Page 13 of His Scottish Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #5)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“ H er Grace will be down shortly, Your Grace,” Anna announced, her voice soft in the vast foyer.

Sampson nodded, his gaze fixed on the grand staircase that curved gracefully towards the upper floors. He had been down there for a few minutes now, and although he hated all forms of tardiness, he was not as bothered tonight that his wife had yet to finish getting ready for the ball.

He couldn’t help but grant her some leniency, given his awareness of how hard she was working. Despite her reservations and her initial penchant for arguing against his every word, Catherine was doing her very best to look worthy of her new title, and he couldn’t help but feel proud of how far she had come.

“There is no need to rush her,” he replied, his tone even. “I am quite content to wait.”

Though, truthfully, a restless energy simmered beneath his composed exterior. He couldn’t deny that he had been anticipating this evening with a strange mixture of excitement and… something else he couldn’t quite name.

He shifted his weight, adjusting his crisp white cravat. He had seen Catherine in her finery before, of course. However, it had been their wedding day. There was something undeniably thrilling about the anticipation of a grand ball, of seeing her amidst the glittering ton, that had him more on edge than he cared to admit. He had told her to dress with the goal of impressing everyone. He was now realizing that he should have been more specific.

She should only aim to impress him.

After what felt like countless minutes, she finally appeared.

As Catherine descended the stairs, Sampson’s breath caught in his throat, startled by the vision that she was. The gown, a shimmering emerald green silk, draped her figure with a grace that made his hands itch to tear it off her. The color made her auburn hair shimmer with an almost ethereal glow, and the gleaming emeralds at her throat and ears made her green eyes sparkle like precious jewels.

He felt a surge of something heavy and all-consuming—which he quickly tamped down. But it was hard not to feel so much at the sight of her so radiant, so utterly captivating. His Duchess was good at making it difficult to maintain his carefully constructed facade of indifference, and to his surprise, it intrigued him, rather than bothered him.

“Well,” he drawled as she reached him, “it seems you have taken my advice to heart. Did you find it absolutely necessary to wear something that would surely turn every head in the room?”

Catherine’s lips curved into a soft smile. “The only attention I wish to draw is already mine,” she replied, her voice laced with a playful boldness that made his heart skip a beat. “And it belongs to my husband.”

Sampson felt a strange itch in his chest, a fluttering sensation that he quickly dismissed as indigestion. He let his gaze wander over his beautiful wife once more.

He was pleasantly surprised by her forwardness and aimed to reward her in kind.

“My attention is all yours, whenever you desire it,” he said, his voice a touch huskier than he intended.

She blushed, her cheeks taking on a delicate pink that only seemed to enhance her beauty—much to his irritation.

He offered her his arm, and she took it, her fingers light on his sleeve as he led her to the waiting carriage, the silence between them charged with tension.

It was when they were comfortably seated inside the carriage and well on their way that Sampson found something to say.

“Enjoy yourself, Catherine,” he said simply. “Don’t concern yourself too much with the machinations of the ton. Do not worry about their concerns or their impression of you. They are not worth the hassle. And I will be by your side all evening.”

Catherine smiled softly at him and nodded. “All right. I will do as you ask and trust you.”

The carriage rattled through the London streets, and soon they arrived at the home of their hosts.

Sampson had mentioned that the host was a business partner, and as such, making an appearance at the event was a sign of good faith.

“Usually, I would rather avoid events like these,” he told her as they walked down the hall towards the grand ballroom. “They tend to do nothing but wear me out, so I do not make a habit of attending unless it is absolutely necessary. However, since this ball is being hosted by a potentially invaluable partner, I must yield, just this once.”

They reached the top of the stairs, and after a nod in the direction of the master of ceremonies, the man nodded back and announced, “The Duke and Duchess of Rosehall!”

It seemed as though the chatter intensified, spreading curiosity as Sampson led them down the stairs into the sea of guests.

Catherine clung to him tightly, both thrilled and overwhelmed to be at such a social event. The ball was brightly lit, and the air was filled with music and conversation, providing the guests with several forms of entertainment in one setting. The din made Catherine miss her family, as she was sure it was something they would have enjoyed greatly.

She could feel Sampson’s gaze on her, a constant, unwavering presence. His hand rested on the small of her back, his steady, warm touch sending a shiver down her spine. Although the touch was light, it felt as if the heat of his palm was on her bare skin, rather than the layers of silk and lace. She tried to ignore the sensation, to focus on the glittering chandeliers and the elegantly dressed guests, but it was impossible.

