Page 18 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess (Scottish Duchesses #2)

Chapter Fourteen

N uair a dhùineas doras, fosglaidh fear eile.” When one door closes, another opens.

“We’ve arrived.”

The carriage came to a halt, and the heavy oak doors of Wilthorne Hall swung open to reveal a grand, marble-floored foyer in the distance. A hush fell over the household staff who lined the entrance as the duke, his new bride, and niece stepped out to meet them.

Catriona, her heart pounding with a mixture of dread and a strange sense of finality, felt the weight of her new reality settled upon her.

This grand and unfamiliar place is me home now.

“Nice to meet you, Your Grace,” the butler said as he gave a small bow. “I am Mr. Johnstone, and my family has served Wilthorne for generations. If you have any questions, please let me know.”

“Aye, I will. Thank ye,” she said with a smile.

“This is our cook, Mrs. Jennings, and your ladies’ maid, Miss Appleberry.”

“A pleasure truly to meet you all. I know we will get on most well!”

Catriona could see their surprise in her candor. Even as a duchess, she would always be herself.

After the introductions and settling in, the couple sat down in the dining room to have their supper. Lydia, already quite tired, was taken to bed early after the day’s excitement.

The dinner was a brief, mostly silent affair that mirrored the ceremony. Catriona spoke occasionally, her words carefully chosen and light, her voice barely a whisper as if from someone she did not recognize.

It is hard to find one’s way in a new place.

Despite her efforts at pleasant conversation, the duke, his expression stony and focused elsewhere, barely acknowledged her presence.

After preparing for bed in her chambers, Catriona, her nerves a tangled mess, made her way through the adjoining door to the duke’s bedroom.

It was a large chamber, its walls adorned with rich tapestries and its floors covered in rich Persian rugs that provided a sense of luxury but also warmth in the cool estate. The bed was an oversized four-posted behemoth, looming ominously in the center of the room.

Richard was seated by the fireplace, and he looked up at her as she entered in her nightgown. She was donning a delicate chemise that Eliza had given to her as a wedding present, with a sheer covering to provide modest coverage.

His expression was a mask of indifference, which only stoked her nerves.

Standing there in front of him, it was as if she had just realized how inexperienced she was in the ways of seduction.

She willed herself to remember all that her mother had told her, which was difficult as she couldn’t understand all of it as it was.

“Duchess,” he said as he swirled the glass of brown liquid in his hand, “what’s the matter?”

“It is our wedding night, Your Grace,” Catriona said, chin lifted, though a flicker of nervousness danced in her eyes.

Richard looked up from the fire slowly, his broad frame half-shadowed by the dim glow. He didn’t speak at once. Just studied her—too closely, too intently. The silence stretched.

“Yes,” he said finally, his voice quiet but unyielding. “It is.”

She waited for him to rise. To beckon her. To act like a husband on his wedding night. But he didn’t move.

When she took a cautious step closer, he simply watched her, unreadable.

“Ye’ve said yer vows. Ye’ve claimed yer prize,” she said, the words sounding bolder than she felt. “Surely ye ken what follows.”

Richard’s brow twitched—barely. “Is that what you think this is?” he asked, voice low and rough. “A transaction?”

She faltered. “No. I dinnae—That isnae what I meant.”

He stood slowly, not with grace but with a weight, a deliberate stillness, as though restraining some great force within him.

“You’re trembling.”

“I am nae,” she said quickly, though the words were breathless.

He stepped closer—not stalking, not prowling, just moving into her space like gravity pulling him forward.

“You think I want a proper wedding night?” he said. “Is that why you came?”

She lifted her chin, refusing to look away. “I came because I am yer wife.”

A muscle in his jaw shifted. “That much is true.”

He was so close. She hadn’t realized how tall he truly was until now, how imposing. Or perhaps it wasn’t his height—it was the way he held himself. Like a man perpetually at war with his own desire.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he said, the words roughened by tension. “You’ve no need to play the part.”

Her brow furrowed. “But?—”

“You came because you believe it’s expected. Because you want to prove something. Or disprove something, perhaps.” His voice dropped a note, darker now. “This isn’t a duty I plan to claim like a debt owed. And I already told you I wouldn’t force myself upon you.”

Something inside her wilted. Yes, this was indeed a practical arrangement: an agreement, beneficial to both of them. Her, to save Craigleith Hall, and him, to provide a companion to his niece.

