Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Ramsay stood still as Belson adjusted the fall of his cravat with the reverence of a surgeon preparing for amputation.
“Hold still, Your Grace,” Belson said, frowning at the silk. “If you ruin this knot again, I’ll be forced to start over.”
Ramsay said nothing. He was already dressed in a deep navy coat, brushed black boots, and a waistcoat buttoned with military precision. The only thing left was the blasted cravat—and his patience.
“I could wear it loose,” he offered, knowing it would cause offense.
“You could,” Belson replied evenly.
Ramsay smirked. “Sounds about right.”
Belson gave him a look. “You’re going to a ball. A family ball.”
“Terrifying.”
“Indeed.” Belson stood back, inspecting him critically. “Though I’ll admit, you’ve improved. Last week, you looked like a Highland hoodlum. Today… almost like a man with a conscience.”
Ramsay arched a brow. “Careful. I might blush.”
Belson didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth tugged. He turned toward the trunk in the corner, lifting the lid and sifting through a stack of folded shirts. “Shall I arrange for the rest of your things to be sent to Inverness? If we start tonight, they might be waiting for you when you arrive.”
Ramsay paused.
His voice, when it came, was quiet. “No need.”
Belson turned. “No?”
“My plans have changed.”
A beat passed. The butler blinked once then shut the trunk. He didn’t ask questions.
“Very good, Your Grace,” was all he said. “The carriage is waiting.”
Ramsay nodded, adjusted his cuffs, and reached for his gloves.
He was staying. Not just for the week. Not just until the scandal passed. And not because of duty. He could lie to himself about a great many things but not that.
He walked out of the room and found her in the corridor just outside the drawing room, fastening a pearl earring with unhurried grace.
Eleanor wore a gown the color of dusk—something smoky and soft with a neckline that made Ramsay want to burn down the house and cancel every social engagement for the foreseeable future.
She looked up at him with that infuriating composure. “You’re late.”
“I was being strangled by Belson.”
Her eyes flicked to his neckcloth. “He did a fine job.”
“Then pray for my soul.”
She smiled—barely. The kind that played at the edge of her mouth like a secret.
Lady Fraser’s voice carried down the corridor. “Well, look at them. A matched set.”
Behind her trailed Eleanor’s grandmother, who was already adjusting the feathers in her turban and lamenting the quality of this season’s refreshments.
“Are we ready?” Lady Mulberry asked, wrinkling her nose.
“I believe so,” Eleanor said. “Unless Ramsay forgot his sense of decorum somewhere.”
He offered her his arm. “You’re in a mood.”
“I’m in a corset.”
“Ah.”
She took his arm anyway.
They exited through the main entrance, the evening cool and gilded with lamplight. At the waiting carriage, Ramsay offered his hand; Eleanor accepted it without hesitation, her fingers warm against his glove as she stepped inside.
He followed, settling beside her on the plush seat while both grandmothers arranged themselves opposite—Lady Fraser with imperial calm and Lady Mulberry already launching into a critique of the internal décor.
The ride to the ball was short but not short enough.
The grandmothers chattered endlessly from across the carriage—Lady Mulberry detailing the ball’s social importance, Lady Fraser scoffing at the state of English pastries—but Ramsay barely registered them.
He was seated far too close to Eleanor.
The velvet of her skirt brushed his thigh every time they turned a corner. Her perfume—something floral and maddening—lingered in the air. And when she crossed her legs, he felt it in every inch of his spine.
“You’re brooding,” she said quietly, eyes forward, lips barely moving.
“Am I?” he replied, dragging his gaze from the hem of her gown—where the silk had pooled against his boot—back up to her mouth.
“Yes. You’re also sitting like a man preparing for war.”
“I am a man preparing for war.”
“Oh?” she leaned in, just slightly, enough for a lock of her hair to brush his sleeve and drive him insane. “And what is the battlefield this time? Pastries?”
He glanced at her, slow and deliberate. “Dancing.”
She laughed—soft, knowing, like the sound of sheets being drawn back. “You’re not a bad dancer.”
“I’m a reluctant one.”
“Is that what you were in the Highlands?” she teased, arching a brow. “Reluctant?”
“No,” he said, voice low. “There, I was terrifying.”
She turned fully to him now, amusement flickering behind her lashes. “And now?”
“Now,” Ramsay murmured, gaze dropping to the curve of her collarbone, “I’m distracted.”
Her lips parted—just slightly—and he caught the faintest sound of breath catching in her throat.
It did things to him. Awful things. Wonderful things.
He imagined dragging the tip of his finger from the base of her neck to the dip between her breasts and had to curl his fist to stop himself from moving.
She didn’t look away.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she whispered.
“I’m not looking,” he said, throat thick.
“You are.” Her voice was quiet, but her tone wasn’t.
Ramsay leaned back just a little, enough to give himself space, though it didn’t help. Every inch of her was still pressed against his awareness. Her thigh near his. Her perfume. The way her body moved with the sway of the carriage, like something meant to be held.
He let his gloved hand rest on his thigh, fingers twitching once.
“You wore that on purpose,” he said, eyes narrowed, voice almost accusatory.
She turned her head, smug. “I didn’t even know what I’d choose until tonight.”
“But you knew I’d be there.”
She didn’t answer.
The grandmothers, mercifully, were now knee-deep in a disagreement about the decline of modern sopranos.
He watched Eleanor for another moment, watching the way her lashes dipped as she blinked. The way her mouth curved like it knew every wicked thought he was having and had plans of its own.
He imagined lifting her into his lap. He imagined her hands gripping his coat, that breathless sound she made when he kissed her too hard.
He shifted in his seat, jaw tight.
The carriage hit a bump, and she swayed into him slightly.
Neither of them moved away.
