Page 8 of His Scottish Duchess

He was tall, with a lean, almost predatory build, and his eyes, dark and piercing, held a coldness that made her skin crawl. He stood silently, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. She wondered who he was, and why he was the sole witness to their wedding.

His presence amplified the absence of her family, making her feel even more isolated. The reality before her differed greatly from the gathering of lords and ladies, and the celebration that she had imagined. Instead, there was only this solitary, intimidating figure with a disconcerting aura.

Was it really just him? No one else was invited? She couldn’t help but wonder, quickly looking away after she met the man’s eyes, feeling embarrassed.

Catherine shifted her gaze as she continued her walk down the aisle, finding Sampson standing beside the vicar, looking every inch the powerful Duke. His dark brown hair had taken on warmhints of gold. His blue eyes, which were so often filled with teasing amusement, were now serious and intent as they settled on her.

Her breath caught. Despite everything—his reputation, the circumstances of their union—she could not deny that he was strikingly handsome. And he was waiting forher.

When she finally reached his side, he extended his hand, palm up. Slowly, she slipped her hand into his, taken aback by the warmth and strength of his touch, even more so by the electricity that shot through her veins. The simple touch, so casual, so seemingly innocuous, sent a ripple of agitation through her.

The ceremony was brief, and the words were spoken quickly and efficiently. Catherine barely registered the vows, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

She wished her father had been there to walk her down the aisle. She had hoped to hear her mother’s tearful sniffles from the pews. She longed to see the excited faces of her siblings wishing her well as she began a new journey.

But all she had at that moment was the unexpectedly grounding feel of Sampson’s hand around hers. The moment the vicar pronounced them husband and wife, she felt a strange sense of finality, as if a door had slammed shut behind her.

It was done. She was now the Duchess of Rosehall.

As soon as the ceremony ended, Sampson’s hand slipped from hers as he turned to the man who had been watching them, engaging in a low, intense conversation. Catherine, feeling a sense of unease about being left alone, waited for an introduction. But none came.

The man, after a brief, dismissive glance in her direction, merely strode out of the orangery once he finished speaking with her husband, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor.

Catherine barely gathered her wits before she was ushered into a smaller chamber in the manor for the wedding breakfast.

The meal was a simple affair, further continuing the mediocrity her wedding seemed to have been built upon. Only she and Sampson sat at the long dining table, a spread of roasted meats, fresh bread, and fruit between them.

The silence stretched between them, punctuated by the sounds of cutlery on ceramic dishes. The lack of conversation made her immensely uncomfortable, and worse, it made her long for her family even more.

She found herself missing her younger brother’s endless chatter, Margeret’s fussing, and her younger sister’s wide-eyed curiosity. Mealtimes had always been lively back home, filled with teasing and shared stories. Here, with Sampson, it felt empty.

She lifted her gaze to him. “You did not introduce me to the man who attended our wedding. Who was he?”

Sampson, who had been cutting his meat with unhurried precision, glanced at her. “Frederick.”

She waited for more—some explanation of who this man was and why he was seemingly important enough to be the only one to attend their wedding. But none came.

Catherine sighed, not used to having to prolong a conversation. “Is he a friend?”

A smirk tugged at Sampson’s lips. “Of sorts. I mostly keep him around due to his… usefulness. But I suppose you could say that he is my friend.”

Catherine narrowed her eyes. “That is nae an answer.”

His smirk widened, but he said nothing more, refocusing his attention on his plate. He made no further attempts to converse with her, and so she let the matter be, feeling worn out.

After the meal, they retired to the drawing room for some tea and cake, the blackcurrant cake brightening her mood slightly as she ate it.

Sampson studied her over the rim of his teacup. “You’re quiet, Duchess.”

The title sent a strange shiver down her spine. She glanced at him warily. “I am… adjusting. This is all so new. There is somuch to do now. So much I do not know. Being a duchess is a serious responsibility.”

He lowered his teacup, tilting his head. “Are you nervous?”

Catherine hesitated, then nodded, admitting softly, “A little.”

“You knew what awaited you once you married me.” He shrugged. “You should have been better prepared.”

His response sent a flash of irritation through her, and she had to bite her tongue to keep herself from lashing back at him. A deep inhale and the straightening of her spine allowed her to push down some of the irritation she felt.

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