Page 41 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess
Chapter Fourteen
Nuair a dhùineas doras, fosglaidh fear eile.” When one door closes, another opens.
“We’ve arrived.”
The carriage came to a halt, and the heavy oak doors of Wilthorne Hall swung open to reveal a grand, marble-floored foyer in the distance. A hush fell over the household staff who lined the entrance as the duke, his new bride, and niece stepped out to meet them.
Catriona, her heart pounding with a mixture of dread and a strange sense of finality, felt the weight of her new reality settled upon her.
This grand and unfamiliar place is me home now.
“Nice to meet you, Your Grace,” the butler said as he gave a small bow. “I am Mr. Johnstone, and my family has served Wilthorne for generations. If you have any questions, please let me know.”
“Aye, I will. Thank ye,” she said with a smile.
“This is our cook, Mrs. Jennings, and your ladies’ maid, Miss Appleberry.”
“A pleasure truly to meet you all. I know we will get on most well!”
Catriona could see their surprise in her candor. Even as a duchess, she would always be herself.
After the introductions and settling in, the couple sat down in the dining room to have their supper. Lydia, already quite tired, was taken to bed early after the day’s excitement.
The dinner was a brief, mostly silent affair that mirrored the ceremony. Catriona spoke occasionally, her words carefully chosen and light, her voice barely a whisper as if from someone she did not recognize.
It is hard to find one’s way in a new place.
Despite her efforts at pleasant conversation, the duke, his expression stony and focused elsewhere, barely acknowledged her presence.
After preparing for bed in her chambers, Catriona, her nerves a tangled mess, made her way through the adjoining door to the duke’s bedroom.
It was a large chamber, its walls adorned with rich tapestries and its floors covered in rich Persian rugs that provided a sense of luxury but also warmth in the cool estate. The bed was an oversized four-posted behemoth, looming ominously in the center of the room.
Richard was seated by the fireplace, and he looked up at her as she entered in her nightgown. She was donning a delicate chemise that Eliza had given to her as a wedding present, with a sheer covering to provide modest coverage.
His expression was a mask of indifference, which only stoked her nerves. Standing there in front of him, it was as if she had just realized how inexperienced she was in the ways of seduction. She willed herself to remember all that her mother had told her, which was difficult as she couldn’t understand all of it as it was.
“Duchess,” he said as he swirled the glass of brown liquid in his hand, “what’s the matter?”
“It is our wedding night, Your Grace,” Catriona said, chin lifted, though a flicker of nervousness danced in her eyes.
Richard looked up from the fire slowly, his broad frame half-shadowed by the dim glow. He didn’t speak at once. Just studied her—too closely, too intently. The silence stretched.
“Yes,” he said finally, his voice quiet but unyielding. “It is.”
She waited for him to rise. To beckon her. To act like a husband on his wedding night. But he didn’t move.
When she took a cautious step closer, he simply watched her, unreadable.
“Ye’ve said yer vows. Ye’ve claimed yer prize,” she said, the words sounding bolder than she felt. “Surely ye ken what follows.”
Richard’s brow twitched—barely. “Is that what you think this is?” he asked, voice low and rough. “A transaction?”
She faltered. “No. I dinnae—That isnae what I meant.”
He stood slowly, not with grace but with a weight, a deliberate stillness, as though restraining some great force within him.
“You’re trembling.”
