Page 20 of His Scottish Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #5)

CHAPTER TWENTY

“ I nform Oswald that I would like to have a word with him.”

The maid bowed and quickly slipped out of Sampson’s study as he rose to his feet in an attempt to stretch his stiff body, feeling a little restless.

It wasn’t long before he found himself pacing the length of his study, the rhythmic click of his boots against the polished hardwood floor a counterpoint to the discordant thoughts swirling in his mind.

He had summoned Oswald under the guise of needing assistance with the intricate details of recent land acquisition, a matter that usually held his keen interest. Still, today, his focus was elsewhere, tethered to the whirlwind of activity that had consumed Catherine and, by extension, the entire household.

He paused by the window, his gaze unfocused as he stared out at the meticulously manicured gardens. This landscape usually brought him a sense of order and control. But even the serene symmetry of the flowerbeds couldn’t quell the unease that had taken root within him.

It had been days since he had last requested Catherine’s presence in his chambers in the late hours—a deliberate abstention that he tried to rationalize as consideration for her hectic schedule.

The preparations for her… event were clearly all-consuming, and he told himself that he was merely being thoughtful, allowing her the uninterrupted time she needed to organize the grand affair.

Yet, beneath this veneer of consideration, a more unsettling truth simmered. He was avoiding her. The memory of her unexpected kiss, the fleeting warmth of her lips on his, had stirred something within him, a foreign emotion that he was ill-equipped to handle.

I have touched many women in more intimate ways, Catherine included. How on earth can a simple kiss have such an effect on me?

Sampson still wondered how out of his mind he must have been to have let her slip away afterward, when his body yearned to have her beneath him that night. A simple tug would have sufficed to get her right where he wanted her to be—in his lap, gasping his name.

With his sudden desire for her spreading through him, it was safer to maintain a distance, to adhere to the unspoken boundaries of their initial agreement. To acknowledge any shift in their dynamic would be to admit that something had changed, and Sampson was determined that nothing had.

Absolutely nothing.

He cleared his throat, the sound echoing through the spacious study as he decided that he had sulked long enough. He needed information, a factual assessment of the situation. And just as he made that decision, the butler arrived at his door, looking put together as usual.

Oswald bowed with a flourish as he stepped through the doorway, his presence, as always, a model of quiet efficiency. “You called for me, Your Grace?”

“Oswald,” Sampson began, striving for a tone of casual inquiry. “I was merely curious about the progress of the… preparations for the Duchess’s ball. How are they proceeding?”

Oswald’s lips curled into a subtle, almost paternal smile. “Her Grace is an absolute marvel, Your Grace. A veritable force of nature, if I may say so. The preparations for the ball are advancing at an astonishing pace, and with a level of meticulous detail that is truly commendable. The entire household is operating under her precise direction, and the atmosphere, while undeniably energetic, is entirely focused on her agenda.”

The butler then launched into a detailed account of Catherine’s tireless efforts. He spoke of the extensive guest list, carefully curated to include not only local dignitaries but also influential members of the ton, contacts facilitated—he subtly implied—through Sampson’s connections.

He described the lengthy consultations with renowned chefs, the curation of a multi-course menu that promised to tantalize even the most peculiar palates, and the importation of exotic delicacies that Sampson had never heard of. Additionally, the Duchess had been particular about the flowers and the designs of the drapery to feature in the party.

He even recounted her involvement in the smallest of details, from the selection of the finest damask linens to the rigorous sampling of every proposed canapé and petit four , her discerning palate ensuring that only the most exquisite delicacies would grace the tables.

Oswald also mentioned her thoughtful consideration for the comfort of her guests, arranging for additional seating areas, ensuring ample refreshments, and even organizing a private card room for those who preferred a quieter form of entertainment.

“Usually, this amount of work would have the servants groaning in exhaustion and fierce dislike, but Her Grace’s enthusiasm is contagious. She has the maids practically skipping up and down the halls as they put things in order and the footmen eager to lift heavy crates and parcels and put them where they need to be. It is quite a remarkable thing to behold,” he pointed out with a proud smile.

Sampson found himself increasingly surprised, and unintentionally impressed, realizing that he had underestimated the amount of effort his wife was willing to put into the preparations. It was far beyond anything he had anticipated.

A sudden, almost painful awareness washed over him. He had been so consumed by his inner turmoil, so determined to maintain his emotional distance, that he had failed to truly see the extent of Catherine’s efforts, the dedication she was showing to her new role as his Duchess.

He cleared his throat again, the sound feeling heavy in the suddenly charged atmosphere of the study.

“Very well, Oswald. Thank you for the comprehensive update. You may attend to your other duties.”

Left alone once more, his earlier resolve wavered. The image of Catherine tirelessly working to ensure the success of her ball began to chip away at his carefully constructed wall of denial. He could no longer ignore the nagging feeling that his avoidance was not only selfish but also deeply unfair.

With a decisive sigh, he reached for the bell pull and tugged it sharply. When the footman appeared, Sampson gave his instructions. “Inform Her Grace that I would like her to join me here in my study at her earliest convenience.”

The wait felt interminable. Sampson found himself pacing again, his anxiety mounting with each passing minute. When Catherine finally entered, her usual vibrant energy seemed muted, replaced by a weary grace. The faint shadows beneath her eyes and the slight droop of her shoulders were more pronounced in the clear light of day, and Sampson felt a sharp pang of guilt.

“Catherine,” he began, his voice softer than he had intended, the earlier sharpness replaced by a genuine concern. “Are you all right? You look… exhausted.”

Catherine offered a tired but reassuring smile. “I am perfectly well, Sampson. Just… preoccupied. The final preparations require a great deal of attention, as you can see.”

She attempted a lighthearted tone, but Sampson saw the effort it took her.

