Page 6 of His Scottish Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #5)

CHAPTER SIX

“ D o you have what I need?”

The scent of cigar smoke and expensive brandy clung thickly to the air, the low murmur of conversation occasionally punctuated by raucous laughter. The gentlemen’s club was alive with men boasting of their wealth, their exploits, and their victories—both in business and in bed.

Sampson leaned back in his chair, his fingers curled loosely around a glass of dark amber liquid, watching the man before him with the idle interest of a predator toying with its prey. Across the table sat Mr. Edmund Graves, a merchant whose thinning hair was damp at the temples—a sure sign of his growing nervousness.

“Your Grace,” Graves began, clearing his throat as his fingers curled into fists atop the table. “I only need two more weeks, that’s all. The shipment was delayed in Lisbon due to unforeseen circumstances, but I swear to you, as soon as it arrives, I will pay what is owed.”

Sampson took a slow sip of his drink before setting the glass down with deliberate care. “Unforeseen circumstances,” he mused, rolling the words over his tongue as though he had never tasted anything so intriguing before. “How terribly inconvenient.”

Graves nodded eagerly, leaning forward. “Yes, Your Grace! It was out of my control. A storm?—”

“Did I ask for an explanation?” Sampson’s voice was quiet, but it carried an unmistakable weight that had the man’s mouth snapping shut.

Graves swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his gaze darting around the table at the other men, silently begging for help that would not come.

Sampson studied him for a long moment before exhaling slowly through his nose and shaking his head. “You made a bargain, Graves. And a man who fails to uphold his end of the bargain is no man at all.”

Graves blanched, clasping his hands together as he pleaded, “I beg of you, Your Grace, just two weeks?—”

“No.” Sampson straightened in his seat. “Two weeks? One week is an eternity in business, Mr. Graves. And here you are, asking for two. I have already made commitments based on your assurances. Commitments that cannot be delayed.” He raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a sardonic smile.

Commitments that involve men far less forgiving than me…

“But I?—”

“I do not extend favors, Mr. Graves. If I did, I’d have a long line of desperate men at my door, all of whom would be asking for more time and more patience. I do not operate on kindness, Graves. I operate on results. And you, unfortunately, have failed to produce them.”

Frederick Montague, the Duke of Ironvale and Sampson’s business partner, was sitting beside him, watching the entire exchange silently. Sampson was thankful that his friend knew better than to interfere in his business dealings, no matter how much he might disagree with him.

“Your Grace, please?—”

“I do not wish to repeat myself. Your time is up,” Sampson said smoothly.

He paused for a moment as his gaze swept over the faces of the other two men, Mr. Thorne and Mr. Finch.

“Gentlemen, do you have anything to add?”

Mr. Thorne, a tall, gaunt man with a sharp, calculating gaze, cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Your Grace, we understand the importance of timely delivery. However, extenuating circumstances?—”

“Extenuating circumstances,” Sampson interrupted, his voice laced with disdain, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “Another special term you wish to use in a bid to get what you want. It is also a convenient excuse for incompetence.

“I have no patience for excuses. Especially not when you have a history of making good on your promises, only to one day turn around and swindle your clients out of their money. That might have been possible with other gentlemen you dealt with, but you should have known better than to try your hand with me as well.”

Excuses are for the weak, he said to himself, the echoes of a harsh childhood ringing in his ears.

Mr. Finch, a younger man with a flushed face, remained silent, his gaze fixed on the polished tabletop, the intricate grain of the wood a blur beneath his anxious stare. He knew better than to challenge Sampson’s authority, to risk the wrath of a man who held the power to make or break fortunes with a single word.

“Very well,” Sampson said, his tone decisive, the sound of a judge passing a sentence. “Since Mr. Graves has failed to fulfill his obligations, I will be forced to seek alternative suppliers. And as for the losses incurred, I will expect full compensation.”

Mr. Graves’s eyes widened with panic, the color draining from his cheeks like water from a sieve. “Your Grace, please! Give me another chance. I will make it right, I swear!”

“Your promises are as worthless as your shipments, Mr. Graves,” Sampson replied, his voice cold. The words cut through the air like a sharpened blade. “Gentlemen, I believe we have concluded our business.”