Yet…

Why was disappointment blooming in her chest? What on earth had she been hoping for?

She caught the duke watching her, his arms folded across his broad chest, his expression unreadable.

“You are brooding,” he said at last, voice low and casual.

“I am nae,” she shot back, a little too quickly.

A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. “No? I suppose it is only a coincidence that you look as if someone stole your favorite sweetmeat.”

He straightened from the hearth and approached her, his movements unhurried, predatory.

Catriona lifted her chin, trying to mask the way her heart had begun to hammer.

“Come now,” he said, voice dipping lower. “You expected something , did you not?”

Her mouth fell open in indignation. “I didnae expect anythin’ of the sort!”

His smile sharpened. “Why are you so flustered then?”

He stopped just in front of her, so close she could feel the heat of his body, smell the faint scent of leather and soap clinging to him.

“I only meant—” she began hotly, but he lifted a brow, waiting.

Mocking.

The scoundrel!

“—that I… would have thought a weddin’ night might entail certain… obligations.”

His chuckle was a low, rich sound that made her toes curl.

“Obligations?” he repeated, as if savoring the word. “Sex should never be an obligation, wife. It should be a want—a desire that stirs within you, something you crave, something you cannot deny.”

Her face burned like a bonfire. “I—That—That is nae what I meant.”

“No?” He tilted his head, studying her. “Then what did you mean, Catriona?”

Her name on his lips was its own kind of caress.

“I meant nothin’!” she snapped, flustered beyond bearing. “Ye are puttin’ words in me mouth.”

His gaze never left hers, but he closed the distance between them with deliberate slowness.

“And yet here we are,” he murmured, his voice like velvet. “With you, a curious wife, standing on the precipice of temptation.”

Her pulse raced, but she refused to back down. “Curiosity has nothin’ to do with it,” she retorted, lifting her chin slightly.

His fingers grazed the side of her neck, the touch light but intimate, sending a shiver through her.

“Nor temptation?” he asked, his voice rough with restraint.

The heat between them was palpable now. She stayed still, though her chest rose and fell with quickened breath.

“I am nae… I am nae tempted by ye, Yer Grace,” she retorted, yet the moment she did, she wanted to laugh at herself, at how breathy her voice was.

“Is that so, wife?” he asked.

Amazingly, she found the last piece of strength within her to find her voice and reply, “Ye are the one who speaks of temptation, husband. Perhaps it’s ye who is tempted.”

His eyes went black, dark as a winter’s midnight.

For a moment, he simply stared at her, the air between them crackling like a struck flint. Then his mouth curved, slow and dangerous.

“You little minx,” he growled, his voice like gravel and velvet all at once. “You dare to provoke me, standing there with that sweet mouth and those defiant eyes?—”

He reached for her then, swift and sure, one hand sliding into her hair, the other anchoring low at her back, hauling her against him.

“—and you expect me to be made of stone?” he finished, right before his mouth crashed down onto hers.

The kiss was…

It was savage. Demanding.

He kissed her like he meant to claim every breath she had left, like he would not— could not —allow her a single thought that did not belong to him.

She kissed him back—slowly at first, as if testing the waters of something long denied. But then he deepened it, and she was lost. His lips teased hers in slow, deliberate strokes, tasting her, drawing out every shiver that passed through her.

His tongue swept into her mouth with a hunger that made her knees weaken, exploring her with maddening control—unhurried, yet unrelenting.

“Do you know how I have desired to touch you, Catriona? Ever since we met, you have carved yourself into my mind, my body continually searching for yours…” he murmured as his hands moved over her body with reverence and restraint, as though committing her shape to memory.

He traced the swell of her hips, the curve of her waist, his fingers brushing along her sides until he gripped her firmly, possessively, and pulled her against him.

She gasped softly as her back met the cool wall, but the heat of his body overwhelmed the chill. She was trapped between the hardness of the stone and the hard, unyielding strength of him.

One large hand cradled the back of her head, holding her steady as he kissed her deeper still, while the other slid down to cup her behind and press her flush to him.

She felt him—felt every inch of his desire through the thin barrier of clothing between them. It was impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend it did not affect her. Her breath caught as he groaned low in his throat, a sound that made her pulse race.

He pulled away just enough to look at her, his chest rising with restrained intensity, his gaze dark and unflinching.