Page 17 of His Scottish Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #5)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“ I nearly had it!”

Graham’s youthful voice, laced with a mixture of triumph and exasperation, carried across the meticulously manicured lawn. It was a cry that was becoming increasingly familiar to Sampson as the Lennox family, in the throes of a particularly spirited game of croquet, displayed a level of competitive zeal that he had rarely witnessed outside of the most cutthroat business negotiations.

A collective groan rippled through the small gathering, punctuated by Mary’s theatrical sigh of disappointment.

“Dinnae despair, laddie. You will get it next time,” she said, giving her son a smile.

On the other side, Catherine and her sister Margaret cheered happily at their brother’s downfall, quite pleased with the advantage it provided them. The game picked up again, with the family freely talking and cheering amongst themselves, creating an atmosphere that Rosehall Estate hadn’t seen during the years Sampson had lived there.

Sampson leaned against the sturdy back of his chair, the hard surface a comforting contrast to the smooth coolness of the glass he held loosely in his hand. The afternoon sun, though warm, was tempered by a gentle breeze, creating a perfect ambiance for the outdoor activity. But Sampson’s attention was less focused on the game and more on the woman who moved with such vibrant energy amidst her family.

Catherine. His wife.

He watched her, a soft, almost involuntary smile curving his lips. There was a lightness about her in the presence of her family, a playful spark in her eyes that seemed to burn even brighter than usual. She had shed away her usual air of stiff grace and had taken on a more lighthearted personality.

It was clear she loved her father’s jokes because Sampson was always startled by the loud sound of her laughter at the punchline. Her eyes shone in a way he had never seen whenever she was speaking to any of her family members, the somewhat permanent smile on her face so naturally beautiful that it seemed as though she had never been without it.

Every moment he watched her in their midst was an instance where he felt pleased with his choice to invite her family over. He marveled at this version of her, so free from the rigidity of propriety and a keeper of so many stories she couldn’t help but tell.

It was also quite a sight, how she interacted differently with her family.

While she was teamed with Margaret, they operated with a seamless understanding, their whispered strategies and knowing glances speaking volumes of a long-standing camaraderie. They presented a united front against Mary and the impetuous Graham, their combined efforts often resulting in Mary’s mock protests and Graham’s frustrated sighs.

“Surely that isnae fair, Maither! They cannae just be good at this game! Ye lot are cheating, but I dinnae have proof!” Graham whined at some point.

“Perhaps you should spend less time climbing the trees in Father’s orchard and practice your aim,” Catherine shot back, sticking her tongue out at him.

Margaret chuckled and pointed her mallet at her brother, telling him with a grin, “The Duchess has spoken. It’s yer turn, anyway. Come forth and lose, so we can ken for certain the extent of yer skills.”

Graham began to huff about ten minutes later when, just as Margaret had expected, he lost.

“Maither! Margaret cheated! There’s nay way she made that last shot on her own! There must be some trickery afoot!”

“Dinnae bother our dearest maither wi’ yer whinin’, when I warned ye sufficiently beforehand!” Margaret laughed.

While Mary consoled her son, Catherine stepped forward with a gentle smile as she patted her brother’s auburn hair.

“You’re with me for the next round. I’ll show you how to line up your shots well enough to make the execution look like magic!” she told him softly.

Catherine’s true character, Sampson noted, was greatly revealed when the exchange of partners took effect. She stayed true to her word, considering Graham’s lack of experience as she guided him in each round.

“You want to hold your mallet like this—yes, exactly. Do it like this, so your grip on it is comfortable. Now, plant your feet apart a wee bit… no, no. No—patiently, Graham. You must be patient with yourself so that you can learn!” she told him, confident as she guided him through each step.

It was refreshing and somewhat precious to see her competitive edge softened, replaced by unwavering support.

“Oh—ah.” She tutted softly as the ball Graham struck with his mallet failed to go through the loop. “That one was better, though! Your aim has certainly improved! You very nearly had it!”

Compared to the joy that had taken over Margaret and her boisterous tone, Catherine’s voice was filled with genuine encouragement, and she celebrated even her brother’s smallest successes with an enthusiastic hug that always brought a wide grin to his face.

Fergus, having gracefully bowed out of the more strenuous activity, settled into a chair under the pavilion beside Sampson, Isobel sleeping quietly in his arms. He watched his family with an expression of pure, unadulterated pleasure, a fond indulgence that mirrored the warmth Sampson felt towards Catherine.

Sampson, whose family gatherings were often strained and formal affairs—on the rare occasions they ever took place—was genuinely surprised by the Lennox family’s competitive spirit.

“They seem… remarkably invested in this game,” he commented, a slight amusement coloring his tone.

