Page 79 of His Scottish Duchess

His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear thrumming into his veins.

She had begged him, just before he had left. She had asked him to stay and talk with her. But he had allowed his cowardice tochase him away. He had chosen his frail sense of self over his wife.

And now she was gone. He had driven her away.

The stark reality of her absence hit him with a force that left him reeling.

“Where could she have gone? She’s never been by herself in these parts. What if something happened to her?”

With every question he asked, his despair rose higher and higher as he became all too aware of the severity of the mistakes he had made. Just as his breathing began to quicken, his gaze fell on a folded piece of paper resting on the pillow where her head had lain.

His hands trembled violently as he reached for it, the delicate script a final, painful confirmation of his loss. The words swam before his eyes, each one a fresh stab of guilt and sadness.

I have returned to my family. I need some time to think.

Then, at the bottom of the paper, almost like an afterthought, were the words,I’m sorry.

She had gone to her family. She needed time to think.

A crushing weight settled upon Sampson’s chest, suffocating him with the finality of her departure. It was his fault. His damnable past, his inability to keep the darkness contained, had shattered the fragile bond they had forged. She had finally seen him for who he truly was—a man incapable and wholly undeserving of love.

A man who would inevitably bring only pain and sorrow into her life.

The fragile hope that had flickered between them during their shared passion had been brutally snuffed out by the harsh reality of his confession, leaving behind only regret and misplaced longing.

“I suppose there is only one thing I can do now,” he told himself quietly.

Sampson returned to London in a haze of self-loathing.

It had been difficult to explain to the staff that their mistress had chosen to remain with her family for a little while.

“Oh,” Mrs. Starling murmured, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “That is fine, Your Grace. As long as she has a wonderful time with them, I suppose. But when is Her Grace expected to return? I would like to mark the date so we can start preparations for her return in due time.”

“I do not know, Mrs. Starling. I suppose you and I will see her whenever we do,” he had all but snapped while trying to retire to his room.

Sampson heard the housekeeper gasp in shock, but he lacked the strength to care at that moment. He did not know what else to do, utterly baffled at how things had been ruined in such a short period of time. The familiar walls of Rosehall offered no solace. Just like before Catherine had wormed her way into his life and heart, sleep evaded him, the nights haunted by vivid nightmares.

However, this time, it wasn’t the image of Thomas falling that tormented him. It was the image of Catherine, her face etched with disappointment and fear, turning her back on him, walking to a distant place he never seemed to be able to follow her to.

He had tried to distract himself with his work, but his mind kept drifting back to Catherine. He spent hours—lost most of them, honestly—wondering if she was all right, wondering if she truly despised him.

On his loneliest nights, as he sat up in bed and waited for his heart to calm down, he let himself wonder if he would ever see her again.

Frederick came to visit several days after his return and found him slumped behind his desk, surrounded by empty decanters, his hair disheveled and his eyes bloodshot.

“Sampson,” Frederick said, his voice laced with concern. “What in God’s name has happened? I thought it was strange thatyou had returned, but I had yet to receive any reports on your meeting in York. You look like death warmed over.”

Sampson merely stared blankly ahead, the hollow ache in his chest a constant reminder of his loss.

Frowning in concern, Frederick began to pick up the empty bottles and glasses. “What on earth has happened?”

“She knows,” Sampson finally rasped after a few moments, the words heavy with despair.

Frederick sighed, understanding dawning in his eyes. “About Thomas?”

Sampson nodded, his expression blank, while his soul was weighed down by so much inner turmoil.

“It was bound to happen eventually, Sampson,” Frederick said, his tone surprisingly gentle. “You couldn’t have kept that buried forever.” He paused, a thoughtful expression on his face, before he added, “Though I must admit, I saw from the start that your carefully constructed walls wouldn’t stand a chance against her.”

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