Just as it had begun to overwhelm her senses, a beautiful woman approached her with a smile.

“These balls do tend to be overwhelming, do they not?” she asked, startling Catherine slightly.

She glared at Sampson playfully and made a shooing motion at him, and to Catherine’s surprise, he sighed and lowered his possessive hand.

“I am quite familiar with their tactics. Welcome to London, Duchess. I am Eleanor Montague, the Duchess of Ironvale.”

It was a pleasant surprise to meet a fellow duchess, and Catherine couldn’t help the glee spreading through her.

“Oh, how do you do? I am Catherine Richards, the Duchess of Rosehall. But I suppose you already knew that.” Catherine smiled shyly. “Pleased to meet you, Duchess.”

“The pleasure is all mine! You have no clue how long we’ve kept our fingers crossed that Sampson would finally find a wife. It feels as though we’re witnessing nothing short of a miracle in this moment. My husband was the only one who got to attend your wedding. How are you settling into London?”

Catherine blinked, slightly confused. Eleanor’s husband had attended her wedding?

That was when a deep voice cut through the air.

“Do not overwhelm her so soon, dearest. She looks out of her depth already,” a man stated, wrapping an arm around Eleanor’s waist and pulling her flush against his side.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Frederick. Greet her properly!” Eleanor whisper-hissed, playfully smacking his chest with the back of her hand.

As the man fixed his gaze on her, Catherine realized what the gnawing feeling had been. She knew him. He had been the only one to attend her wedding, and her husband had claimed they were friends.

“Frederick Montague, the Duke of Ironvale.” Frederick nodded at her in acknowledgment.

Catherine nodded, bowing her head slightly to him.

It was quite interesting, how he had none of the imposing energy he had carried the first time she had seen him—likely because he had not had his wife with him. It was clear how much he adored Eleanor, from the way he held her so preciously and looked at her.

It made Catherine wonder if she would ever find such love.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Duke. I’m very sorry that I was unable to send a proper thank you note for attending our wedding,” she replied with a small smile, feeling very comfortable around the couple.

Frederick smiled warmly. “Think nothing of it, Duchess. I might have looked slightly forlorn because I had been told that I could not bring Eleanor along, but I am glad to have been able to attend as a witness. Your husband, as annoying as he might be, is a very dear friend to me, and it was truly no large feat to attend his wedding. Eleanor has been positively buzzing with excitement to meet you.”

Eleanor reached out to hold and squeeze Catherine’s hand. “We must have you over for tea soon,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “And perhaps a game of cards. We’ll have such fun!”

“Perhaps you should ask her what she considers fun, dearest,” Frederick pointed out with a cheeky smile. “Not everyone likes to sit out in the cold to plant little rose seedlings.”

Eleanor pouted at him, then she turned to Catherine. “Do not mind my dear, worry-wart husband. He is merely concerned because I am still recovering from a cold. However you choose to spend your time is fine by me. I only ask that you come over for tea sometime,” she told her with an earnest expression.

“I would be greatly honored, Duchess,” Catherine returned honestly.

“Please, don’t be so formal,” Eleanor said, looking aghast. “You may call me Eleanor.”

Frederick chuckled, his gaze tender as he looked at his wife. “This must be the most entertained you’ve been since your dahlias bloomed,” he teased, patting her shoulders gently. “Are you sure you are not cold? I fear you will catch a chill.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes playfully. “Oh, Frederick, you fuss too much. I am perfectly fine.” She then brightened, her gaze sweeping over the ballroom. “Though I must admit, I am longing for my garden. And our little one.”

“Indeed,” Frederick said, a hint of amusement in his voice as he glanced at Catherine. “I suspect my dear wife was a nature sprite in a past life, given her fondness for all things green and growing. Fondness she has now passed on to our son. It is as though I have the forces of nature living under my roof.”

Catherine smiled, charmed by their easy banter and evident affection. She felt a pang of what she could only describe as yearning as she watched them—a longing for a similar connection, a similar warmth.

Just then, Sampson’s hand returned to its position on her lower back, and he pulled her to his side.

“Shall we dance, Catherine?” he asked, his voice low.

