Page 17 of His Scottish Duchess

Catherine lifted her hands to the ties of her gown, pulling the ribbons loose. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in a whisper of silk. She did not tremble, did not look away. She simply stood naked before him, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Sampson’s eyes darkened, hungrily tracing the curves of her body, unguarded and slow. A flicker of surprise, then raw desire crossed his features, and she could barely keep herself from flinching when he stood and approached her.

At first, he stood in front of her silently. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he exhaled softly. Her knees trembled when his eyes slowly slid over her form again.

“You’re a stubborn, little thing,” he murmured, making her heart flutter.

The air between them was thick and heavy, charged with something that threatened to render Catherine’s insides an unrecognizable shade that might match the flush spreading over her skin.

Her breath caught as he leaned down, and she flinched, only to realize that he was reaching not for her, but for her discarded dress.

With deliberate care, he lifted it and held it out to her.

“Never challenge me like this again,” he said, his voice low and edged with something unreadable. “Especially when you don’t know the consequences. It is never a wise decision to wager your well-being on a hunch.”

Catherine swallowed. Slowly, she took the dress from him and pulled it back on.

Sampson didn’t move away. His fingers brushed her arm as he stepped past her, his breath warm against her ear.

“Go to bed, Duchess.”

Catherine turned away quickly, cursing herself for being so stubborn, for letting him goad her into doing such a ridiculous thing. She grabbed her wine glass, downed it in one gulp, and left without another word.

She only drew in a breath when she was in her room, sinking into a heap on the floor as she remembered the way his eyes had hungrily studied her body.

That Duke seemed worlds apart from the one who had been content simply spending the evening teasing her. The darkness in his eyes had nearly swallowed her whole, and she found herself expecting—almost hoping that he would touch her.

Take her, even.

Catherine gasped, horrified by the thought, and she shook her head, begging herself to come back to her senses.

She was determined to understand him, to discover the secrets hidden beneath his playful façade. But she knew, with a sinking feeling, that it would not be an easy task.

CHAPTER SIX

“Do 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…

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