Page 68 of His Scottish Duchess

He did not need to ask, but she wanted to tell him anyway. “I’ll spend every moment waiting for you. Hurry back.”

Her family, witnessing this quiet display of affection, exchanged happy and knowing glances, a silent acknowledgment of the warmth that now blossomed between the Duke and his beloved Duchess.

With a final round of polite farewells and promises to return soon, Sampson departed, the sound of the carriage wheels crunching on the gravel driveway gradually fading into the tranquil Scottish countryside, leaving Catherine alone with her family for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

As the echoes of his departure dissipated, they turned their attention to her, their curiosity about her life as the Duchess of Rosehall bubbling to the surface, their questions eager and heartfelt.

“So, Catherine, my wee bairn,” her mother began, settling into her favorite armchair by the crackling fire. “Tell us about married life wi’ the Duke. Ye seem to be gettin’ on remarkably well wi’ him now—a far cry from those first letters ye sent us.”

Catherine settled onto the sofa beside Margaret, a genuine warmth spreading through her at the mere mention of Sampson.

“We are, Mama. We are getting on very well, indeed.”

She found herself wanting to share the subtle nuances of their evolving relationship, the small, almost imperceptible gestures of care and consideration that had become increasingly commonplace between them.

She recounted the details of their journey north. The way Sampson had consistently prioritized her comfort, the reassuring weight of his arm around her when she had dozed in the carriage, and the respectful distance he had maintained during their overnight stays, despite the undeniable undercurrent of attraction that often hummed between them.

She carefully omitted the fact that he chose to sleep on the floor, keeping it a secret.

Margaret, ever the more direct and perceptive of the two sisters, leaned forward, her keen eyes studying Catherine’s flushed cheeks. “He seems… uncommonly fond of ye, Catherine. More than just a husband dutifully fulfilling his obligations.”

Catherine blushed a deeper shade, a shy smile gracing her lips. “I believe… I believe he is, Meg.” She hesitated, unsure how much of her evolving feelings, her growing affection for Sampson, she was ready to articulate. “We have found a… comfortable and, dare I say, rather pleasant understanding.”

Her mother’s gaze softened, turning hopeful. “And are ye thinkin’ about… bairns, my darlin’?” she asked gently, her hand reaching across the small table to cover Catherine’s, her touch conveying a deep maternal longing.

Catherine’s smile faltered ever so slightly. “Not yet, Mama,” she replied, her gaze momentarily dropping to the intricate pattern in the Persian rug beneath her feet.

She couldn’t bring herself to mention the remark he had made about his lack of desire for children. It felt too complicated, too personal, to reveal to her family.

Being back within the familiar embrace of her family, surrounded by the unconditional love and unwavering support she had always known, served as a potent and poignant reminder of her deep-seated yearning for a family of her own.

She watched young Isobel playing contentedly in the corner of the room with a well-loved wooden doll, her innocent chatter and joyful giggles filling the cozy parlor as Graham teased her, and felt a sharp pang of longing in her heart.

She wanted that. She wanted the messy, loud joy of children, the all-encompassing love that filled a family home. And with each passing day, with each shared glance and unspoken understanding with Sampson, she realized with increasing clarity that she wanted that life, that future, with him.

Her acceptance of his request now felt like a heavy and unwelcome weight, a self-imposed barrier to the future she increasingly craved with every fiber of her being. She could no longer evade the inevitable conversation. She needed to speak openly and honestly with Sampson, to understand if his feelings had evolved as profoundly as her own, to broach the delicate and deeply personal subject of starting a family.

Catherine knew, with a growing sense of urgency, and a surge of hopeful anticipation, that she was finally ready to take that leapof faith, to voice the deepest desires of her heart and pray that Sampson’s desires aligned with hers.

The business meeting would conclude, he would return to her, and then she would find the right moment to speak from the very depths of her soul.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Iwonder, where did I put my shawl?”

Sampson shifted his attention to his wife, his heart swelling at the sight of her moving about the room. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating her busy form with an ethereal glow that made her look even more angelic than usual.

It was strange, how content he was to simply watch her, his veins thrumming with a sensation foreign to him—one he could only assume was peace.

They had just come from breakfast with her family, and the whole affair had been just as chaotic as it usually was when her family was in the same room.

“Ye must allow the Duke to eat, Graham. I’m sure he would answer all yer questions at a more opportune time,” Mary had chastised gently.

“Listen to Maither and shut yer mouth, ye little brat,” Margaret chastised as she fed Isobel some bits of toast dipped in lightly fried egg yolk. “He’s goin’ to get indigestion if ye keep botherin’ him.”

“I just want to ken more about his work. Faither says that a man must have several skills to survive manhood. I would like to amass a good amount of knowledge before I am old enough to take over the family business,” Graham protested with a pout.

“Big words for a wee lad who was caught rollin’ around in a pile of dead leaves the gardener had just raked a few days ago.”

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