Page 53 of His Scottish Duchess

It was clear he wished to hide that part of himself from her, wanted to pretend that all was well, but she could see the cracks in his façade, and it made her heart weep for him. Most especially at the gentle way he had looked at her after she had kissed him.

A different kind of warmth bloomed within her then, a hope that maybe, just maybe, her mother’s wish might one day come true.

Sampson had been doing all these things, acting in a certain way that told her perhaps there was still hope. And so she inhaled and let herself speak the truth in her heart.

“I hope so. I really hope so.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Are you sure I cannae live in a bathroom? They have so many of them. They willnae ken if I’m in one. They dinnae even have to worry about it.”

Catherine sighed, fond and exasperated. “No, Graham. You cannot live in a bathroom. Please, just get in the carriage.”

The departure of her family was a bittersweet ending to their stay. Sampson stood on the steps of Rosehall, a polite smile fixed on his face as he watched the flurry of farewells.

Fergus, his broad shoulders slightly stooped, embraced Catherine tightly, his familiar hand patting her back with paternal affection.

“Be a good wife to yer Sampson, lass,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “And remember, ye’re always our Catherine. Always a part of us. We love ye dearly.”

Mary followed suit, her hug equally fervent, tears glistening in her eyes as she whispered words of love and encouragement into Catherine’s hair.

With her siblings, the goodbyes were a mix of playful teasing and genuine affection. Catherine squeezed Graham’s hand, reminding him to stay out of trouble and to practice his riding. To Margaret, ever the capable older sister, she offered a heartfelt plea.

“Look after yerself, Meg,” she urged, her voice catching slightly. “As much as ye look after everyone else.”

Young Isobel, clutching a small posy of wildflowers Catherine had picked for her, looked on the verge of tears as Catherine showered her with kisses, her small face crumpling as Catherine finally pulled away.

Fergus clasped Sampson’s hand, his grip firm. “Thank ye again for yer hospitality, Yer Grace,” he said, his gaze sincere. “It meant the world to Catherine, and to us all.”

“The pleasure was entirely mine, Lord Spranklin,” Sampson replied, his tone genuine. He had found an unexpected enjoyment in the lively presence of the Lennox family. “You are all welcome at Rosehall anytime.”

As the carriage carrying her family finally disappeared down the long drive, Catherine turned to Sampson, a soft smile gracing her lips. “Thank you again, Sampson,” she said, her voice filled with warmth. “That was the most wonderful surprise.”

Then, a new light sparked in her eyes, a hint of excitement replacing the earlier sadness.

“Sampson,” she announced, her tone suddenly determined, “I believe it is time we hosted a ball here at Rosehall.”

Sampson raised a skeptical eyebrow, a familiar teasing glint in his blue eyes. “A ball, Catherine? Trying a bit too hard to play the dutiful Duchess, are we?”

Instead of bristling at his teasing, Catherine’s lips curved into a playful smirk.

“And you, Sampson? Always so quick to assume the worst. Perhaps I simply wish to throw a party. Or perhaps…” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Perhaps I merely wish to see you looking dashing in your formal attire.”

Sampson found himself unexpectedly captivated. There was something undeniably attractive about her confidence, the way her eyes sparkled with amusement, the subtle challenge in her smirk. It made him curious to know if she would still be this bold if he pulled her to a quieter place and pressed against her. He wondered how long she could hold the bravado while shaking with pleasure.

The temptation to ravish her was growing rapidly, along with the urge to sink his teeth into her skin and mark her as his while she writhed in pleasure beneath him. This close, he couldn’t help but feel tempted to count the freckles smattered across hernose and the apples of her cheeks, making her beauty even more breathtaking.

A warm, unfamiliar feeling stirred in his chest, a sensation he instinctively tried to suppress. He had no desire to analyze these burgeoning emotions.

“Do as you wish, Catherine,” he said, his tone deliberately nonchalant as he turned and walked away, feeling a sudden, inexplicable urge to put some distance between them. “You may have your ball.”

But the farther he got from her, the more a part of him longed to stay.

Almost as soon as she had Sampson’s blessings, Catherine threw herself into the preparations for the ball with determined energy. The prospect was both exciting and daunting. While she had attended one grand ball in London before her marriage, the intricacies of hosting such a lavish event were entirely new to her. She found herself poring over books on etiquette and consulting with Mrs. Starling on guest lists and menus, a knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach with each passing day.

“I have to do well,” she said to herself one afternoon, whilst surrounded by books and gossip leaflets that spoke about the latest trends seen at parties. “I must make sure that I do not bring any shame to Sampson… or my family.”

Catherine had not been able to forget what those women had said about her at the ball she had attended with her husband, often finding herself recalling the way they had looked down on her for her origins. From the treatment she had received, it was clear many of them believed she was undeserving of Sampson and all the privileges that came with being his Duchess.

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