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And she did. Her voice, though tinged with fatigue, held a note of quiet pride as she recounted the intricate tapestry of her event planning.

She spoke of her correspondence with the London wine merchants regarding the finest vintages, the detailed instructions she had given to the kitchen staff regarding the presentation of each dish, and the careful selection of the musical program, ensuring a balance between traditional country dances and the more sophisticated waltzes that were becoming increasingly popular.

“I learned that it is important to have a vision of what the guests would like and prefer, and then provide… a gentle blend of both that doesn’t overwhelm them when they arrive. I… I haven’t been to many balls before. The one I attended with you was my first as a young woman. It was nice. I liked dancing with you,” she admitted, looking so utterly soft and quiet that he did not know what else to do with her at that moment.

Then, it was as though she realized she had gotten sidetracked and went back to talking about all the other things she was doing to make sure that her ball was a resounding success.

She described the hours she had spent with the estate’s seamstress, overseeing the creation of new liveries for the footmen, ensuring that every detail reflected the grandeur of the occasion. She even spoke of adding small, thoughtful touches for her guests, such as scented candles in the retiring rooms and a selection of engaging books in the library for those seeking a respite from the dancing.

As her detailed account unfolded, Sampson listened with growing astonishment and a burgeoning sense of… something he couldn’t quite define. It wasn’t merely admiration for her organizational skills, though he certainly felt that. It was something deeper, a recognition of the genuine care and effort she was putting into organizing an event that would reflect well on their household—onhim.

“Catherine,” he interjected gently when she paused to take a sip of the water he had offered, “you truly did not need to undertake such an enormous endeavor. A smaller, more informal gathering would have been perfectly acceptable. I would not have thought any less of you.”

Catherine looked up at him, her green eyes holding a gleam that tugged unexpectedly at his heart.

“But I wanted it to be special, Sampson,” she said softly, her voice imbued with a quiet sincerity. “I wanted… I know that people have not been as receptive to me as you would have liked. And I know they believe you would be better suited to another woman.

“Perhaps you might not have chosen me as your wife, under different circumstances, but I want to do what I can to earn the right to stand by your side. I am doing all of this so no one will judge you for having a Scottish wife and you won’t feel the need to defend me anymore. I want you to be proud of me.”

The admission hung in the air between them, a fragile offering that Sampson wasn’t sure how to receive.

She continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “And my family… they will hear of this ball. I want them to be proud, too. To know that… that I am representing them well, as your wife. So they can worry less about my well-being and rest assured that I am thriving. I know they have concerns… about how I traveled all by myself to marry you. I wish they would no longer harbor such worries.”

He knew he should feel a sense of unease at her ready acceptance of her role, at the implied permanence of their union.

The thought of their arrangement turning into something more should have filled him with dread. Yet, as he looked down at her tired but determined face, a warmth spread through him, chasing away the usual chill of his guarded emotions.

“Catherine,” he said, his voice surprisingly tender, his hand gently stroking her cheek. “You do not need to prove anything to me. Or to your family. You are… more than enough. Just as you are.”

He felt her relax against him, a soft sigh escaping her lips. “I just… I was so happy to see you with them, Sampson,” she murmured, her voice growing drowsy. “With my family. It… it felt right. Seeing you eat with us and laugh with us—it was comforting and wholesome. Like… like it was your family too.”

A knot tightened in Sampson’s chest, a sensation that was both unsettling and strangely… comforting.

Hisfamily? The family he had been born into had never been gentle with him. They were not close or loving, not like the Lennoxes. As he had watched them, a strange yearning he never knew he could experience had crept into his mind and heart, blooming like bruises over his existence.

He had never thought the hand he had been dealt was unfair. It was simpler and quicker to accept one’s fate and learn to live with it. But since Catherine came into his life, he found that there were many things he had room for but might never get to put into the vacant slots.

The thought that she had acknowledged him as a part of her family sent a shiver through him, a visceral reaction to a concept that had always felt foreign and unattainable to him.

He should pull away, put some distance between them, and remind her of the boundaries of their carefully constructed arrangement.

But as he looked down at her, her head resting against his chest, her breathing soft and even, he realized that she had drifted off to sleep. He knew that the sensible, responsible thing to do would be to lift her and carry her back to her bed.

But he couldn’t.

A wave of possessiveness spread through him, burning away the urge and energy to stand, making his skin tingle from the warmth of her body. She smelled good, as though the scents ofthe flowers and desserts she had been around had stuck to her, desperate to make her lovelier than she already was.

“I should get you somewhere comfortable, so you can rest properly,” he muttered softly, knowing it was the best thing to do.

Instead, his hand moved almost instinctively, gently stroking the soft waves of her auburn hair. The familiar, comforting scent of lavender, so intrinsically linked to her presence, filled his senses. He rested his cheek on the top of her head, the warmth of her small body surprisingly soothing against his own. The restlessness that had plagued him earlier began to recede, replaced by a strange, unfamiliar sense of… peace.

He told himself he would only rest for a moment, just until she stirred. But the weariness of the past few weeks, coupled with the unexpected comfort of having her so close, made it impossible to resist the lull of her touch.

Sampson closed his eyes, the gentle rhythm of Catherine’s breathing a soft lullaby that led him into a deep and dreamless sleep, her presence a silent anchor in the darkness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“You’re more wound up than usual.”