He watched as Catherine, her brow furrowed in concentration, lined up a particularly challenging shot for Graham, her tongue peeking out from the corner of her mouth in a gesture of intense focus.

Fergus chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to emanate from his very core.

“Ah, ye should have seen them back in Scotland. This”—he gestured towards the relatively calm scene unfolding on the lawn—“is practically a tea party. The air in England clearly has a soporific effect. Usually, a family game of croquet can devolve into something akin to a strategically planned siege, complete with accusations of cheating and the occasional hurled mallet.”

Sampson threw back his head and laughed, the image of the seemingly serene Lennox family engaging in such fierce sporting combat both absurd and utterly endearing. His gaze drifted back to Catherine, who had just executed a perfect shot, sending her ball cleanly through the hoop. The sunlight filtering through the leaves of the oak tree caught the rich auburn highlights in her hair, creating a halo effect that made her appear almost ethereal as she danced about with joy.

A familiar warmth, a sensation that had become increasingly prevalent whenever he was near her, spread through his chest. He felt fortunate to have her as a wife, regardless of his initial motivations.

“Thank you, Lord Spranklin,” he said, turning to his father-in-law with a sincere look. “And thank you for accepting my invitation, for allowing your family to visit Rosehall. It has been a pleasure, having you in my estate.”

He found himself genuinely enjoying the lively chaos that the Lennoxes had brought to his usually quiet estate.

Fergus waved off his gratitude with a calm, almost regal gesture.

“Think nothing of it, Yer Grace. The pleasure, as I said, is entirely ours. And if I may be permitted a moment of frankness,” he continued, his green eyes meeting Sampson’s, holding a shrewd intelligence.

“It is I who should be expressing my deepest gratitude. Nae only for so readily accepting Catherine in place of the considerable debt—a compromise that, I confess, eased a familial burden that had been weighing heavily upon us—but also, and perhaps more importantly, for the genuine care and consideration ye have shown my daughter. It is evident to us all that ye value her well-being and that ye truly wish to see her happy. And that is all I hoped for when I offered her hand in marriage.”

Sampson considered Fergus’s words, the weight of their agreement settling upon him for a moment.

“Taking Catherine as a wife was indeed a pragmatic compromise, a solution that served the immediate needs of both our families,” he admitted, his gaze flicking back to Catherine as she patted a slightly crestfallen Graham on the shoulder. “But I would be disingenuous if I claimed that having her as my wife has not… served me well in ways that I did not initially anticipate.”

It was unusual for him to be this frank, but he couldn’t deny that her presence had undeniably brought a light and a warmth into the often-stark halls of Rosehall, a vibrancy that he hadn’t even realized he was missing until it was there.

Fergus’s eyes held a keenness, a father’s watchful scrutiny, as he observed Sampson’s soft gaze. “I sincerely hope ye are happy together, Yer Grace,” he said, his tone earnest and carrying a genuine paternal concern. “Even if it was a marriage born out of necessity rather than affection.”

Sampson had never truly given much thought to the elusive concept of happiness in marriage, at least not when it came to his own marriage. His expectations had been largely pragmatic, focused on duty, lineage, and the smooth operation of his estate. But as his gaze lingered on Catherine, on the genuine joy that radiated from her as she laughed with her siblings, a feeling he couldn’t quite name stirred within him.

He heard himself say, with a surprising conviction that caught him off guard, “I hope so as well, Lord Spranklin. I truly do.”

The words hung in the air between them, carrying with them the realization that perhaps something deeper than obligation was beginning to blossom in his marriage.

The idea felt foreign, as Sampson had lived his life drawing clear boundaries for all of his relationships. Everyone he had come across had a certain role he expected them to fulfill, and once the exchange was over, he preferred for them to go their separate ways.

And it was a little disconcerting, how there seemed to be more possibilities in his marriage—what was meant to be a means to grow his business now had his heart twisting in different ways.

And Sampson disliked it.

Later that night, the dramatic sounds of the Lennox family finally subsided, replaced by the deep, pervasive silence that often settled over Rosehall in the late hours.

Sampson lay in his bed, the darkness a heavy blanket around him, when he was suddenly jolted awake. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the terror that still clung to the edges of his consciousness. Cold sweat slicked his skin, and his breath came in ragged gasps.

The nightmare. It had returned, as it always did, a relentless tormentor that haunted the edges of his nights, depriving him of wholesome rest. The images were always a blend of vivid and vague memories, refusing to fade. He could never shrug off the first images of him sitting in the dark on his bed, trying his best to catch his breath after being suffocated. The terror grew as he realized he was all alone in his room, and then the space around him morphed into a dock.

