Page 63 of His Scottish Duchess

“Ah, Catherine,” he groaned, his hand squeezing her bottom.

She could feel her release edging closer. Sampson was close too, if the way he was throbbing in her hands was any indication. Her jaw felt too heavy so she finished him off with her hands, startled when some of his seed landed on her face, his groans intermingling with hers as he sent her careening into pleasure’s arms.

When it was over, and they had caught their breath, Sampson pulled Catherine into his arms. She moved obediently, utterly exhausted but strangely content.

Sampson, his earlier sternness completely gone, gently stroked her hair, his gaze tender as he wiped her face and pressed kisses to her cheek.

“Very good, Duchess. Well done, darling,” he told her, pressing his lips to her temple.

He then insisted on feeding her from the tray that had been left earlier, his concern for her well-being paramount. Catherine, too tired to argue, ate the offered morsels, savoring the unexpected tenderness of his care.

Soon, sleep claimed her, her body heavy and sated in the comfort of his arms.

The next morning, Catherine awoke to the warm weight of Sampson’s arm around her. He was still asleep, his breathing deep and even. She stirred slightly, attempting to slip out of bed, but his grip tightened.

“Stay,” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

Catherine settled back down silently, her head resting on his chest. The events of the previous night felt both surreal and intensely real. She felt a blush rise to her cheeks at the memory of her deliberate defiance and the unexpected turn their interaction had taken.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, Sampson’s eyes fluttered open. He looked down at her, a soft smile gracing his lips.

“Good morning, wife,” he murmured, his voice hoarse as he pulled her closer, pressing his lips to her temple.

“G-Good morning,” she stuttered nervously.

“Catherine,” he said, his voice gentle. “Why were you running yourself ragged for this ball?”

She hesitated for a moment, her anxieties feeling foolish in the light of day. “I… I was scared of failing,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Scared of disappointing everyone. You, my family… the guests.”

She worried about being an embarrassment, about her lack of experience in navigating the intricacies of the ton.

“I feared my mistakes would reflect poorly on you and my family,” she added, her gaze dropping.

Sampson cupped her chin, gently tilting her face up to meet his eyes.

“Catherine,” he said, his voice firm but kind. “You do not need to fear disappointing me. You are enough exactly as you are, without going to such lengths to ‘fix’ something that isn’t broken.”

He traced the curve of her cheek with his thumb. “You will never disappoint me, Catherine. And if anyone ever tries to make you feel less than you are or bad about yourself…” A dangerous glint entered his blue eyes. “They will quickly learn why some people call me a devil.”

He spent the rest of the morning pampering her, insisting that she remain in bed. He fed her breakfast, his touch tender, his conversation light and reassuring.

The anxieties that had plagued Catherine began to recede, replaced by a growing sense of security and warmth that spread through her at his unexpected care.

Flashes of the night before lingered in her mind. The ball was still hours away, but at that moment, nestled in Sampson’s arms, she felt a sense of peace she hadn’t known was possible.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“My word! The Duchess truly created a marvel!”

Sampson nodded in silent agreement to the comment that reached his ears, admiring his wife’s work with a faint smile on his lips.

The grand ballroom of Rosehall pulsed with vibrant energy, a kaleidoscope of shimmering silks, polished shoes gliding across the floor, and the rumble of animated and elegant conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter. The air was thick with the mingled scents of expensive perfume and freshly cut flowers—Catherine had insisted on an abundance of fragrant white roses and delicate lilies.

Crystal chandeliers, their myriad facets catching and scattering the warm glow of hundreds of candles, cast a magical light over the assembled guests, reflecting in the gleaming surfaces of the polished parquet floor and the ornate gold-framed mirrors that adorned the walls.

Sampson leaned against a fluted marble pillar near the grand entrance, his usual guarded expression softened by a sense of pride. His gaze, momentarily distracted by the numerous sights and sounds his wife had curated, inevitably returned to the radiant figure of his Duchess.

The members of the ton, a notoriously critical and often jaded audience, moved through the room with an air of genuine enjoyment, their hushed conversations carrying snippets of impressed commentary about the evening’s flawless execution.

---