Catherine’s smile faltered. “Oh, Your Grace,” she began, her voice laced with a hint of panic. “I-I am not a very good dancer. I fear I would only embarrass myself.”

“Nonsense,” Sampson replied, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You only need to impress me, and you have already done so with the way you look in that dress.”

He pulled her towards the dance floor, his grip firm but gentle.

“But…” Catherine trailed off as he led her into the swirling throng of dancers.

As they moved together, Sampson’s hand never left her waist, his touch a constant reminder of his presence. His eyes never strayed from her form, his lips pulled intoa slight smirk.

He leaned forward suddenly and whispered, “I know I asked you to dress up for the occasion, but I cannot help but want to hide you away from the world, now that I see that you attract attention far too easily. I feel particularly inclined to lock you in a room somewhere and show you that a lot of fun can be had, particularly without this lovely dress you’re wearing.”

“Do… do you always think of me in a state of undress?” she ventured.

“Not always. It is not as though we cannot do some of the activities I have in mind while clothed,” Sampson stated. “But perhaps this once, I would like to show off your remarkable beauty to these rather fortunate bastards—not because they deserve to behold you, but because I believe that some treasures should be marveled at and worshipped.”

Catherine lowered her eyes. “No one has… No one has ever said such things to me. And you’re quite a looker yourself.”

Sampson nodded with a grin. “That is why we make an ideal pair.”

His words made her cheeks flush and her heart pound. She tried to focus on the steps, on the rhythm of the music, but he continued to distract her with his words and his touch, clearly deriving a lot of joy from seeing her squirm.

When the music finally ended, Catherine breathed a sigh of relief, feeling a mixture of exhilaration and embarrassment. There was certainly a moment where she had enjoyed herself. However, with all the stares she could feel on her, she felt as though her lack of skills was quite obvious.

She was glad that it was over, but her reprieve was short-lived. As they walked towards the edge of the dance floor, she overheard snippets of conversation, harsh whispers that cut through the music that was starting up again.

“Such dreadful dancing,” a woman sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. “She moves like a… a milkmaid, not a duchess.”

Another woman, her voice sharp and brittle, chimed in, “And have you seen her hair? That fiery red is hardly fashionable, and those freckles… quite unsightly, really.”

A third voice, laced with arrogance, added, “She clearly has no class. It’s obvious she’s not accustomed to polite society. One wonders what the Duke of Rosehall was thinking—marrying someone below his standards. A hasty marriage, no doubt.”

“She’ll never fit in, you know,” the first woman concluded. “She has no hope of properly adjusting. Mark my words, this will end in disaster.”

Catherine’s cheeks burned, and she instinctively shrank back, wishing she could disappear. The words hit her like a physical blow, confirming her deepest insecurities. She had tried so hard to fit in, to learn the rules and customs of this new land, but it seemed it was never enough.

But before she could fully process the sting of their words, Sampson stepped forward, his voice cutting through the whispers like a sharp blade. The playful charm he had displayed moments ago vanished, replaced by a cold, dangerous edge.

“Ladies,” he said, his voice low and smooth, but with an underlying steel that made their eyes widen, “I could not help but overhear your… observations about my wife. Allow me to assure you that my wife is absolutely perfect for me because she was not born to serve you or meet your rigid expectations. Her unique beauty captivates me every day, and she possesses a grace and intelligence that surpasses anything you could possibly comprehend.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping over them, his eyes glittering with a hint of menace.

For a moment, Catherine got a good look at the Sampson who had a reputation for being a shrewd businessman who didn’t hesitate to get what he wanted. The women visibly paled under his intense stare.

“Furthermore,” he continued, his voice dropping to a murmur, “I suggest you choose your words more carefully when discussing my wife. I have a rather excellent memory, and I tend to take such matters very personally. I trust I have made myself clear?”

The women were speechless, their faces flushed with a mixture of fear and embarrassment. They stammered out weak apologies, their earlier confidence completely shattered as they scurried away.

Catherine’s heart swelled with gratitude, but she couldn’t find the words to thank him, awestruck into shyness.

Sampson turned to her, a smirk playing on his lips as he lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

“Now, where were we?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement. “I believe I was about to tell you how ravishing you look tonight and how it is a crime that I cannot do something about it publicly.”

As Catherine’s blush deepened, she couldn’t help but think that there was likely no better place for her at that moment than right under the full force of her husband’s attention.