The three men rose, their expressions a mixture of fear and resentment, the weight of their impending ruin heavy on their shoulders. They bowed stiffly and exited the room, their footsteps echoing in the sudden silence, leaving Sampson alone with Frederick.

Frederick leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Sampson, his expression a mixture of disapproval and grudging respect.

“Ruthless,” he noted dryly, the word hanging in the air like a condemnation.

“Efficient,” Sampson corrected, taking a sip of his brandy, the amber liquid burning a warm path down his throat. “There is a difference.”

A difference that separated the winners from the losers, was the lesson that was etched into his very soul since he was a young boy. His father had taught him that there would never be a shortage of excuses. Greatness, however, was a dime a dozen, and therefore, compromises should never be allowed.

“But was it necessary to go that far?”

Sampson arched an eyebrow. “Do you take me for a charitable man?”

Frederick scoffed, taking a sip of his own drink. “Hardly. But it wouldn’t have cost you anything to give him two more weeks.”

“It would have cost me everything ,” Sampson countered smoothly. “If a man believes I will bend, he will test me again. And the next time, it will not be two weeks he asks for, but a month. Then, a year. The moment I give even an inch, I become weak in their eyes.” He leaned back in his chair, regarding Frederick lazily. “And you know how I feel about weakness.”

“And what of Graves’s livelihood? That man does not have other clients. If word gets out that he disappointed you, no one will wish to work with him again.” Frederick furrowed his brow, a hint of concern in his eyes.

“His livelihood is his concern,” Sampson replied dismissively, his friend’s words a mere puff of smoke in the face of his ambition. “He should have thought of that before making promises he couldn’t keep.”

The die had been cast, and the choice had been made. One of them needed to suffer the consequences, and Sampson would be damned if it was him.

Frederick didn’t argue, but his expression remained tense. Sampson had known him long enough to recognize when something was brewing behind his friend’s usually composed facade.

“Out with it,” he drawled, swirling the liquid in his glass.

Frederick didn’t hesitate. “You should have let Eleanor attend the wedding.”

Sampson’s smirk faded, and he sighed dramatically. “Not this again.”

“Yes, this again.” Frederick’s jaw tightened. “You were being unreasonable.”

“I was being practical,” Sampson corrected. “There was no reason to turn my wedding into a social gathering.”

Frederick scowled, clearly disliking the impression Sampson had of his intentions. “Eleanor would have helped Catherine. Did you not think about that?”

Sampson laughed, truly befuddled by the idea. “You make it sound as though my wife is some trembling fawn, unable to stand on her legs.”

“She left her family and the only home she’d ever known, and traveled across the country—all to marry a man she does not know.” Frederick arched an eyebrow. “A man who—shall I remind you—she saw saying his farewells to the women he had bedded as she arrived.”

Sampson smirked at the memory. “Ah, yes. A rather dramatic entrance on her part, wasn’t it?”

Frederick gave him a flat look. “You never expected her to show up, did you?”

“Of course not. Can you think of any sane father who would deem me a suitable husband for their daughter? Even as a last resort?”

Frederick exhaled, shaking his head. “Perhaps your reputation does not precede you as much as we thought.”

Sampson chuckled. “Apparently not.” He tipped his glass in Frederick’s direction. “But tell me, if you’re so concerned about my wife, why not go visit her yourself?”

Frederick didn’t rise to the bait. “Because I know you, Sampson. I know that you will make the necessary provisions for her comfort and well-being. And I know that despite all your games—and general love for mischief—you will not take another woman to your bed while you’re married.”

Sampson hummed in amusement. “Speaking of the things I may or may not be capable of. Catherine had the gall to command me not to bring another woman into our marriage.”

“Did she?” Frederick exclaimed in surprise. “And I suppose you found that amusing.”

“Immensely,” Sampson replied, his eyes twinkling. “She has a rather feisty spirit, I’ll give her that.”

Catherine was turning out to be more than he could ever have imagined. Her spirit intrigued and challenged him, and he found himself constantly preoccupied with thoughts of her and her flushed cheeks and bright, uncertain eyes. It was strange, how fixated he had become on all matters concerning his wife.

