Page 32 of His Scottish Duchess

“Never mind. I take back my question. You dinnae have to answer?—”

Catherine inhaled sharply when he leaned in, his eyes never leaving hers as he told her quietly, “Get out.”

She immediately realized that she’d overstepped her boundaries and tried to apologize for her mistake.

“I am sorry, Your Grace. It is none of my business, and I shouldnae have?—”

“I said, get out. Now,” Sampson told her in the coldest voice she had ever heard, looking angry for the first time since she had known him.

Quickly, she stood and gathered her skirts, bolting from the drawing room.

Once she had put enough distance between herself and her husband, she couldn’t help but recall his distraught face, her heart hurting as his voice echoed in her head, telling her to leave.

“Oh God,” she gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth. “What have I done?”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“No, no, not quite there,” Catherine instructed the footmen, her gaze fixed on the mahogany side table they were struggling to maneuver. “Just a touch to the left, if you please. Yes, that’s it.”

The men nodded and followed her instruction, moving the furniture in the direction she had pointed out.

A small sense of satisfaction bloomed in Catherine’s chest as the piece finally sat in the precise spot she had envisioned. It was a handsome table, its legs intricately carved. It had been languishing in the attic, draped in dust sheets, until she had retrieved it.

Slowly, room by room, Catherine was imbuing Rosehall with a different character. The rather terrifying and oppressive swathes of red were being replaced with softer hues of cream, sage, and a delicate sky blue. Heavy, uncomfortable settees, many positioned in the most peculiar of places, had been replaced with more practical, and less… suggestive furniture.

She had stuck to her goal of wanting to create a home within these walls, as opposed to the den of iniquity Sampson had fashioned it into before they had gotten married.

“Excellent work, gentlemen. Now, let’s move that shelf next. I want it to sit near the window,” she told the footmen, pointing at the oak bookshelf standing by the door.

Just as before, following the disastrous evening in the drawing room where she had so foolishly pried into Sampson’s past, Catherine had thrown herself into her duties. The memory of his anger, the cold dismissal in his eyes, still niggled at her. Occupying herself with running the household, making tangible changes, and proving herself to be capable of doing what she was tasked with was a way to push those unsettling thoughts to the corner. It was easier to focus on fabric swatches and furniture placement than on the chasm that seemed to be growing between her and her husband.

Her approach to this redecoration, however, was proving to be rather… unconventional—at least according to the subtle hints Mrs. Starling had been dropping. Raised with a keen awareness of household budgets, Catherine couldn’t quite bring herself to splurge on new furniture when the attic held a treasure trove of forgotten pieces.

They might be a little old-fashioned, perhaps lacking the current fashionable flair, but they were undeniably well-made and, more importantly, already paid for. She had reasoned that Sampson, for all his status, might not appreciate unnecessary extravagance.

“Are you quite certain about these draperies, Your Grace?” Mrs. Starling asked her one morning, her tone carefully neutral as she gestured towards the heavy damask Catherine had selected from the attic.

It was a rich, deep green, certainly not the most modern color, but the fabric was substantial and still in excellent condition.

“Perfectly certain, Mrs. Starling,” Catherine replied, smoothing a crease in the material. “They are far too good to waste, and the color will complement the new wallpaper beautifully.”

Mrs. Starling hesitated, a slight frown creasing her brow. “Of course, Your Grace. They are… of excellent quality. However…” She paused, clearly choosing her words with painstaking care. “Perhaps it’s better to choose something a little… lighter? More… in keeping with the current fashions?”

Catherine tilted her head, genuinely puzzled. “Lighter? But these are perfectly serviceable, and they will block out the drafts in the colder months most effectively.”

She thought her choices were sound and practical. Why did Mrs. Starling look so uncertain? The woman had never hesitated to speak her mind before.

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Mrs. Starling continued, her tone a delicate balance between politeness and professionalism. “They will certainly serve a purpose. It is just that for a house of this standing… one might expect…” she trailed off.

“Expect what, Mrs. Starling?” Catherine prompted, still not understanding the woman’s reservations.

Surely Mrs. Starling was not implying that her taste was poor, was she?

Mrs. Starling sighed almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps… a touch more… modernity? Just a tad. Some of the newer fabrics are quite exquisite, and the patterns are…” she trailed off again, much to Catherine’s growing ire and frustration.

“But these are perfectly good,” Catherine repeated, a touch of defensiveness creeping into her tone. “And I saw some rather lovely armchairs in the attic that will go wonderfully with them. They simply need a bit of reupholstering.”

Mrs. Starling gave a small, tight smile. “Of course, Your Grace. Your judgment is paramount.”

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