Page 11 of His Scottish Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #5)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“ N o, no, not quite there,” Catherine instructed the footmen, her gaze fixed on the mahogany side table they were struggling to maneuver. “Just a touch to the left, if you please. Yes, that’s it.”

The men nodded and followed her instruction, moving the furniture in the direction she had pointed out.

A small sense of satisfaction bloomed in Catherine’s chest as the piece finally sat in the precise spot she had envisioned. It was a handsome table, its legs intricately carved. It had been languishing in the attic, draped in dust sheets, until she had retrieved it.

Slowly, room by room, Catherine was imbuing Rosehall with a different character. The rather terrifying and oppressive swathes of red were being replaced with softer hues of cream, sage, and a delicate sky blue. Heavy, uncomfortable settees, many positioned in the most peculiar of places, had been replaced with more practical, and less… suggestive furniture.

She had stuck to her goal of wanting to create a home within these walls, as opposed to the den of iniquity Sampson had fashioned it into before they had gotten married.

“Excellent work, gentlemen. Now, let’s move that shelf next. I want it to sit near the window,” she told the footmen, pointing at the oak bookshelf standing by the door.

Just as before, following the disastrous evening in the drawing room where she had so foolishly pried into Sampson’s past, Catherine had thrown herself into her duties. The memory of his anger, the cold dismissal in his eyes, still niggled at her. Occupying herself with running the household, making tangible changes, and proving herself to be capable of doing what she was tasked with was a way to push those unsettling thoughts to the corner. It was easier to focus on fabric swatches and furniture placement than on the chasm that seemed to be growing between her and her husband.

Her approach to this redecoration, however, was proving to be rather… unconventional—at least according to the subtle hints Mrs. Starling had been dropping. Raised with a keen awareness of household budgets, Catherine couldn’t quite bring herself to splurge on new furniture when the attic held a treasure trove of forgotten pieces.

They might be a little old-fashioned, perhaps lacking the current fashionable flair, but they were undeniably well-made and, more importantly, already paid for. She had reasoned that Sampson, for all his status, might not appreciate unnecessary extravagance.

“Are you quite certain about these draperies, Your Grace?” Mrs. Starling asked her one morning, her tone carefully neutral as she gestured towards the heavy damask Catherine had selected from the attic.

It was a rich, deep green, certainly not the most modern color, but the fabric was substantial and still in excellent condition.

“Perfectly certain, Mrs. Starling,” Catherine replied, smoothing a crease in the material. “They are far too good to waste, and the color will complement the new wallpaper beautifully.”

Mrs. Starling hesitated, a slight frown creasing her brow. “Of course, Your Grace. They are… of excellent quality. However…” She paused, clearly choosing her words with painstaking care. “Perhaps it’s better to choose something a little… lighter? More… in keeping with the current fashions?”

Catherine tilted her head, genuinely puzzled. “Lighter? But these are perfectly serviceable, and they will block out the drafts in the colder months most effectively.”

She thought her choices were sound and practical. Why did Mrs. Starling look so uncertain? The woman had never hesitated to speak her mind before.

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Mrs. Starling continued, her tone a delicate balance between politeness and professionalism. “They will certainly serve a purpose. It is just that for a house of this standing… one might expect…” she trailed off.

“Expect what, Mrs. Starling?” Catherine prompted, still not understanding the woman’s reservations.

Surely Mrs. Starling was not implying that her taste was poor, was she?

Mrs. Starling sighed almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps… a touch more… modernity? Just a tad. Some of the newer fabrics are quite exquisite, and the patterns are…” she trailed off again, much to Catherine’s growing ire and frustration.

“But these are perfectly good,” Catherine repeated, a touch of defensiveness creeping into her tone. “And I saw some rather lovely armchairs in the attic that will go wonderfully with them. They simply need a bit of reupholstering.”

Mrs. Starling gave a small, tight smile. “Of course, Your Grace. Your judgment is paramount.”

Although her words were resigned and meant to be somewhat encouraging, the lack of conviction in her voice was palpable.

This subtle back-and-forth continued for several days, and each of Mrs. Starling’s carefully veiled suggestions was met with Catherine’s confused but defensive justifications for utilizing the estate’s existing resources. Catherine truly believed she was being sensible, managing the household responsibly. She only hoped the Duke would approve.

The next afternoon, she was overseeing the placement of a newly reupholstered chaise lounge—a rather elegant piece with graceful curves that had been hidden away in a dusty corner of the attic—in one of the drawing rooms. She was quite pleased with how it had turned out; the faded brocade had been replaced with a tasteful striped fabric in shades of cream and gold.

As the footmen finally positioned it to her satisfaction, she heard familiar, quiet footsteps behind her. She froze, a wave of nervousness washing over her. She didn’t need to turn around to know it was Sampson.

She could feel his presence, like a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Her cheeks flushed, remembering the raw anger in his eyes when she had dared to ask about his brother and the subsequent awkwardness of their forced proximity in the bath.

The awkwardness that only she seemed to be bothered by.

