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CHAPTER THREE

“ Y ou look beautiful, Miss Lennox,” Anna whispered, her fingers deftly securing the last pearl clasp on Catherine’s gown.

The girl’s eyes were wide with admiration as she fussed with the delicate lace of Catherine’s wedding dress, smoothing out wrinkles that weren’t there. Her enthusiasm was urging Catherine’s spirit to remain afloat as she stared at her reflection, trying to match Anna’s excitement.

The best the bride-to-be could manage was a weak smile, her gaze fixed on the looking glass. “Thank you, Anna. I… I feel quite unlike myself.”

The dress was beautiful, an ivory masterpiece of silk and lace—a choice she would never have been able to make by herself.

Her mother and older sister Margeret had gone with her to the modiste, and after hours of indecisively shuffling through racks and racks of fabrics, they had eventually picked out a dress for her.

Catherine had fallen in love with it almost immediately, enamored with the soft fabric, the delicate lace, and the intricate embroidery patterns on the sleeves and bodice.

“ It will serve as a reminder of our love when we’re nae with ye. And it will remind ye of how proud we are of ye, and how grateful ,” her mother had told her as she had stared at her in the modiste’s mirror and wept.

At the time, those words had been a comfort. Now, standing in a stranger’s home, about to marry a man she barely knew, they only heightened the ache inside her.

“My mother and my sister chose it for me,” she added after a few moments. “They had hoped that helping me pick one would ease the weight of their absence.”

The exquisite dress, chosen with such love, did little to lighten the burden of her missing them now that the wedding day had finally arrived.

Each stitch, and even the weight of the fabric, did serve as a reminder of their love, but it also aided their absence in leaving a gaping hole in her heart.

She had hoped that wearing the dress would bring her closer to them and grant her the final burst of courage she needed to proceed with the wedding ceremony.

But the longer she stayed in it, the less it felt like a comforting embrace and the more it felt like a physical manifestation of the burden she was about to bear.

“They made an excellent choice. You look remarkable, Miss Lennox. Your mother and sister would be so proud,” Anna continued, her voice soft and reassuring. “The gown suits you perfectly.”

Catherine’s gaze drifted to the window, where the morning light filtered through the sheer curtains. “I miss them,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I miss them all.”

Anna placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“I understand, Miss Lennox. It’s natural to miss your family, especially on such an important day.

But you are strong, and you are brave. You are embarking on a new chapter, and you will find happiness here.

They would want you to be happy, Miss Lennox.

And you will be. The Duke…” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “He is a fortunate man.”

Catherine inhaled deeply as she turned to Anna, her green eyes filled with a mixture of apprehension and determination. “I hope so, Anna. I truly do. Thank you, for being here.”

The hours that followed were a blur of hushed activity.

The servants, their movements swift and silent, prepared her for the ceremony.

Her auburn hair, usually a cascade of unruly curls, was now meticulously arranged into an elegant updo, secured with delicate pearl pins.

The dusting of freckles across her nose seemed more pronounced, a stark contrast to the pale, almost ethereal complexion reflected in the glass.

At the very least, she looked ready to get married.

“It was my pleasure, Miss Lennox.” Anna curtsied gracefully.

Just then, a knock sounded at the bedroom door. Anna rushed over to it, and when the door was opened, another maid walked in, curtsying.

“They’re ready for you, Miss Lennox.”

Catherine inhaled sharply, her gaze snapping back to her reflection.

Anxieties and loneliness aside, she needed to do this. She had come all this way for this very task, and she had every intention of fulfilling it.

For her family.

She turned to the maid, her head held up high as she said, “Lead the way.”

As she was led through the gardens and towards the orangery, Catherine felt a strange sense of detachment, as if she were watching herself from a distance.

The atmosphere was thick with anticipation, and she could somehow still hear the hushed whispers of the servants echoing through the corridors when she had walked past them earlier.

The orangery, a glass-walled structure at the edge of the estate, was bathed in soft, golden light. The air was heavy with the scent of orange blossoms, a cloying sweetness that soothed her frayed nerves a little.

She had expected a grand affair, a spectacle befitting a duke.

