Chapter 21
Twenty-One
The morning sun spilled through the windows like warm milk, catching on the polished banisters and the intricate moldings Ramsay had so clearly not chosen himself.
Eleanor moved quietly through the corridor, one hand brushing along the velvet wallcovering, the other resting lightly on Penelope’s shoulder.
The child walked beside her, small fingers curled trustingly around Eleanor’s own.
“Are we going to the room with the angry lady?” Penelope asked, wrinkling her nose.
“She’s not angry,” Eleanor replied gently. “Just a little… sharp around the edges. Like your uncle.”
Penelope gave this some thought then sighed, as if resigning herself to the fate of tolerating yet another grown-up. “Do you think she has biscuits?”
“I think she might,” Eleanor said, knocking once on the wide double doors before pushing them open.
The sitting room was dim but richly furnished with a great velvet armchair perched beside the hearth. In it sat Lady Fraser, wearing an expression so unreadable Eleanor nearly reconsidered her entrance. But the older woman rose with surprising grace for her age, eyes landing on Penelope.
“Well,” Lady Fraser said, “there she is.”
Penelope clutched Eleanor’s skirts.
“Come closer,” Lady Fraser added. “I won’t bite. I only do that to grown men and governesses.”
The child blinked then let go of Eleanor’s hand and crept forward. When she was within reach, Lady Fraser bent down and inspected her like a merchant assessing a prized gem.
“Big eyes,” she said. “Just like your father’s.”
“You knew Papa?” Penelope whispered.
“I did,” Lady Fraser answered. “And I can see him in you. I think he’d be proud of how fierce you are.”
Penelope straightened slightly.
“She’s been looking forward to meeting you,” Eleanor said, stepping closer.
Lady Fraser raised an eyebrow. “And have you, Your Grace?”
Eleanor flushed. “Yes. Very much.”
“Hmph. Come, sit.” She waved a hand at the sofa. “Both of you. Let’s pretend we’re three ladies of leisure going on a picnic.”
Eleanor smiled in spite of herself and helped Penelope onto the sofa before sitting beside her. Lady Fraser poured tea into three mismatched cups, dropping two sugar cubes into the smallest before passing it to Penelope.
“Drink it slowly, bonnie lass. This is Highland tea. It’s meant to warm you right to the bones.”
Penelope sipped carefully, nose wrinkling. “Tastes like dirt.”
“That’s how you know it’s good,” Lady Fraser replied. “Now. Tell me what you like to do.”
“Draw birds,” Penelope said promptly. “And paint flowers. And eat cake.”
“Well,” Lady Fraser said with an approving nod. “At least someone in this house has her priorities in order.”
Eleanor laughed, a quiet, surprised sound. It caught her off guard how at ease she felt. She smoothed her skirts and reached for her cup.
“I’ve never seen her so talkative before,” Eleanor said, glancing at Penelope.
“She’s observing,” Lady Fraser replied. “Children do that. They look and listen before they bloom. Ramsay was the same.”
Eleanor tilted her head. “He was?”
Lady Fraser looked toward the fire. “He didn’t speak much when I first brought him back. Just followed me around like a wolf pup with his ribs showing. But I knew better than to push.”
There was a beat of silence.
“I didn’t know that,” Eleanor said softly.
“Not many do.” Lady Fraser sipped her tea. “He wouldn’t want you to. But I suppose it doesn’t matter now. You’ve already seen more of him than most.”
Eleanor’s heart gave a small, traitorous thump. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Oh, don’t play coy. You brought this child into my sitting room like you belonged here. And she let you. Do you know how long it took Ramsay to speak to me in full sentences again? Two years.”
Eleanor’s throat tightened.
“You have a way about you,” Lady Fraser continued. “You don’t command. You invite. That’s rarer than you think.”
She turned her gaze to Penelope, who was now humming softly and drawing invisible shapes across the rug with her foot.
“Look at her. She’s calm. That’s because of you.”
Eleanor swallowed. “She’s been through so much. I just want her to feel safe.”
“And you think Ramsay doesn’t?” Lady Fraser asked sharply. “You think that boy—who was torn from his mother then sent back to bury his brother—doesn’t ache for that same safety? He’s just too proud to say it.”
Eleanor looked down at her cup. “I know. He’s… difficult. But kind.”
Lady Fraser huffed. “He’s a storm with a heartbeat. Always was. But after marrying you, I’ve seen a change in him. He’s steadier. Softer.”
Eleanor felt her pulse quicken. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Yes, you have. You just won’t admit it. Tell me, would you follow him?”
Eleanor blinked. “Follow him?”
“To Scotland. Would you go?”
“That wasn’t part of the arrangement,” she said automatically then immediately regretted it.
Lady Fraser tilted her head. “But you would, wouldn’t you? If he asked?”
Eleanor looked at Penelope again. The child had moved closer, her head resting against Eleanor’s arm, eyes fluttering closed.
“I don’t know what he wants,” Eleanor said honestly. “But I know what I’d say if he did ask.”
Lady Fraser smiled, a real one this time. It transformed her face, lit her from within.
“Good.”
They sat in silence for a moment, watching Penelope breathe.
“She reminds me of Ramsay,” Lady Fraser murmured. “The way she latches onto you, as if she’s afraid you’ll disappear. That’s what he did, too, when he was her age.”
Eleanor’s heart tugged. “She asked me if I’d be her other mother.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told her I’d try to be. That we’d both have to try.”