She busied herself with straightening a cushion on the chaise, unable to bring herself to meet his gaze.

“Catherine…” His voice was neutral, devoid of the teasing lilt she had come to expect and grown used to.

Not to mention, he hardly called her by her name, preferring to refer to her as his Duchess or his wife.

Somehow, she knew she was in trouble.

Catherine swallowed hard. “Your Grace,” she murmured, still fiddling with the cushion, her fingers clumsy.

There was a moment of silence, and then she heard him move further into the room.

“What in God’s name is this ?” His tone was flat, but there was an undercurrent she couldn’t quite decipher.

Her heart sank. He had seen it. He had seen one of the redecorated rooms. And from the tone of his voice, she could only conclude that he did not like her handiwork.

Catherine finally forced herself to turn around, her gaze fixed on the floor just beyond his polished boots.

“It’s… It’s one of the drawing rooms, Your Grace,” she stammered, feeling foolish and inadequate.

“I can see that it is a drawing room,” he said, his voice still level. “What I cannot fathom is… this… concept.”

Catherine bit her lip, feeling more embarrassed. “I… I thought it would be… suitable. The furniture is of good quality, and I had it reupholstered…” she trailed off, the conviction she had felt earlier evaporating under his scrutiny.

“Suitable?” He repeated the word slowly as if tasting its inadequacy. “Catherine, follow me.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked out of the room. Catherine gathered her skirts and trailed after him, her stomach churning with apprehension.

He led her through the familiar hallways and into his study, the door closing behind them with a soft click.

He turned to face her, his dark blue eyes fixed firmly on her, and she still couldn’t bring herself to look at him properly, her gaze darting to the intricate patterns on his waistcoat.

“What is happening with the rooms, Catherine?” he asked, his tone leaving no room for evasion. “Why are they decorated with such… modesty?”

Catherine finally managed to lift her gaze to his chest, focusing on the crisp white of his shirt.

“I-I thought it would be best, Your Grace. I didn’t want to be wasteful, and there was a lot of perfectly good furniture in the attic…” she mumbled, feeling like a scolded child.

Sampson was silent for a moment, and then, in a voice laced with exasperation, he said, “Catherine, you need to spend more money.”

Catherine’s head snapped up, her wide eyes finally meeting his. “Spend more?”

“Yes, spend more,” he reiterated, his gaze steady. “You are the Duchess of Rosehall. This is the seat of a dukedom. It needs to reflect that.”

Catherine’s cheeks burned with mortification. How could she have been so oblivious?

Of course. Her husband was a duke. It was only fair—and necessary—for his home to reflect grandeur, with no expense spared to achieve that goal. It was so obvious, and yet she hadn’t even considered it from that perspective. Her frugal upbringing had completely clouded her judgment.

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” she mumbled, her gaze dropping again. “I shall fix it—I’ll fix it all. As soon as I can.”

“Catherine,” Sampson said, his voice a touch sharper this time.

Catherine could feel his eyes on her, and it made her even more uncomfortable. She fought the urge to squirm.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Look at me,” he commanded.

Reluctantly, Catherine raised her eyes to his. His expression was unreadable, but she sensed a flicker of something. Not anger, but perhaps impatience.

“You are usually far too spirited to be skulking around like a scolded child,” he noted, his gaze searching hers. “I prefer it when you have a bit more fire.”

Catherine tried not to dwell on that unexpected remark, her mind still reeling from her blunder with the redecoration.

“I-I understand, Your Grace,” she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “I will ensure that the rooms are redone in a more suitable style. One befitting your… your status.”

Sampson opened his mouth to respond, but she rushed on, eager to escape this embarrassing conversation.

“I truly am sorry, Your Grace. I didn’t think, and that was clearly a mistake. I will aim to be better prepared in the future.”

Catherine quickly turned to walk towards the door, desperate to put some distance between them and her rather disappointing oversight.

“Catherine.” Sampson’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

She turned back, her hand still on the doorknob.

“Is this it?” he asked, his gaze intense. “Is this mild scolding all it takes to turn you into… this? Some bashful creature?” He gestured vaguely towards her, his expression a mixture of frustration and something else she couldn’t quite place. “Like a sheep?”

Catherine’s spine stiffened despite her embarrassment. “I am not a sheep, Your Grace.”

“Then stop looking like one,” he said, a hint of something dangerous in his tone. “Because it tempts me to… become the wolf.”

Catherine’s breath hitched. The air in the study suddenly felt thick, charged with an unspoken tension that had nothing to do with furniture or finances. She remained by the door, unsure what to do or say. And apparently, that was another thing she had gotten wrong.

“Come here,” Sampson commanded, his eyes never leaving hers.

Against her better judgment, despite her instinct to flee, Catherine obeyed. Her feet moved of their own accord, carrying her towards him.

He was seated behind his desk, looking like the most powerful man she had ever laid her eyes on.

In some ways, Sampson was exactly that.