He didn’t order her to sit down. Instead, he beckoned her closer, reaching out when she was close enough and gently drawing her to him. Without a word, he pulled her onto his lap, her body fitting against his with a surprising familiarity.

She leaned against him with a soft sigh—a silent acknowledgment of her weariness and, he dared to hope, a degree of comfort in his presence.

“Tell me, Catherine,” Sampson said softly, his hand resting lightly but possessively on her waist. “Tell me everything you have been doing to deplete your energy to this extent.”

And she did. Her voice, though tinged with fatigue, held a note of quiet pride as she recounted the intricate tapestry of her event planning.

She spoke of her correspondence with the London wine merchants regarding the finest vintages, the detailed instructions she had given to the kitchen staff regarding the presentation of each dish, and the careful selection of the musical program, ensuring a balance between traditional country dances and the more sophisticated waltzes that were becoming increasingly popular.

“I learned that it is important to have a vision of what the guests would like and prefer, and then provide… a gentle blend of both that doesn’t overwhelm them when they arrive. I… I haven’t been to many balls before. The one I attended with you was my first as a young woman. It was nice. I liked dancing with you,” she admitted, looking so utterly soft and quiet that he did not know what else to do with her at that moment.

Then, it was as though she realized she had gotten sidetracked and went back to talking about all the other things she was doing to make sure that her ball was a resounding success.

She described the hours she had spent with the estate’s seamstress, overseeing the creation of new liveries for the footmen, ensuring that every detail reflected the grandeur of the occasion. She even spoke of adding small, thoughtful touches for her guests, such as scented candles in the retiring rooms and a selection of engaging books in the library for those seeking a respite from the dancing.

As her detailed account unfolded, Sampson listened with growing astonishment and a burgeoning sense of… something he couldn’t quite define. It wasn’t merely admiration for her organizational skills, though he certainly felt that. It was something deeper, a recognition of the genuine care and effort she was putting into organizing an event that would reflect well on their household—on him .

“Catherine,” he interjected gently when she paused to take a sip of the water he had offered, “you truly did not need to undertake such an enormous endeavor. A smaller, more informal gathering would have been perfectly acceptable. I would not have thought any less of you.”

Catherine looked up at him, her green eyes holding a gleam that tugged unexpectedly at his heart.

“But I wanted it to be special, Sampson,” she said softly, her voice imbued with a quiet sincerity. “I wanted… I know that people have not been as receptive to me as you would have liked. And I know they believe you would be better suited to another woman.

“Perhaps you might not have chosen me as your wife, under different circumstances, but I want to do what I can to earn the right to stand by your side. I am doing all of this so no one will judge you for having a Scottish wife and you won’t feel the need to defend me anymore. I want you to be proud of me.”

The admission hung in the air between them, a fragile offering that Sampson wasn’t sure how to receive.

She continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “And my family… they will hear of this ball. I want them to be proud, too. To know that… that I am representing them well, as your wife. So they can worry less about my well-being and rest assured that I am thriving. I know they have concerns… about how I traveled all by myself to marry you. I wish they would no longer harbor such worries.”

He knew he should feel a sense of unease at her ready acceptance of her role, at the implied permanence of their union.

The thought of their arrangement turning into something more should have filled him with dread. Yet, as he looked down at her tired but determined face, a warmth spread through him, chasing away the usual chill of his guarded emotions.

“Catherine,” he said, his voice surprisingly tender, his hand gently stroking her cheek. “You do not need to prove anything to me. Or to your family. You are… more than enough. Just as you are.”

He felt her relax against him, a soft sigh escaping her lips. “I just… I was so happy to see you with them, Sampson,” she murmured, her voice growing drowsy. “With my family. It… it felt right. Seeing you eat with us and laugh with us—it was comforting and wholesome. Like… like it was your family too.”

A knot tightened in Sampson’s chest, a sensation that was both unsettling and strangely… comforting.

His family? The family he had been born into had never been gentle with him. They were not close or loving, not like the Lennoxes. As he had watched them, a strange yearning he never knew he could experience had crept into his mind and heart, blooming like bruises over his existence.

He had never thought the hand he had been dealt was unfair. It was simpler and quicker to accept one’s fate and learn to live with it. But since Catherine came into his life, he found that there were many things he had room for but might never get to put into the vacant slots.

The thought that she had acknowledged him as a part of her family sent a shiver through him, a visceral reaction to a concept that had always felt foreign and unattainable to him.

He should pull away, put some distance between them, and remind her of the boundaries of their carefully constructed arrangement.

But as he looked down at her, her head resting against his chest, her breathing soft and even, he realized that she had drifted off to sleep. He knew that the sensible, responsible thing to do would be to lift her and carry her back to her bed.

But he couldn’t.

A wave of possessiveness spread through him, burning away the urge and energy to stand, making his skin tingle from the warmth of her body. She smelled good, as though the scents of the flowers and desserts she had been around had stuck to her, desperate to make her lovelier than she already was.

“I should get you somewhere comfortable, so you can rest properly,” he muttered softly, knowing it was the best thing to do.

Instead, his hand moved almost instinctively, gently stroking the soft waves of her auburn hair. The familiar, comforting scent of lavender, so intrinsically linked to her presence, filled his senses. He rested his cheek on the top of her head, the warmth of her small body surprisingly soothing against his own. The restlessness that had plagued him earlier began to recede, replaced by a strange, unfamiliar sense of… peace.

He told himself he would only rest for a moment, just until she stirred. But the weariness of the past few weeks, coupled with the unexpected comfort of having her so close, made it impossible to resist the lull of her touch.

Sampson closed his eyes, the gentle rhythm of Catherine’s breathing a soft lullaby that led him into a deep and dreamless sleep, her presence a silent anchor in the darkness.