“What a pair you both make. Eleanor will be pleased to know you haven’t scared her off.” Frederick sighed in mild relief.

“How is your dear wife? Is she ready to admit that I am the best between us both?” Sampson questioned, refilling their glasses.

“Do not be ridiculous,” Frederick chastised without heat, nodding in thanks. “Eleanor is doing well. As is Maxim. There is nothing he loves more than following his mother around. Eleanor is so thrilled to have a miniature gardener with her at all times. When he’s not in awe of the vibrant flowers in our garden, he’s curled up on my lap while I work in my study. He does seem awfully attached, and I wonder if it will be a problem when he gets older.”

Although Frederick had only been a father for a short time, the way his face softened whenever he spoke of his son was proof enough of his devotion. It was clear that he’d known no greater wonder or joy—not including his wife, of course—in his life.

Sampson, for his part, listened with mild interest. He was glad for his friend. Truly. Frederick’s life had been difficult, and it had been very rewarding, watching him find the happiness he deserved.

But fatherhood was not something Sampson desired for himself. After all, he could barely attest to being a good child himself. Should he entertain ideas of fatherhood when he did not even meet the requirements?

The conversation continued into the night, but in the back of his mind, Sampson couldn’t quite shake away thoughts of his wife.

She truly was unlike anyone he had ever met. He had not expected her to be so bold, so stubborn. And yet he found that he admired those parts of her, and he thought she was quite intriguing to be around.

Especially when she had laid down a condition for their marriage, asking for nothing more than fidelity. The very same fidelity he had already promised to her as soon as they were married.

He knew many women who did not mind sharing their men with others, as long as they would come back to them. But Catherine wanted to be the only one he went to, the only one to grace his bed.

Although she had not said as much, she did not deny it or refuse him when he asked for her company.

You really are something else , Sampson mused, downing the rest of his drink.

“You are still having difficulties sleeping, aren’t you?” Frederick asked suddenly, his voice softening, the words a gentle probe. “I have found something that might help.”

Sampson’s smile faded, replaced by a hint of weariness, the shadows of sleepless nights etched beneath his eyes.

“I have tried everything, Frederick,” he said, his voice low, the words a confession of his deepest vulnerability. “Nothing works. Nothing ever does.”

Nothing can protect me from the demons trying to end my life in my dreams…

“This is different,” Frederick insisted, his voice filled with conviction, his words carrying a promise. “A herbal remedy from a… reliable source.”

“Reliable source?” Sampson raised an eyebrow, a hint of skepticism in his voice. “What, some back-alley apothecary?”

“It is not important where it comes from,” Frederick replied, his voice firm, working to dismiss Sampson’s doubts. “What matters is that it works. Send me a man, and I will have it delivered.”

“I do not believe it will work, because they never do. You know that, Frederick,” Sampson said. “But very well. I will send a footman over to retrieve it.”

Hoping was a fool’s game, but deep down, there was a flicker of desperation that made him willing to try anything.

He had been plagued by nightmares for as long as he could remember, haunted by shadows and a tight grip around his neck that would always tighten each time he tried to breathe. It had been so many years of taking so many remedies, doing all sorts of exercises—all for a good night’s rest.

It seemed as though there was no cure for his condition, but still, he was willing to try whatever came his way.

The carriage wheels crunched the gravel drive, signaling Sampson’s return to Rosehall.

He disembarked after it had rolled to a stop at the front of the manor, the cool evening air a welcome contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the gentlemen’s club. It felt good to be back home, away from the curious eyes that either feared or envied him.

Although his business was remarkably successful, it tended to wear him out more often than not.

His footsteps echoed as he strode through the grand entrance, silence and the scent of beeswax and polished wood welcoming him.

He understood why Catherine might find it disconcerting to live in a house so quiet you could hear your own thoughts, but he preferred it this way.

It was far better than the atmosphere he had endured as a child.

Momentarily, he considered going straight to his chambers, but he needed to make sure his affairs were in order at home.

“Oswald,” he called, his voice reverberating through the stillness.

