramsay looked at the floor. “I don’t know if I am.”
“You’ve been saying you would since you left.”
“I know,” he said. “But this—” He gestured vaguely. “This isn’t what I thought it’d be. The title. The estate. I didn’t think I’d care, and now, I do. I didn’t think I’d stay, and now, I—”
“Do.”
He nodded once.
“And does that include your duchess?”
He looked up sharply. “Don’t.”
Lady Fraser blinked. “I meant no harm.”
“Then don’t talk about her like she’s a burden.”
“I didn’t,” she said, voice calm. “I just asked.”
“She’s the reason I don’t hate it here,” he said after a moment, quieter now. “London. The whole bloody aristocratic circus. She makes it tolerable. No. She makes it…” He trailed off. Couldn’t quite say it.
Fraser watched him closely. “You love her.”
He smiled at her. “You’re infuriating, woman.”
“Your duchess and I have that in common.”
He looked up. “You like her?”
“I find her sharp. Self-possessed. And entirely too clever to let someone like you off the hook.”
He let out a breath that might’ve been relief. “Her grandmother’s intolerable.”
“Agreed. She thinks the world owes her an audience.”
“She thinks I owe her an apology.”
“You probably do.”
He shot her a look. She didn’t retract it. Lady Fraser didn’t smile, but her eyes warmed. Just enough.
“You’ll have to choose soon,” she said softly. “Where your home is. Which part of you gets to lead. You can’t keep living divided, Ramsay. You’re a man now. You’re not allowed to sit on the fence.”
“Do you think I’ve been waiting for you to come down from Scotland to tell me this?”
She was quiet for a long moment then, “There’s something else.”
His gaze flicked to hers.
Her tone shifted. He heard it before he understood. “It’s Callum,” she said.
Ramsay’s mouth tightened. “What?”
“He’s been… difficult. More than usual. Since the news reached us about your title. He’s been saying things. Loud things. In pubs. At meetings. Anywhere anyone’ll listen.”
“What kind of things?”
“That you bought your way into the peerage. That your new friends in London wouldn’t look so kindly on your past. That if they knew what really happened…”
Ramsay’s jaw clenched. “So it was he who sent the letter then.”
Lady Fraser met his gaze evenly. “You received a letter?”
He nodded. “A threat. It didn’t say much. Just blackmailing me that they would expose what happened in Inverness to the ton.”
“Then it was Callum,” she said. “Of course, it was. I told you long ago he resents you. Always did.”
“I thought he’d moved on.”
“He hasn’t. He won’t. And now that you’ve risen, he’ll want to drag you back down.”
Ramsay stood. Paced once, hands clenched at his sides. The memory of Eleanor’s laughter still echoed faintly in his chest, and the thought of her being pulled into this—into him—made something dark stir in his gut.
“I’ll handle it,” he said.
“I know you will, but be careful, Ramsay,” Lady Fraser said quietly. “He doesn’t just want to hurt you. He wants to ruin you.”