Page 37 of His Scottish Duchess

Catherine listened with rapt attention, offering appropriate gasps of surprise, nods of understanding, and sympathetic sighs. It was a welcome change from the often-stilted conversations within the staff, and she truly felt a connection forming with the kind, gossipy modiste.

“There, Your Grace,” Miss Bethany said finally, stepping back with a satisfied smile. “The measurements are complete. You have been a perfect model thus far. Now, let us look at these sketches.”

They moved on to discuss designs. Catherine felt far more comfortable and at ease than she had anticipated, thanks to Miss Bethany’s warm nature and the delightful snippets of London life she had so generously shared.

Soon, the conversation shifted to styles, necklines, and sleeve lengths, Miss Bethany offering suggestions based on current fashions and what she believed would best suit Catherine.

Time seemed to pass quickly in Miss Bethany’s cheerful company. They chatted about everything and nothing, and Catherine found herself genuinely enjoying the experience. She felt a warmth towards the modiste, a sense of burgeoning friendship that had been sorely lacking in her new life.

“I will need you to take off this dress now, Your Grace. Just for a moment, so I can see what these fabrics look like against your skin. We need to be sure of how flattering—or unflattering—they look on you before we make a final choice,” Miss Bethany told her gently.

Catherine nodded, already reaching for the buttons of her dress. “I understand completely. It is fine.”

The modiste helped her take off her dress, leaving her in her chemise and corset. Then, she raised swatches of fabrics toCatherine’s arms and chest, explaining why some colors worked and others did not.

After some time, just as Miss Bethany was sketching a design for a morning gown, the door to the drawing room opened. Catherine looked up, feeling a hint of surprise—and a touch of apprehension—as Sampson entered.

He paused just inside the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the room before settling on her. Catherine instinctively tried to smooth down the thin fabric of her chemise, though she fought the urge to fidget.

“Well, well,” she said, trying to keep her tone light, “if it isn’t my dear husband. You must be terribly bored to come and check on my progress with the modiste.”

Sampson’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “My dearest wife,” he drawled, his gaze lingering on her form in a way that made her skin prickle. “I simply missed you so much, I felt I must seek you out to ensure that you are perfectly well.”

His tone was deliberately exaggerated, dripping with a playful affection that she did not entirely believe.

Miss Bethany, who had been observing the exchange with an amused expression, chuckled. “My goodness,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “For newlyweds, you two are certainly comfortable with each other. I’ve seen older couples who aren’t so… comfortable with each other.”

It was apparent that she interpreted their banter as a sign of deep intimacy, seeing them as a couple who simply couldn’t bear to be apart.

Catherine looked at her husband, waiting for him to set the record straight. But Sampson didn’t deny the modiste’s implication. In fact, he seemed to relish it.

He stepped further into the room, his gaze still fixed on Catherine, making her feel acutely aware of her state of undress.

“Have you not seen her stunning beauty, Miss Bethany?” he asked, his voice a low murmur that seemed to caress her skin. “I would be remiss not to worship her at every chance I am given.”

Catherine felt a blush creep up her neck and spread across her cheeks. His words, though clearly intended to tease, had a certain weight to them, especially when they were delivered with that intense, unwavering gaze. She found herself squirming slightly under his scrutiny, wishing she had her gown on.

Sampson’s eyes roamed over her body, lingering on the curve of her shoulders and the delicate line of her collarbone. It was a look that made her breath catch in her throat, a look that held a promise of intimacy that both thrilled and unnerved her.

“I do not wish to bother you both any longer,” Sampson continued, turning his attention back to the modiste, though his gaze kept flicking back to Catherine. “But please ensure that Her Grace has several pairs of the finest gloves made from the best materials to match her new ensembles.”

“Certainly, Your Grace.” Miss Bethany nodded, curtsying respectfully.

He gave Catherine one last, lingering look, a smirk playing on his lips that suggested he was well aware of the effect he was having on her. Then, with a final nod to Miss Bethany, he turned and walked out of the drawing room, leaving Catherine flustered and with her heart still racing.

“His Grace leaves quite the impression, as I heard before.”

Catherine continued to stare in the direction he had gone for a moment, mumbling, “He is certainly something.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Her Grace will be down shortly, Your Grace,” Anna announced, her voice soft in the vast foyer.

Sampson nodded, his gaze fixed on the grand staircase that curved gracefully towards the upper floors. He had been down there for a few minutes now, and although he hated all forms of tardiness, he was not as bothered tonight that his wife had yet to finish getting ready for the ball.

He couldn’t help but grant her some leniency, given his awareness of how hard she was working. Despite her reservations and her initial penchant for arguing against his every word, Catherine was doing her very best to look worthy of her new title, and he couldn’t help but feel proud of how far she had come.

“There is no need to rush her,” he replied, his tone even. “I am quite content to wait.”

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