Page 33

Although her words were resigned and meant to be somewhat encouraging, the lack of conviction in her voice was palpable.

This subtle back-and-forth continued for several days, and each of Mrs. Starling’s carefully veiled suggestions was met with Catherine’s confused but defensive justifications for utilizing the estate’s existing resources. Catherine truly believed she was being sensible, managing the household responsibly. She only hoped the Duke would approve.

The next afternoon, she was overseeing the placement of a newly reupholstered chaise lounge—a rather elegant piece with graceful curves that had been hidden away in a dusty corner of the attic—in one of the drawing rooms. She was quite pleased with how it had turned out; the faded brocade had been replaced with a tasteful striped fabric in shades of cream and gold.

As the footmen finally positioned it to her satisfaction, she heard familiar, quiet footsteps behind her. She froze, a wave of nervousness washing over her. She didn’t need to turn around to know it was Sampson.

She could feel his presence, like a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Her cheeks flushed, remembering the raw anger in his eyes when she had dared to ask about his brother and the subsequent awkwardness of their forced proximity in the bath.

The awkwardness that onlysheseemed to be bothered by.

She busied herself with straightening a cushion on the chaise, unable to bring herself to meet his gaze.

“Catherine…” His voice was neutral, devoid of the teasing lilt she had come to expect and grown used to.

Not to mention, he hardly called her by her name, preferring to refer to her as his Duchess or his wife.

Somehow, she knew she was in trouble.

Catherine swallowed hard. “Your Grace,” she murmured, still fiddling with the cushion, her fingers clumsy.

There was a moment of silence, and then she heard him move further into the room.

“What in God’s name isthis?” His tone was flat, but there was an undercurrent she couldn’t quite decipher.

Her heart sank. He had seen it. He had seen one of the redecorated rooms. And from the tone of his voice, she could only conclude that he did not like her handiwork.

Catherine finally forced herself to turn around, her gaze fixed on the floor just beyond his polished boots.

“It’s… It’s one of the drawing rooms, Your Grace,” she stammered, feeling foolish and inadequate.

“I can see that it is a drawing room,” he said, his voice still level. “What I cannot fathom is… this… concept.”

Catherine bit her lip, feeling more embarrassed. “I… I thought it would be… suitable. The furniture is of good quality, and I had it reupholstered…” she trailed off, the conviction she had felt earlier evaporating under his scrutiny.

“Suitable?” He repeated the word slowly as if tasting its inadequacy. “Catherine, follow me.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked out of the room. Catherine gathered her skirts and trailed after him, her stomach churning with apprehension.

He led her through the familiar hallways and into his study, the door closing behind them with a soft click.

He turned to face her, his dark blue eyes fixed firmly on her, and she still couldn’t bring herself to look at him properly, her gaze darting to the intricate patterns on his waistcoat.

“What is happening with the rooms, Catherine?” he asked, his tone leaving no room for evasion. “Why are they decorated with such… modesty?”

Catherine finally managed to lift her gaze to his chest, focusing on the crisp white of his shirt.

“I-I thought it would be best, Your Grace. I didn’t want to be wasteful, and there was a lot of perfectly good furniture in the attic…” she mumbled, feeling like a scolded child.

Sampson was silent for a moment, and then, in a voice laced with exasperation, he said, “Catherine, you need to spend more money.”

Catherine’s head snapped up, her wide eyes finally meeting his. “Spend more?”

“Yes, spend more,” he reiterated, his gaze steady. “You are the Duchess of Rosehall. This is the seat of a dukedom. It needs to reflect that.”

Catherine’s cheeks burned with mortification. How could she have been so oblivious?

Of course. Her husband was a duke. It was only fair—and necessary—for his home to reflect grandeur, with no expense spared to achieve that goal. It was so obvious, and yet she hadn’t even considered it from that perspective. Her frugal upbringing had completely clouded her judgment.