Page 58 of His Scottish Duchess

Ignoring the comment was easy for Sampson because he could hardly hear it, focused on the feel of his fists hitting the target before him.

The rhythmic thud of gloved fists against padded leather filled the air of Frederick’s private gymnasium, a space usually reserved for the Duke of Ironvale and his closest confidants. Today, however, the familiar dynamic was slightly altered, as Sampson had decided to show up without prior notice.

It was not as though that was not allowed, but he did like sparring with Frederick as often as he could, secretly fond of their light and friendly jabs as they warmed up, along with the taunts that were often punctuated by the strikes of their fists.

But today, Sampson preferred to expel some of his stress by himself, so he warmed up on his own, trying to tamp down the frustration brewing beneath his skin.

When Frederick eventually offered to be his sparring partner, Sampson’s movements carried a raw energy that bordered on aggression as he traded blows with Frederick. The exertion was a welcome distraction from the mental burdens that had been weighing him down.

“He does seem rather… on edge today. I wonder what made the Duke of Rosehall so jittery. Any ideas on what could make the renowned Rosehall devil so out of sorts?” Benedict Pratt, the Duke of Ravenwood, asked.

Sampson groaned inwardly over having an audience. He did not want them to witness his emotional turmoil.

He had sought out this physical outlet, the need to expend his restless energy a primal urge. Usually, these sessions were a solitary affair, or occasionally shared with Frederick whenever his friend had the time. But today, their other acquaintances had joined them. Their presence was a familiar comfort, though Sampson found himself less happy with their usual easy banter.

He sparred with a focused intensity, each punch relaying the conflict simmering within him since he had awoken to find Catherine nestled in his arms. The memory, both unsettling and strangely comforting, replayed in his mind, and a part of him had desperately desired to stay by her side, which was a verydifferent feeling from yearning for solitude after a night haunted by nightmares.

His companions, seasoned observers of his moods, quickly picked up on his unusual taciturnity.

As Sampson and Frederick paused for a brief respite, toweling off sweat-drenched brows, Samuel Gale, the Duke of Bancroft, raised a questioning eyebrow.

“You seem… particularly vigorous today, Rosehall,” he observed, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Something on your mind?”

Sampson merely grunted in response, taking a long drink of water. He wasn’t in the mood for their probing questions or their teasing.

Frederick, however, was more perceptive. He had witnessed the aftermath of Sampson’s recurring nightmares countless times—the dark circles under his eyes, the haunted look that lingered for days. Sampson was all too aware that he looked… different. Well-rested, almost.

“Everything all right, Sampson?” Frederick asked, his usual blunt demeanor tinged with genuine concern. “You’ve been quieter than usual.”

Sampson hesitated, unable to stop thinking about it, to keep his mind from recalling the lightness in his joints as he rousedfrom the warmth that had tempted him to yearn for more stolen moments.

“I… I woke up with Catherine in my arms,” he blurted out, the words tumbling from his lips before he could fully censor them.

The confession left him feeling absurdly vulnerable.

Samuel chuckled, a hearty, booming sound. “Well, that’s hardly a cause for such grim intensity, is it? You are married, after all.”

“I think it would only be a problem if you awakened anywhere else,” Aaron Bolton, Duke of Crauford, pointed out, then narrowed his gaze. “You are not still?—”

“No, no. God, no. What sort of rake do you take me for?” Sampson sputtered.

“I merely wanted to ensure that there was no need for me to assume the worst. As long as it’s your wife, and only your wife, everything is fine,” Aaron replied.

Benedict murmured his agreement, both of their expressions suggesting they saw nothing particularly noteworthy in this revelation.

But Frederick’s reaction was different. His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of understanding—and perhaps a hint of surprise—crossing his features. He knew of Sampson’s deeply ingrained aversion to sharing his bed, a consequence of the terrifyingnightmares that often plagued his sleep. Nightmares about the near-fatal attacks by his brother.

The fact that Sampson had not only shared his bed but seemingly slept soundly enough to wake up with Catherine still there was… significant.

Frederick studied his friend, noting the subtle but undeniable signs of a night that hadn’t been filled with the usual restless tossing and turning. A slow smile spread across his face, a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Ah, Rosehall,” he said, a chuckle escaping his lips. “It seems that wives do indeed have a… calming effect, even on a hardened cynic like yourself. I am only surprised it took this long for you to succumb to her charms and leave yourself open enough so she could leave such a large mark on your life.”

The teasing began in earnest then, Samuel, Benedict, and even the usually reserved Aaron joining in, their comments ranging from thinly veiled suggestions of Sampson finally succumbing to domesticity to outright accusations of him being secretly smitten with his Duchess.

All of which were unfounded, baseless accusations. No such thing was happening. He was not smitten with Catherine. It was not possible.

“Careful, Sampson,” Samuel quipped, wiping sweat from his brow before fussing with his gloves. “Before you know it, you’llbe discussing floral arrangements and the merits of various tea blends.”

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