He reached out, his hand finding hers, and gently pulled her closer until she was standing directly in front of him. Then, with a swift tug, he pulled her onto his lap, her skirts pooling on the leather cushion.

Catherine’s heart hammered against her ribs, the sudden intimacy jarring the rest of her senses. She looked up at him, her eyes wide as a mixture of apprehension and a strange, undeniable yearning swirled within her.

“If you are truly sorry, Catherine,” he murmured, his gaze searching hers for a moment, before dropping to her lips, “then you should make it up to me.”

Catherine could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle tension in his muscles. She knew exactly what he was implying. He was trying to take advantage of her guilt. And yet a part of her, the part that had been inexplicably drawn to him from the moment they met, felt a strange pull, a reluctant willingness.

“What… what do you want, Your Grace?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

His lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Kiss me, Catherine.”

Catherine hesitated for a fleeting moment. Her mind flashed back to his anger, to the chasm between them. But then her senses were overwhelmed by the nearness of him. She caught the familiar scent that clung to his skin—woodsy, sharp, and with a hint of spice that always stirred something within her. She had missed it, this tangible presence that had been absent in the days since their last encounter.

Before she could think further, her hands rose almost instinctively to rest on his shoulders. And then she leaned in, her lips meeting his.

The kiss started tentatively, a soft exploration, but it quickly deepened, becoming more urgent, more demanding. She needed more and hoped he would do what he did best—break down her walls and take what he wanted.

And he did just that.

He held her close, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her tighter against him. His mouth moved over hers with a possessiveness that both startled and thrilled her.

His hands left her waist, one sliding up to cup her cheek, the other tracing the curve of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. He broke the kiss, his breath warm against her ear.

“You taste like guilt and a hint of defiance, Catherine,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “A most intriguing combination, but yet so sweet. Just like you were last time.”

He trailed soft kisses along her jawline, down to the sensitive skin of her neck, and she couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped her lips. His fingers then began to trace the neckline of her gown—a slow, deliberate exploration that made heat pool in her belly.

He whispered soft, teasing words against her skin, his breath tickling, igniting a fire within her. He kissed her again, deeply, his tongue tangling with hers, and his hand slipped beneath the fabric of her dress, his touch sending a jolt of pure sensation through her.

Sampson did not hesitate as his hand moved to her core, his touch knowing and sure, his finger gently dipping into the dampness she had tried to hide.

There was a tenderness in his exploration, and an attentiveness to her reactions that surprised her, coaxing whines and breathless gasps from her lips. He teased and petted her, his fingers working their magic, and she found herself lost in the sensations—the guilt and embarrassment momentarily forgotten in the rising tide of desire.

He must have noticed her efforts to stifle the sounds escaping her lips as she clung to him desperately, because he tutted in displeasure and shook his head.

“I won’t have that, pet. You shouldn’t hide from your husband,” he chastised, leaning back slightly to look her in the eye, smirking at her disheveled appearance. “I want to hear everything. I have a right to know if you are enjoying this or not—lest you think me selfish, doing this solely for my own pleasure.”

Catherine’s skin felt like it was on fire, and she tried to focus on the burning sensation, rather than the stillness of his fingers.

“Are y-you not? Doing this for your own pleasure, I-I mean,” she breathed.

He brought up his hand and rested it on her breastbone, sliding it down at a painstakingly slow pace until his palm cupped her breast. Without breaking eye contact, he squeezed the plump flesh, satisfied when she crumbled almost immediately, smirking as she arched into his touch.

“My pleasure is hardly significant when you make such stunning expressions. Now, do not deprive me of the sound of your voice any longer.”

She had hardly regained her composure when his fingers began to move inside her again, the suddenness of his thrust taking her completely by surprise and pulling a loud whine past her lips.

“Good. Very good, Catherine,” Sampson whispered, kissing her deeply.

Catherine found herself clinging to him again, desperate to ease the pressure in her core, her face buried in his neck, moaning as she finally fell off the edge and into the seemingly endless pools of pleasure.

Breathless and flushed, she leaned back against his shoulder, her body humming with a strange, delicious ache. He looked down at her, his gaze dark and intense, a hint of a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

“There,” he murmured, his voice still rough with passion. “I believe that makes us even.”

Catherine could only nod, unable to find her voice.

He adjusted her skirts—a surprisingly gentle gesture—before announcing, “I will arrange for the modiste to come to Rosehall tomorrow.”

“The modiste?” Catherine repeated, still slightly dazed.

“Yes, the modiste,” he said, his gaze firm. “As I said, Catherine, you are the Duchess of Rosehall. My wife will wear only the finest, most expensive clothes. It is a matter of presentation. You should look every bit the Duchess that you are.”

“But Your Grace,” Catherine began, the practical side of her rearing its head. “I have perfectly good gowns?—”

He gently cut off her objections, a smile playing on his lips. “You can just thank me, Duchess.”

Catherine looked up at him, a maelstrom of emotions swirling within her—shyness, lingering desire, and reluctant gratitude.

With a deep inhale, she spoke, her cheeks still flushed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”