Page 21 of His Scottish Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #5)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“ Y ou’re more wound up than usual.”

Ignoring the comment was easy for Sampson because he could hardly hear it, focused on the feel of his fists hitting the target before him.

The rhythmic thud of gloved fists against padded leather filled the air of Frederick’s private gymnasium, a space usually reserved for the Duke of Ironvale and his closest confidants. Today, however, the familiar dynamic was slightly altered, as Sampson had decided to show up without prior notice.

It was not as though that was not allowed, but he did like sparring with Frederick as often as he could, secretly fond of their light and friendly jabs as they warmed up, along with the taunts that were often punctuated by the strikes of their fists.

But today, Sampson preferred to expel some of his stress by himself, so he warmed up on his own, trying to tamp down the frustration brewing beneath his skin.

When Frederick eventually offered to be his sparring partner, Sampson’s movements carried a raw energy that bordered on aggression as he traded blows with Frederick. The exertion was a welcome distraction from the mental burdens that had been weighing him down.

“He does seem rather… on edge today. I wonder what made the Duke of Rosehall so jittery. Any ideas on what could make the renowned Rosehall devil so out of sorts?” Benedict Pratt, the Duke of Ravenwood, asked.

Sampson groaned inwardly over having an audience. He did not want them to witness his emotional turmoil.

He had sought out this physical outlet, the need to expend his restless energy a primal urge. Usually, these sessions were a solitary affair, or occasionally shared with Frederick whenever his friend had the time. But today, their other acquaintances had joined them. Their presence was a familiar comfort, though Sampson found himself less happy with their usual easy banter.

He sparred with a focused intensity, each punch relaying the conflict simmering within him since he had awoken to find Catherine nestled in his arms. The memory, both unsettling and strangely comforting, replayed in his mind, and a part of him had desperately desired to stay by her side, which was a very different feeling from yearning for solitude after a night haunted by nightmares.

His companions, seasoned observers of his moods, quickly picked up on his unusual taciturnity.

As Sampson and Frederick paused for a brief respite, toweling off sweat-drenched brows, Samuel Gale, the Duke of Bancroft, raised a questioning eyebrow.

“You seem… particularly vigorous today, Rosehall,” he observed, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Something on your mind?”

Sampson merely grunted in response, taking a long drink of water. He wasn’t in the mood for their probing questions or their teasing.

Frederick, however, was more perceptive. He had witnessed the aftermath of Sampson’s recurring nightmares countless times—the dark circles under his eyes, the haunted look that lingered for days. Sampson was all too aware that he looked… different. Well-rested, almost.

“Everything all right, Sampson?” Frederick asked, his usual blunt demeanor tinged with genuine concern. “You’ve been quieter than usual.”

Sampson hesitated, unable to stop thinking about it, to keep his mind from recalling the lightness in his joints as he roused from the warmth that had tempted him to yearn for more stolen moments.

“I… I woke up with Catherine in my arms,” he blurted out, the words tumbling from his lips before he could fully censor them.

The confession left him feeling absurdly vulnerable.

Samuel chuckled, a hearty, booming sound. “Well, that’s hardly a cause for such grim intensity, is it? You are married, after all.”

“I think it would only be a problem if you awakened anywhere else,” Aaron Bolton, Duke of Crauford, pointed out, then narrowed his gaze. “You are not still?—”

“No, no. God, no. What sort of rake do you take me for?” Sampson sputtered.

“I merely wanted to ensure that there was no need for me to assume the worst. As long as it’s your wife, and only your wife, everything is fine,” Aaron replied.

Benedict murmured his agreement, both of their expressions suggesting they saw nothing particularly noteworthy in this revelation.

But Frederick’s reaction was different. His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of understanding—and perhaps a hint of surprise—crossing his features. He knew of Sampson’s deeply ingrained aversion to sharing his bed, a consequence of the terrifying nightmares that often plagued his sleep. Nightmares about the near-fatal attacks by his brother.

The fact that Sampson had not only shared his bed but seemingly slept soundly enough to wake up with Catherine still there was… significant.

Frederick studied his friend, noting the subtle but undeniable signs of a night that hadn’t been filled with the usual restless tossing and turning. A slow smile spread across his face, a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Ah, Rosehall,” he said, a chuckle escaping his lips. “It seems that wives do indeed have a… calming effect, even on a hardened cynic like yourself. I am only surprised it took this long for you to succumb to her charms and leave yourself open enough so she could leave such a large mark on your life.”

The teasing began in earnest then, Samuel, Benedict, and even the usually reserved Aaron joining in, their comments ranging from thinly veiled suggestions of Sampson finally succumbing to domesticity to outright accusations of him being secretly smitten with his Duchess.

All of which were unfounded, baseless accusations. No such thing was happening. He was not smitten with Catherine. It was not possible.

“Careful, Sampson,” Samuel quipped, wiping sweat from his brow before fussing with his gloves. “Before you know it, you’ll be discussing floral arrangements and the merits of various tea blends.”

“Perhaps he’s already started composing sonnets about her beauty,” Aaron added with a wry grin.

For some reason, that particular dig had Sampson pausing thoughtfully. Catherine’s beauty was nothing to scoff at—he was willing to admit that much.

He never had to resort to the arts to let any woman hear from him what she likely already knew. But, when it came to Catherine, he certainly saw the appeal of such methods. Especially if it would reward him with that gorgeous smile of hers?—

“Bloody hell. You lot are making things worse,” he muttered under his breath, half in awe, half mortified.

Benedict, surprisingly, made a more thoughtful observation.

“Or perhaps,” he said quietly, adjusting his gloves, “he has simply found some peace he didn’t expect.”

