Page 22 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess (Scottish Duchesses #2)

Chapter Seventeen

“ C han eil dad a’s fhiach a bhith aige nach fiach a bhith a’ feitheamh ris.” Nothing worth having is not worth waiting for.

“Lord Mortridge,” Richard said, his tone formal as he presented Catriona, who was a vision of loveliness in a simple but well-cut violet gown. “May I introduce my wife, the Duchess of Wilthorne.”

The evening of the dinner party arrived, cloaked in an atmosphere of unease for Catriona. This was their first official outing as man and wife.

Lord Mortridge’s estate was grand, bordering on ostentatious, and the air within felt heavy, charged with something she couldn’t quite place. It was so unlike the organic, refined beauty of Wilthorne.

Lord Mortridge turned, his dark eyes sweeping over Catriona with an intensity that made her skin prickle. She did not care for his roving gaze. He offered a shallow bow, a thin smile stretching across his lips.

“Your Grace. A pleasure. The duke has spoken of your arrival,” he said.

Catriona offered a polite smile in return, as she willed the shiver of unease to dissipate.

Aye, there is somethin’ about this man’s gaze. Impolite, and lingerin’ a moment too long for a married lady. Let alone a duchess.

“Lord Mortridge,” she replied with a curtsy, willing her tone to remain neutral.

The initial awkwardness was soon broken by the arrival of other guests. Catriona found herself drawn into conversation with Lord Abernathy, an older gentleman with a lively interest in all things Scottish.

“So, Your Grace,” he chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “Please tell me if it is true that men still wear kilts? Even in the middle of a cold winter?”

Catriona laughed, the sound genuine and hearty. “Indeed, me lord. Though I assure ye, they are often made of sturdy wool! And we have the finest sheep in Scotland, although dinnae let Mister Featherstone hear you!”

“Don’t tell me he’s here! I cannot suffer through another conversation about the merits of playing music to animals,” he said as they laughed together.

She found herself relaxing in his easy-going manner and his genuine curiosity. It was a welcome change from the stifling politeness and sometimes cruelty she often encountered.

Much to his chagrin, the seating arrangements placed Lord Abernathy next to Catriona with Richard opposite them. Richard was unable to make polite conversation, instead hanging on every word exchanged so playfully between them.

“Aye, it was then I learned how to fish,” Catriona joked with him, taking a delicate sip of her champagne. “Me faither insisted I be able to fend for meself, if I were to be venturin’ out in the Highlands.”

“I daresay, my dear lady, I can quite easily envision you as a most formidable force of nature,” Lord Abernathy said, his voice dripping with exaggerated admiration as he flitted his gaze over Catriona.

“Indeed, I would never wish to find myself at odds with you! You are quite the siren of antiquity—stunning in both beauty and strength. You would surely have men trembling at your feet, should you but glance in their direction,” Abernathy finished, and gave a small, knowing smile, his fingers delicately adjusting the edge of his cravat as he awaited her reaction.

“Ye flatter me too much, me lord,” Catriona remarked as she tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Although, I gladly will take yer compliments.”

Richard’s hand tightened around his wineglass as Lord Abernathy’s words floated in the air, the syrupy tone grating against his nerves. He swallowed the wine, a bitter edge to the taste that had nothing to do with the drink itself.

His jaw tightened as he forced himself to keep his expression neutral, unwilling to give Abernathy the satisfaction of seeing any reaction.

The dandy’s flowery compliments might have charmed the more delicate of society, but Richard was no such man. He could see the way the others in the room pretended to admire Abernathy’s smooth words, yet no one ever dared challenge the man.

Catriona’s gaze shifted from Lord Abernathy and locked onto Richard. Her lips curled into a subtle, flirtatious smile—one that felt like a spark, a challenge thrown carelessly in his direction. Richard felt it like a punch to the gut, the fire igniting in his chest, spreading fast.

His body tensed involuntarily, the raw edge of jealousy flaring within him.

He could feel it in the way she looked at him— knowing, playful, as if she were well aware of the effect she had on him.

The teasing glint in her eyes was enough to make his pulse quicken, his thoughts slipping into dangerous territory.

Two can play at this game.

Driven by impulse, Richard reached under the tablecloth and placed his hand firmly on Catriona’s thigh. He gave a tight squeeze and smirked in anticipation of her reaction.

Catriona’s eyes flickered downwards, a surprised frown creasing her brow as if trying to figure out what had happened.

She glanced up at Richard, a silent question in her gaze.

The expression he returned was purposefully unreadable, donning the mask of polite attention to the conversation happening around him while his true attention rested on his defiant wife.

All he cared about was the vision in front of him.

Slowly, subtly, and deliberately, Catriona shifted her leg away, removing herself from his touch and crossing her legs together.

Richard narrowed his eyes and stared at her for a long, tense moment.

Our game isn’t over .

He edged forward in his seat as far as he could, taking his hand again and placing it on her knee. He swirled his fingers in a pleasing rhythm as he inched toward her.

“Duchess, are you quite all right?” Lord Mortridge asked her as Catriona began to cough. “Is the soup to your liking? I am unsure what they serve in the Highlands.”

“The soup is delightful,” she whispered as she regained control, swatting away Richard’s hand beneath the table with a swipe of her napkin. “Just a tickle in me throat is all. Thank ye, me lord.”