There, he stood face to face with a man he knew far too intimately to believe was the cause of his pain, his face contorted into a mask of childish fury, a rage that had held a terrifying, deadly intent. Again, Sampson felt the icy grip of panic, the primal instinct for survival screaming in his veins.

“This is all your fault. You did this to us both.”

The words echoed as the arm around his neck tightened and he fought to draw air into his lungs. The desperate struggle that had ensued played out in his mind with brutal clarity—the flailing limbs, the painful groans, the sickening, unmistakable crack of bone that had brought the horrifying encounter to an abrupt and irreversible end.

Even now, years later, the guilt, the trauma, and the crushing weight of that tragedy remained an unshakable burden, a dark secret that poisoned his sleep and cast long shadows over his waking hours. He sat up abruptly, the silence of the room amplifying the frantic rhythm of his heart.

Once more, sleep became a distant, unattainable fantasy, a battlefield perpetually haunted by the ghosts of his past. He often found himself trapped in this nocturnal hellscape, staring into the seemingly endless blackness of the night outside his window, replaying the horrific events in an endless, agonizing loop.

Just as he was beginning to succumb to the suffocating grip of his memories, a soft, hesitant knock sounded at his door.

Sampson blinked, disoriented, his thoughts reluctantly returning to the present.

“Who is it?” he called out, his voice quivering, betraying the fear that still coursed through him.

“It’s Catherine,” her soft, gentle voice replied from the other side of the heavy oak door.

Sampson’s breath hitched in his throat.

Catherine .

He was too exhausted, too emotionally raw to even attempt to conjure his usual flippant, teasing demeanor. She seemed to take his silence as permission to come in, so she opened the door.

The sight of her made his bones feel weaker, and almost immediately, all he wanted was for her to return to her room, to allow him to grapple with the lingering remnants of his nightmare in the solitude he so often craved after these late-night visitations from his past.

“Catherine, it’s terribly late,” he said, his voice weary, tinged with the need for her to simply go away. “You should be asleep.”

“I heard you,” she said, her tone gentle yet laced with a quiet concern. “I heard you cry out. You sounded… distressed.”

He hesitated. He didn’t want her to witness him in this vulnerable state, shaken and haunted by the demons that plagued his sleep. “It was just a bad dream, Catherine. Truly. Nothing more. Please, go back to sleep.”

But she remained at the door, her presence a tangible warmth in the otherwise cold silence. Then, she crossed the threshold, giving him a clearer view of her slender silhouette framed against the dim light spilling from the hallway. Even in the muted light, just seeing her felt like a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. She was the light to his darkness.

He felt the suffocating tension that had gripped him beginning to ease at the sight of her standing there, clad in a simple white nightgown, her rich auburn hair cascading loosely around her shoulders like a silken shawl.

She looked like an angel that had come to save him, and his hands twitched above the covers, his mind barely able to give in to the need bubbling within him. He wanted to pull her into his bed and ravish her until her moans banished the dregs of his nightmare.

“Sampson,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she stepped into the room, closing the door gently behind her with a quiet click that seemed to shut them off from the rest of the sleeping household.

She moved towards his bed with a silent grace, her bare feet making no sound on the polished wooden floor.

He tried one last, feeble attempt to dismiss her, his voice still rough and unsteady around the edges of his lingering fear. “Catherine, really, it’s nothing. Just a nightmare. I’ll be fine. You don’t need to?—”

She stopped at the foot of his bed. Her gaze, though he couldn’t read it in the dim light filtering from the hallway, felt direct, unwavering, and filled with a quiet empathy that resonated deep within him.

“Let me help,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, but her words bled with sincerity that erased his reluctance at alarming speed. “Let me be here. Please.”

He looked at her, truly looked at her, and saw not pity in her stance, but a genuine offer of solace, a quiet willingness to share the burden of his fear.

Suddenly, he considered a few things he could do to forget his nightmare—all of them involving his wife and her rather flimsy nightgown.

It wouldn’t take much to rip it off her and lose himself in the warmth of her body, give his heart another reason to race in his chest. She looked so beautiful like this, her eyes gentle and her frame delicately pliant, he had an inkling that it wouldn’t take much for him to commit to spending the rest of the night giving her pleasure and taking it from her.

All those ideas sucked the fight out of him, leaving him feeling utterly weary and emotionally drained. He was tired of the constant loneliness that followed these nightmares, tired of battling the terrifying shadows in the suffocating silence of his mind.

With a soft sigh that seemed to carry the weight of years of unspoken fear, he finally conceded.

“Alright, Catherine,” he whispered, his voice finally giving way to the exhaustion and the lingering tendrils of terror. “Alright.”