Sampson vehemently denied all their insinuations, his protests growing increasingly weak as their teasing continued.

He wasn’t in love with Catherine. The idea was preposterous, absurd. Their marriage was a matter of practicality, a mutually beneficial arrangement. Nothing more.

But despite his denials, the seed of doubt had been planted. The image of Catherine, her soft breathing against his chest, the unexpected comfort of her presence in the darkness, kept returning to his mind.

Could it be possible? Could he, Sampson, the man who had sworn off emotional entanglements, be falling in love with his wife? The thought was both terrifying and… intriguing.

He returned to Rosehall later that afternoon, the physical exertion having done little to quell his inner turmoil. He found the estate still in the throes of preparations for the ball. Catherine was a whirlwind of focused energy, directing the placement of the decorations in the grand hall.

Even from a distance, he could see the toll the preparations were taking on her. Her earlier vibrancy seemed to have faded, replaced by a weary determination. He didn’t like the shadows beneath her eyes and the almost frantic pace of her movements.

“Catherine,” he called out, his voice carrying across the hall.

She turned, a flash of irritation crossing her face at the interruption. “Sampson. You’re back.”

Sampson faltered slightly when she said his name. He was not sure when they had dropped the formalities, but he was glad for it, unable to get enough of the way she spoke those two little syllables.

However, at that moment, the way she had said his name had an edge to it, as though she was in a hurry to be done with whatever business he had with her.

“You need to stop,” he said, his tone firm. “You’re exhausting yourself.”

Catherine lifted her chin stubbornly. “I am perfectly capable of managing my own affairs, Sampson. Please, leave me to it. I need to ensure that everything is perfect for tomorrow.”

“Perfect?” he scoffed, striding towards her. “Catherine, you’ve been running yourself ragged for days. It’s just a ball.”

“It is not just a ball,” she retorted, her voice sharper now. “It is my ball. And I want it to be a success. I have come too far to stop now.”

Their escalating argument was abruptly interrupted by a loud, rumbling growl from Catherine’s stomach. Sampson’s eyes flashed, his earlier annoyance instantly replaced by a surge of concern, bordering on anger.

She hadn’t even eaten properly. And yet here she was, running about, tending to matters that were not as important as her well-being.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “You will go and eat something, now.”

Catherine’s stubbornness flared. “I need to finish setting up these floral arrangements. They are the last thing left to do.”

Sampson had reached his limit. Without another word, he stepped forward, scooped her up into his arms, and effortlessly threw her over his shoulder. A surprised yelp escaped her lips as she found herself in an undignified position, her skirts falling around her head.

“Sampson! What on earth are you doing? Put me down!” she exclaimed, thrashing against his back.

He ignored her protests, his long strides carrying him swiftly through the hall and up the grand staircase.

“Mrs. Starling!” he called out, his voice firm. “Have a tray of food sent to the Duchess’s chambers immediately.”

Catherine continued to protest, her fists pounding against his back, but Sampson held her securely, his resolve unwavering. He carried her to her bedchamber and deposited her unceremoniously on the soft mattress.

“Sampson! How dare you!” she snapped, sitting up and glaring at him, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of indignation and embarrassment.

“How dare you neglect your well-being?” he countered, his face equally hot. “You haven’t eaten a proper meal all day—if this is even your first time neglecting your well-being for the sake of this ball! Why would you jeopardize your health for the enjoyment of others? It is unreasonable.”

Sampson felt so exasperated, unsure why he had to explain something so basic to her. He had heard her last night and had understood the weight and expectations she had put on herself with this project. But the truth was that he did not feel it was worth compromising her health.

He knew he would never fully understand what she was going through, being from a different country and all. Still, he wished she did not care about the opinions of strangers more than her well-being.

And certainly not more than his orders.

“I only missed a single meal,” she argued, though her voice was slightly softer. “It is not that important, and I am nearly done, anyway. What is a few more hours?”

“Can you not hear yourself? A few more hours? When you already look like a flower wilting beneath the harsh sun? Catherine?—”

“I dinnae ken why ye insist on bein’ like this,” she snapped, her brow furrowed in frustration. “If ye believe ye must control every single aspect of my life, then perhaps ye shouldnae be so fickle wi’ yer attention and yer… affections. It seems ye only notice me when it suits yer fancy. And ye shouldnae have just up and left this mornin’ without a single word, Sampson. Am I just a plaything to be picked up and put down as ye please?”

Sampson frowned. “Is that what this is about? You stubbornly refuse to take care of yourself because I didn’t bid you a proper farewell this morning?”

Catherine took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. “The ball is tomorrow, Sampson. Those floral arrangements are the final touch. I want everything to be perfect. I am so close, so close to achieving all my goals. Do not make my efforts amount to nothing.”

A knock on the door announced the arrival of Mrs. Starling, who was bearing a tray laden with food.

Sampson gestured towards it. “Eat, Catherine.”

“But the arrangements—” Catherine began, her mind still fixed on the unfinished task.

“Mrs. Starling and the rest of the staff are perfectly capable of finishing the decorations,” Sampson said firmly, his patience wearing thin. “You need to rest.”

The housekeeper wisely bowed and took her leave, knowing better than to linger.

Sampson had hoped that Catherine would relent, and he was a little shocked when her gaze met his directly.

“No,” she said, her voice small but resolute.

His gaze darkened. He stepped closer to the bed, leaning down until his face was mere inches from hers. A sudden, charged silence filled the room, their argument replaced by a different kind of weight, a palpable energy that crackled between them.

“Catherine,” he murmured, his voice low and husky, “If you disobey me again… there will be consequences.”

His eyes locked onto hers, holding a promise of something more.

A visible shiver ran through Catherine, despite her defiance.

“No,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes wide.