She had steeled her nerves in preparation for being stared at and judged by strangers.

However, she found herself standing before a makeshift altar instead.

The only other soul present besides the vicar and Sampson was a man whose presence exuded a palpable menace.

He was tall, with a lean, almost predatory build, and his eyes, dark and piercing, held a coldness that made her skin crawl. He stood silently, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. She wondered who he was, and why he was the sole witness to their wedding.

His presence amplified the absence of her family, making her feel even more isolated. The reality before her differed greatly from the gathering of lords and ladies, and the celebration that she had imagined. Instead, there was only this solitary, intimidating figure with a disconcerting aura.

Was it really just him? No one else was invited? She couldn’t help but wonder, quickly looking away after she met the man’s eyes, feeling embarrassed.

Catherine shifted her gaze as she continued her walk down the aisle, finding Sampson standing beside the vicar, looking every inch the powerful Duke.

His dark brown hair had taken on warm hints of gold.

His blue eyes, which were so often filled with teasing amusement, were now serious and intent as they settled on her.

Her breath caught. Despite everything—his reputation, the circumstances of their union—she could not deny that he was strikingly handsome. And he was waiting for her .

When she finally reached his side, he extended his hand, palm up.

Slowly, she slipped her hand into his, taken aback by the warmth and strength of his touch, even more so by the electricity that shot through her veins.

The simple touch, so casual, so seemingly innocuous, sent a ripple of agitation through her.

The ceremony was brief, and the words were spoken quickly and efficiently. Catherine barely registered the vows, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

She wished her father had been there to walk her down the aisle. She had hoped to hear her mother’s tearful sniffles from the pews. She longed to see the excited faces of her siblings wishing her well as she began a new journey.

But all she had at that moment was the unexpectedly grounding feel of Sampson’s hand around hers. The moment the vicar pronounced them husband and wife, she felt a strange sense of finality, as if a door had slammed shut behind her.

It was done. She was now the Duchess of Rosehall.

As soon as the ceremony ended, Sampson’s hand slipped from hers as he turned to the man who had been watching them, engaging in a low, intense conversation. Catherine, feeling a sense of unease about being left alone, waited for an introduction. But none came.

The man, after a brief, dismissive glance in her direction, merely strode out of the orangery once he finished speaking with her husband, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor.

Catherine barely gathered her wits before she was ushered into a smaller chamber in the manor for the wedding breakfast.

The meal was a simple affair, further continuing the mediocrity her wedding seemed to have been built upon. Only she and Sampson sat at the long dining table, a spread of roasted meats, fresh bread, and fruit between them.

The silence stretched between them, punctuated by the sounds of cutlery on ceramic dishes. The lack of conversation made her immensely uncomfortable, and worse, it made her long for her family even more.

She found herself missing her younger brother’s endless chatter, Margeret’s fussing, and her younger sister’s wide-eyed curiosity. Mealtimes had always been lively back home, filled with teasing and shared stories. Here, with Sampson, it felt empty.

She lifted her gaze to him. “You did not introduce me to the man who attended our wedding. Who was he?”

Sampson, who had been cutting his meat with unhurried precision, glanced at her. “Frederick.”

She waited for more—some explanation of who this man was and why he was seemingly important enough to be the only one to attend their wedding. But none came.

Catherine sighed, not used to having to prolong a conversation. “Is he a friend?”

A smirk tugged at Sampson’s lips. “Of sorts. I mostly keep him around due to his… usefulness. But I suppose you could say that he is my friend.”

Catherine narrowed her eyes. “That is nae an answer.”

His smirk widened, but he said nothing more, refocusing his attention on his plate. He made no further attempts to converse with her, and so she let the matter be, feeling worn out.

After the meal, they retired to the drawing room for some tea and cake, the blackcurrant cake brightening her mood slightly as she ate it.

Sampson studied her over the rim of his teacup. “You’re quiet, Duchess.”

The title sent a strange shiver down her spine. She glanced at him warily. “I am… adjusting. This is all so new. There is so much to do now. So much I do not know. Being a duchess is a serious responsibility.”