Page 56 of His Scottish Duchess

He paused by the window, his gaze unfocused as he stared out at the meticulously manicured gardens. This landscape usually brought him a sense of order and control. But even the serene symmetry of the flowerbeds couldn’t quell the unease that had taken root within him.

It had been days since he had last requested Catherine’s presence in his chambers in the late hours—a deliberate abstention that he tried to rationalize as consideration for her hectic schedule.

The preparations for her… event were clearly all-consuming, and he told himself that he was merely being thoughtful, allowing her the uninterrupted time she needed to organize the grand affair.

Yet, beneath this veneer of consideration, a more unsettling truth simmered. He was avoiding her. The memory of her unexpected kiss, the fleeting warmth of her lips on his, had stirred something within him, a foreign emotion that he was ill-equipped to handle.

I have touched many women in more intimate ways, Catherine included. How on earth can a simple kiss have such an effect on me?

Sampson still wondered how out of his mind he must have been to have let her slip away afterward, when his body yearned to have her beneath him that night. A simple tug would have sufficed to get her right where he wanted her to be—in his lap, gasping his name.

With his sudden desire for her spreading through him, it was safer to maintain a distance, to adhere to the unspoken boundaries of their initial agreement. To acknowledge any shift in their dynamic would be to admit that something had changed, and Sampson was determined that nothing had.

Absolutely nothing.

He cleared his throat, the sound echoing through the spacious study as he decided that he had sulked long enough. He needed information, a factual assessment of the situation. And just as he made that decision, the butler arrived at his door, looking put together as usual.

Oswald bowed with a flourish as he stepped through the doorway, his presence, as always, a model of quiet efficiency. “You called for me, Your Grace?”

“Oswald,” Sampson began, striving for a tone of casual inquiry. “I was merely curious about the progress of the… preparations for the Duchess’s ball. How are they proceeding?”

Oswald’s lips curled into a subtle, almost paternal smile. “Her Grace is an absolute marvel, Your Grace. A veritable force of nature, if I may say so. The preparations for the ball are advancing at an astonishing pace, and with a level of meticulous detail that is truly commendable. The entire household is operating under her precise direction, and the atmosphere, while undeniably energetic, is entirely focused on her agenda.”

The butler then launched into a detailed account of Catherine’s tireless efforts. He spoke of the extensive guest list, carefully curated to include not only local dignitaries but also influential members of the ton, contacts facilitated—he subtly implied—through Sampson’s connections.

He described the lengthy consultations with renowned chefs, the curation of a multi-course menu that promised to tantalize even the most peculiar palates, and the importation of exotic delicacies that Sampson had never heard of. Additionally, the Duchess had been particular about the flowers and the designs of the drapery to feature in the party.

He even recounted her involvement in the smallest of details, from the selection of the finest damask linens to the rigorous sampling of every proposed canapé andpetit four, her discerning palate ensuring that only the most exquisite delicacies would grace the tables.

Oswald also mentioned her thoughtful consideration for the comfort of her guests, arranging for additional seating areas, ensuring ample refreshments, and even organizing a private card room for those who preferred a quieter form of entertainment.

“Usually, this amount of work would have the servants groaning in exhaustion and fierce dislike, but Her Grace’s enthusiasm is contagious. She has the maids practically skipping up and down the halls as they put things in order and the footmen eager to lift heavy crates and parcels and put them where they need to be.It is quite a remarkable thing to behold,” he pointed out with a proud smile.

Sampson found himself increasingly surprised, and unintentionally impressed, realizing that he had underestimated the amount of effort his wife was willing to put into the preparations. It was far beyond anything he had anticipated.

A sudden, almost painful awareness washed over him. He had been so consumed by his inner turmoil, so determined to maintain his emotional distance, that he had failed to truly see the extent of Catherine’s efforts, the dedication she was showing to her new role as his Duchess.

He cleared his throat again, the sound feeling heavy in the suddenly charged atmosphere of the study.

“Very well, Oswald. Thank you for the comprehensive update. You may attend to your other duties.”

Left alone once more, his earlier resolve wavered. The image of Catherine tirelessly working to ensure the success of her ball began to chip away at his carefully constructed wall of denial. He could no longer ignore the nagging feeling that his avoidance was not only selfish but also deeply unfair.

With a decisive sigh, he reached for the bell pull and tugged it sharply. When the footman appeared, Sampson gave his instructions. “Inform Her Grace that I would like her to join me here in my study at her earliest convenience.”

The wait felt interminable. Sampson found himself pacing again, his anxiety mounting with each passing minute. When Catherine finally entered, her usual vibrant energy seemed muted, replaced by a weary grace. The faint shadows beneath her eyes and the slight droop of her shoulders were more pronounced in the clear light of day, and Sampson felt a sharp pang of guilt.

“Catherine,” he began, his voice softer than he had intended, the earlier sharpness replaced by a genuine concern. “Are you all right? You look… exhausted.”

Catherine offered a tired but reassuring smile. “I am perfectly well, Sampson. Just… preoccupied. The final preparations require a great deal of attention, as you can see.”

She attempted a lighthearted tone, but Sampson saw the effort it took her.

He didn’t order her to sit down. Instead, he beckoned her closer, reaching out when she was close enough and gently drawing her to him. Without a word, he pulled her onto his lap, her body fitting against his with a surprising familiarity.

She leaned against him with a soft sigh—a silent acknowledgment of her weariness and, he dared to hope, a degree of comfort in his presence.

“Tell me, Catherine,” Sampson said softly, his hand resting lightly but possessively on her waist. “Tell me everything you have been doing to deplete your energy to this extent.”

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