Lady Fraser reached over and touched Eleanor’s hand. “That’s all any of us can do.”
Eleanor nodded, and for the first time since the wedding, she felt something small and steady settle in her chest. Not certainty but hope.
“I should be thanking you,” Lady Fraser said after a moment. “For what you’ve done for Penelope. And for him.”
Eleanor blinked. “For… Ramsay?”
“Aye.” The old woman smirked. “I ken he’s impossible. Stubborn as stone and proud as a damn rooster, but you’ve managed something I never could.”
“Which is?”
“You’ve made him soften.”
Eleanor gave a breath of laughter. “I hardly think he’s softened. He still barks at the footmen and scowls at the maids.”
“That is softened,” Lady Fraser said, as if that were the obvious truth. “Ye should have seen him before. When he first came to me, I thought he might crack the very walls of the house with that temper of his. Grief and guilt do strange things to a lad.”
Eleanor quieted. The image of a young Ramsay—untamed, perhaps angry, dropped into a foreign world and expected to become someone he had no instruction for—sat with her.
They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that asked nothing, pressed nothing. Eleanor felt the corner of her lip lift.
“If he asked me to go to Scotland with him,” Eleanor said softly, “I think I would go.”
Lady Fraser’s expression didn’t shift—but something in her eyes warmed. “That’s all I needed to hear.”
At that moment, the door creaked open, and Ramsay stepped inside, taller than ever, the edge of his coat brushing the hem of the rug. He was holding Penelope’s shawl which he dropped neatly onto the back of the chair without a word.
Penelope’s eyes fluttered open at his entrance, and she gasped. “You said you’d come after lunch!”
“It is after lunch,” Ramsay said, completely unrepentant.
“Not properly!”
Eleanor watched him with an arched brow. “Are you being scolded by a four-year-old?”
“I am,” he said grimly. “And by my wife in a moment, I imagine.”
Lady Fraser cackled then gave a regal sniff. “Well, since I’ve outstayed my welcome—”
“You haven’t,” Eleanor said quickly.
But the older woman was already rising. “Let the young marrieds have their moment. Besides, I’ve letters to write and no patience to spare.”
She patted Penelope’s head, kissed Eleanor’s cheek without warning—leaving a faint scent of lavender—and gave Ramsay a knowing look.
“Don’t ruin it,” she told him then she was gone.
Ramsay stepped closer, watching her go. “She likes you.”
“She said I softened you.”
“You didn’t.” he scoffed. “I don’t soften.”
“I rather think I did.”
Ramsay’s mouth twitched. “You might have.”
They looked at one another for a moment—the kind of gaze that said too much and yet left the air aching with all that still hadn’t been said. His eyes dropped, just briefly, to her mouth. She felt it in the back of her knees.
Eleanor stepped forward, clearing her throat. “I told her we’re doing well,” she said. “She said it shows.”
Ramsay raised a brow. “Shows how?”
“In Penelope. In you. In me.”
“So we’re all glowing with domestic bliss, are we?”
She tilted her head, feigning solemnity. “You might be. I, for one, am simply well-rested and wearing clean stockings.”
His gaze flicked lower, just for a second.
Eleanor’s stomach flipped.
“I see,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been doing wrong. I’ve neglected my hosiery.”
“Shameful,” she replied. “Next the scandal sheets will say we’re incompatible.”
“They already do.” He folded his arms. “Apparently I’m a brute who glared so hard at your brother, the dining room windows cracked.”
“That sounds accurate.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Do I still?”
She pretended to study him, tapping her lip. “Mmm. Not the windows. Just the occasional footman.”
“I knew it,” he muttered. “She’s been filling your head with stories.”
“Are you denying them?”
Ramsay didn’t answer. His gaze lingered too long. It was the sort of look Eleanor had grown used to—slow, unblinking, entirely indecent. The kind that made her skin tighten under her stays.
She felt absurdly warm.
“Depends,” she said, lifting her chin. “Are you here to glare at me or grovel?”
“Neither.” His voice had gone low. “I’m here to steal you.”
“Steal me?” Her pulse fluttered.
“For something terrible. For something infinitely more dreadful than painting birds.”
“Oh?” Her voice dipped in spite of herself. “Do tell.”
He leaned in, close enough for her breath to catch. “A ball.”
She groaned and stepped back, dizzy from his proximity, though it did nothing to cool her. “You’re joking.”
“It’s tonight.”
She narrowed her eyes. “We are not going alone, are we?”
“No. Your entire family will be there. And the ton.”
“Perfect.” Eleanor made a face.
Ramsay smirked. “So, you’re thrilled.”
“I’d rather face a Highland winter.”
“You might yet,” he said lightly. “If I manage to convince you.”
Something about the way he said it—quiet, dangerous, like a dare—made her thighs clench.
Her pulse ticked. “Is that a threat?”
“A promise,” he said softly. Then, “Will you come?”
“To the ball?”
“To the rest of it. For as long as I can stand being here.”
Eleanor arched a brow. “You can’t simply ask a lady to abandon her whole life on the off chance you grow fond of England.”
He shrugged. “Then say no. I’ll ask again later.”
She hated him, just a little, in that moment. For making it sound like such a simple thing. For looking at her like that. For making it harder every time to say no.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll come.”
“To the ball?”
“To the ball.”
He smiled.
“And Ramsay?”
“Aye?”
She tilted her head, all innocence. “It’s hardly the hardest thing we’ve done together.”
He grinned fully then—one of those real smiles, rare and disarming. “Not yet.”