Then, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the townhouse. Light spilled down the stone steps, and music filtered through the high windows—soft and distant, like the memory of laughter.
Footmen appeared, flinging open the door with mechanical grace.
“Ready?” Ramsay asked.
Eleanor met his gaze. “Do I have a choice?”
“No,” he said and stepped down first then turned to offer his hand.
She placed hers in it, warm and bare and sure.
When she stood beside him, he leaned in just enough to speak beneath the noise.
“Try not to look too pleased,” he murmured. “We’re supposed to be a scandal.”
She didn’t smile, but her fingers curled slightly tighter around his arm.
They entered the ballroom together, Eleanor steady on his arm, her chin lifted in that particular way of hers that made her look untouchable—and also, for some godforsaken reason, made Ramsay want to touch her even more.
Inside, the chandelier blazed above them.
Strings swelled in the far corner, and the scent of beeswax and perfume drifted on warm air.
Everywhere, there were diamonds and silks and ridiculous feathers—some pinned to hair, some drifting sadly from headpieces that looked more like dying birds than decoration.
Lady Fraser made a small noise beside him. “Looks like a henhouse in heat.”
Ramsay bit the inside of his cheek.
Across the room, Kitty spotted them. She waved, her grin bright enough to shame the chandeliers. Norman stood at her side, regal and a touch harassed, his cravat slightly skewed like someone had tugged on it.
They approached.
“You’re late,” Kitty said cheerfully.
“Blame Belson,” Eleanor replied. “He tried to murder Ramsay with a cravat.”
“Ah,” Norman said. “You’ve been officially initiated.”
Kitty leaned in and kissed Eleanor’s cheek. “You look lovely.”
Ramsay glanced at her, because apparently, he hadn’t already looked enough tonight. “She does.”
Eleanor elbowed him gently, making his heart flutter.
Lady Mulberry joined them with a rustle of taffeta. “Your Grace,” she said to Kitty, bowing her head just enough to be appropriate. “I’m glad to see you’ve taken to domestic life so… enthusiastically.”
Kitty’s smile didn’t waver. “And I’m glad to see you haven’t changed.”
Norman coughed. Ramsay thought he might be hiding a laugh.
Lady Mulberry’s lips twitched. “Of course. Change is so dreadfully unreliable.”
“Whereas you,” Kitty said sweetly, “have always been an inspiration.”
Eleanor touched Kitty’s sleeve. “There’s cake, I think.”
“God, take me there immediately,” Kitty muttered, looping their arms.
Ramsay stepped back to let them pass. As they walked off, Eleanor shot him a look over her shoulder—half a smirk, half a dare—and disappeared into the crowd.
He let out a slow breath.
“You’ve tamed,” Norman clapped him on the back. “It’s like watching a cat take down a wolf, isn’t it?”
Ramsay gave him a sidelong glance. “Do I look like a wolf to you?”
“Not anymore.”
The grandmothers were now discussing the disgrace of overblown centerpieces.
“That entire table is covered in roses,” Lady Mulberry sniffed. “One cannot even see the cutlery.”
Lady Fraser crossed her arms. “Typical. All show and no soil.”
Ramsay and Norman stepped slightly to the side, finding temporary shelter beneath a gilded column near the edge of the crowd.
“She’s different,” Norman said after a moment, his voice lower now. “My sister.”
Ramsay turned toward him. “Is she?”
“I’ve known her since birth, you know. Watched her be paraded, groomed, made palatable for every idiot with a title.” He exhaled slowly. “And yet tonight, she’s laughing like a person. Not a commodity.”
Ramsay said nothing.
“I haven’t seen that in a long time,” Norman added, watching Kitty twirl Eleanor dramatically near the dessert table. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before, actually. Not like this.”
Ramsay stared at the spot where she stood—hair glinting under the chandeliers, gown fanning behind her as she moved, laughing at something Kitty whispered into her ear.
“She’s good with Penelope,” Ramsay said after a moment. “And Lady Fraser likes her—which is a feat.”
Norman looked amused. “You like her.”
Ramsay didn’t answer.
“You know, I was ready to hate you,” Norman continued conversationally. “Even if it was all my fault. I was ready to loathe the man who would get to keep her, even if I’d ruined her chance at doing it any other way.”
“You still can,” Ramsay said. “I’m not here to be liked.”
“No,” Norman said, studying him. “But you’re still here.”
That, for some reason, struck harder than it should have.
Ramsay glanced away. “You’re lucky,” he said quietly. “She still listens to you.”
“She always listens,” Norman said. “She just doesn’t always do what I want.”
They both looked over again. Kitty had her hands on her hips now, glaring at the dessert tray. Eleanor appeared to be judging a tartlet with the gravity of a French diplomat.
“Do you love her?” Norman asked.
Ramsay exhaled through his nose. “Do you always ask questions like that in ballrooms?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t speak, but his jaw shifted, and Norman said nothing.
A soft rustle of skirts announced the arrival of Lady Fraser at his side.
She didn’t look at him at first—just surveyed the room, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Then, with a hum low in her throat, she remarked, “Have you met your wife’s cousin, Andrew? That sly little fox is a handsome lad, right enough, but indecisive as a cow at a gate.”
She turned slightly toward Ramsay, one brow arched in dry amusement. “We ought to drag him north. Let the Highland air slap some sense into him. Find him a wife and settle the matter once and for all.”
Then, with a brisk nod, she moved on—leaving Ramsay no more than a lingering whiff of sharp judgment in her wake.
Norman patted Ramsay’s shoulder once and turned back toward the room. “I guess the Mayfair Fox is on borrowed time.”
Ramsay let out a low breath, half a laugh, half something else. He didn’t belong here. Not entirely. But somehow, in that moment, he felt less like an outsider.