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“Perhaps he’s already started composing sonnets about her beauty,” Aaron added with a wry grin.

For some reason, that particular dig had Sampson pausing thoughtfully. Catherine’s beauty was nothing to scoff at—he was willing to admit that much.

He never had to resort to the arts to let any woman hear from him what she likely already knew. But, when it came to Catherine, he certainly saw the appeal of such methods. Especially if it would reward him with that gorgeous smile of hers?—

“Bloody hell. You lot are making things worse,” he muttered under his breath, half in awe, half mortified.

Benedict, surprisingly, made a more thoughtful observation.

“Or perhaps,” he said quietly, adjusting his gloves, “he has simply found some peace he didn’t expect.”

Sampson vehemently denied all their insinuations, his protests growing increasingly weak as their teasing continued.

He wasn’t in love with Catherine. The idea was preposterous, absurd. Their marriage was a matter of practicality, a mutually beneficial arrangement. Nothing more.

But despite his denials, the seed of doubt had been planted. The image of Catherine, her soft breathing against his chest, the unexpected comfort of her presence in the darkness, kept returning to his mind.

Could it be possible? Could he, Sampson, the man who had sworn off emotional entanglements, be falling in love with his wife? The thought was both terrifying and… intriguing.

He returned to Rosehall later that afternoon, the physical exertion having done little to quell his inner turmoil. He found the estate still in the throes of preparations for the ball. Catherine was a whirlwind of focused energy, directing the placement of the decorations in the grand hall.

Even from a distance, he could see the toll the preparations were taking on her. Her earlier vibrancy seemed to have faded, replaced by a weary determination. He didn’t like the shadows beneath her eyes and the almost frantic pace of her movements.

“Catherine,” he called out, his voice carrying across the hall.

She turned, a flash of irritation crossing her face at the interruption. “Sampson. You’re back.”

Sampson faltered slightly when she said his name. He was not sure when they had dropped the formalities, but he was glad for it, unable to get enough of the way she spoke those two little syllables.

However, at that moment, the way she had said his name had an edge to it, as though she was in a hurry to be done with whatever business he had with her.

“You need to stop,” he said, his tone firm. “You’re exhausting yourself.”

Catherine lifted her chin stubbornly. “I am perfectly capable of managing my own affairs, Sampson. Please, leave me to it. I need to ensure that everything is perfect for tomorrow.”

“Perfect?” he scoffed, striding towards her. “Catherine, you’ve been running yourself ragged for days. It’s just a ball.”

“It is notjusta ball,” she retorted, her voice sharper now. “It ismyball. And I want it to be a success. I have come too far to stop now.”

Their escalating argument was abruptly interrupted by a loud, rumbling growl from Catherine’s stomach. Sampson’s eyes flashed, his earlier annoyance instantly replaced by a surge of concern, bordering on anger.

She hadn’t even eaten properly. And yet here she was, running about, tending to matters that were not as important as her well-being.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “You will go and eat something, now.”

Catherine’s stubbornness flared. “I need to finish setting up these floral arrangements. They are the last thing left to do.”

Sampson had reached his limit. Without another word, he stepped forward, scooped her up into his arms, and effortlessly threw her over his shoulder. A surprised yelp escaped her lips as she found herself in an undignified position, her skirts falling around her head.

“Sampson! What on earth are you doing? Put me down!” she exclaimed, thrashing against his back.

He ignored her protests, his long strides carrying him swiftly through the hall and up the grand staircase.

“Mrs. Starling!” he called out, his voice firm. “Have a tray of food sent to the Duchess’s chambers immediately.”

Catherine continued to protest, her fists pounding against his back, but Sampson held her securely, his resolve unwavering. He carried her to her bedchamber and deposited her unceremoniously on the soft mattress.

“Sampson! How dare you!” she snapped, sitting up and glaring at him, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of indignation and embarrassment.