The butler materialized from the shadows like a phantom, his movements as silent and efficient as ever.

“Your Grace,” he greeted, bowing slightly. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Oswald,” Sampson replied, handing him his coat and gloves as they both kept walking in the direction of his study. “I trust all was well in my absence?”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Mr. Oswald confirmed, his voice confident and steady. “The estate’s affairs are in order. The staff have been diligent in their duties, and there have been no issues, both within the manor and on the property.”

“Excellent,” Sampson said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice.

He enjoyed order and efficiency, only ever at peace when he was confident that his estate was being run smoothly. It was a reflection of his control, his mastery over his domain.

“And how fares the Duchess?” he asked as he sat behind his desk.

Mr. Oswald paused, a subtle shift in his expression. “The Duchess has been… remarkable.”

Sampson raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Remarkable? In what way?”

“She has taken to her duties with… surprising zeal,” Mr. Oswald explained, choosing his words carefully. “She has been diligently attending to the household accounts, overseeing the staff, and even intends to plan a social gathering in the coming weeks.”

“A social gathering?” Sampson chuckled lowly. “That’s unexpected. I wouldn’t have pegged her as the social type.”

“It appears we were all mistaken, Your Grace,” Mr. Oswald said, a hint of admiration in his voice. “She is a natural leader, and has a quiet authority that has surprised even Mrs. Starling. Although she still has much to learn, according to Mrs. Starling.”

Sampson’s lips curled into a genuine smile. “Mrs. Starling is impressed? That is indeed remarkable.”

When Fergus Lennox had written to him about the daughter he was giving to him in marriage, he had spoken in great detail about qualities he thought were admirable in her. Qualities he one day hoped would become invaluable to Sampson.

The letter had led Sampson to expect her practicality, her intelligence, and her willingness to fulfill her obligations. But he hadn’t anticipated this… enthusiasm.

“The staff is quite taken with her, Your Grace,” Mr. Oswald continued. “They say she has a kind heart and a firm hand—a rare combination.”

“Indeed,” Sampson murmured, his mind racing.

He had expected Catherine to be a dutiful wife, a competent manager of his household. But this… this was something else entirely. She was exceeding his expectations, challenging his assumptions.

“She works tirelessly, Your Grace,” Mr. Oswald added. “Often late into the night, poring over ledgers. And she is already scheduling meetings with suppliers. She seems determined to prove herself.”

“Prove herself?” Sampson’s smile widened. “To who? Me?”

“Perhaps you, Your Grace,” Mr. Oswald said, his voice neutral. “Or perhaps to herself.”

Sampson pondered this for a moment, a flicker of understanding dawning in his eyes. Catherine, who he had initially expected to be a quiet and unassuming Scottish lass, was proving to be far more complex than he had initially thought. She was a woman of hidden depths, of unexpected strengths.

She was challenging his opinions and views, and it irked him to no end.

He had wedded for the sake of his business, a marriage of necessity that would open more doors for him. But now, he felt distracted by her spirit, her determination, her unexpected fire. While he did admire her courageous approach to her new role as a duchess, he was tempted to make good on his teasing about her wifely duties.

He wondered what she would be like in his bed, those defiant lips moaning his name, her skin flushed and shimmering with sweat. He wondered if she would try to resist him, or if the promise of pleasure would be too strong for her to do anything other than what he wanted.

Sampson refrained from crossing that line, for now, because he wasn’t keen on making her think that their marriage was anything more than an arrangement tailored to suit their needs.

“Thank you, Oswald,” he said, dismissing the butler with a wave of his hand. “That will be all.”

Mr. Oswald bowed and retreated, leaving Sampson alone with his thoughts.

He stood for a moment, gazing out the window at the view of the grounds beneath the orange glow of the setting sun, his mind filled with images of Catherine.

A wave of anticipation washed over him. He had never been one for surprises or disruptions to his carefully ordered life. But Catherine, with her quiet strength and unexpected determination, was proving to be a delightful exception. He found himself looking forward to their next encounter, to the inevitable clash of their wills.

“You are a puzzle I will solve,” he muttered under his breath. “Sooner or later.”