“Some champagne could soothe your throat, my lady,” Lord Abernathy offered as he glanced at her glass.

The sight of the old man again engaging so easily with her infuriated Richard.

He put his hand on her leg, but this time more forcefully.

He saw her stifling a gasp as she parted her legs slightly, letting him delicately trace the insides of her legs through her gown.

And for the rest of the soup course.

And with each soft caress, Richard carved you are mine into her skin .

The ride home was fraught with heavy, unspoken tension as neither could decide how to broach the topic of their dinner games.

As soon as they were inside Wilthorne, Catriona rounded on Richard, her voice gaining confidence.

“What in heaven’s name was that at dinner?”

“You are a duchess now, Catriona,” Richard said as he pulled her aside, away from the staff, his eyes dark. “You will conduct yourself accordingly in front of others.”

A wry smile touched Catriona’s lips. “Accordingly?”

“Yes, accordingly .”

“As in, silent and ignored while ye brood? Or perhaps you meant nae daring to enjoy the company of another human bein’?”

“You were overly familiar with Lord Abernathy,” Richard ground out, the jealousy still raw in his voice.

“Overly familiar? We were having a conversation, Richard. Somethin’ you rarely seem inclined to do with me.” She leaned closer, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Are you… jealous? Of an auld man like him?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Och, but I think ye are, husband,” Catriona persisted, enjoying his discomfort. “That hand on me thigh certainly suggested a certain territoriality.”

“Ah yes, but you liked that hand on your thigh, didn’t you, wife?”

“Dinnae flatter yerself!”

“I bet you wish I had inched my fingers higher. Don’t you?”

“Stop it, right now!”

He stiffened, his composure momentarily cracking as electricity hummed between them.

“Cat…” Richard began, his voice husky as he put his arm above her head, cornering her in the hallway.

His body inched dangerously close to hers as he took in her lavender and vanilla scent, threatening to overtake his control.

“Aye, dinnae ‘Cat’ me, ye scoundrel,” she clipped at him. “I ought to?—”

Suddenly, a small voice came from the hallway, and Catriona closed her mouth quickly.

“Catriona?” Lydia called as she stood in the hall, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

“Lydia! What is it, me dear?” she asked as she drew her in a tight embrace. “What a joy to hear yer sweet voice,” she cooed.

And then she took his niece’s hand and guided her back up the stairs, leaving him to burn in desire alone.

In the days that followed, Lydia came out of her shell. Her small sentences were still halting and short, but the silence that had shrouded her for so long was slowly breaking, like the melting of icy snow.

Catriona took joy in their outings and interactions, as they became peppered with conversation. It was a delight to hear some of the thoughts within the girl’s head.

One evening at dinner, a shadow fell over Lydia’s small face. She pushed her food around her plate, unable to eat her venison.

“Lydia? Why aren’t you eating?” Richard asked.

Lydia looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears as she brought her napkin up to dab them.

“Sad,” she whispered to him, her voice barely audible.

“Sad?” Richard asked, his tone more bewildered than comforting. “Why are you sad?”

“Miss Papa,” Lydia mumbled, her lower lip trembling. “And Mama.”

Richard sighed, a pragmatic frown creasing his brow. He knew he was ill-equipped for such things, but something about the girl’s confiding in him pulled at him.

I must say something.

“Well, there’s no point in dwelling on things that cannot be changed,” he said, a vain attempt to put distance between the present and the past. “You need to trudge forward and onward.”

No sooner had the words escaped his lips, he realized his attempt at comfort fell woefully short. His words were meant to be helpful, but they registered as cold and dismissive.

Catriona’s eyes flashed with anger as she set down her utensils.

“How can ye say such a thin’, Yer Grace? She has lost both her parents! Of course, she is sad. It is perfectly natural for her to grieve,” she said as she narrowed her eyes on him.

“One must not be consumed by grief,” Richard retorted sharply. “She needs to learn to move on if she wishes to do well in this world of ours.”

“Move on?” Catriona’s voice rose higher, her own pain rising to meet Lydia’s.

“She is a bairn! She needs understanding and compassion, nae cold pronouncements!” Her control snapped.

“Ye speak of loss as though she’s lost her favorite ribbon, nae someone she loved!

Even I, who am much older than her, find meself yearnin’ for me faither. She has every right to grieve.”

“She needs to be strong,” he persisted.

“Strong? Ye think strength comes from pushing yer feelings away?” she scoffed, “Watching yer faither and maither die before yer eyes isnae something ye can push away, Yer Grace! Because I will never forget me faither’s body bein’ dragged from the water!”

He knew that the late Lord Craigleith had died, but the circumstances had never been shared. He took in the words with a forced gulp.

“You saw—” he began to ask, but Catriona had already risen.

“Excuse me,” Catriona said, her voice choked, and without meeting Richard’s gaze, she turned and fled the room.

Lydia watched her go, her small face mirroring Catriona’s distress.

“Leave too?” she whispered, looking at Richard with wide, pleading eyes.

Richard, still reeling from Catriona’s unexpected revelation and the raw pain in her voice, simply nodded.

“Yes, Lydia. You may go.”

He was left alone in the silent dining room, the weight of the sudden, unsettling glimpse into his wife’s past pressing down on him.

Surely it was only concern for Catriona. For himself, he was done with grief.

He could not afford grief.