Page 27 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess
Adam was frozen in shock, not only at how his duchess defied him, but at the image she had conjured, of her bare silhouette writhing against the flames.
Cold fear shivered down Adam’s spine, but at the same moment a fire of his own brewed deep in his core, drawing him to stand at attention before his wife.
“You wouldn’t have to dance around fire to please me,” Adam barely recognized the desperate growl of his voice, truly as bestial as he had promised.
Becoming that creature felt as agonizing as not unleashing himself upon her, here and now. He clenched his jaw with a snarl, struggling to contain himself.
Rosaline gasped at first, but then quickly bent down to retrieve her shawl, her movements jerky and uncertain as she covered herself.
Adam shut his eyes, taking a deep breath to steady himself.
“Go to bed,” he ordered, his voice hard.
“But—” she began, but he cut her off.
“Now,” he insisted.
She glared at him, her eyes filled with defiance. Then, with a huff, she turned and stormed out of the room.
Adam watched her go, a strange mix of anger and tenderness filling his heart.
He had never intended to frighten her, but the sight of her so close to the fire had ignited a primal fear within him. He had lost too much to fire.
Memories of his brother David were still far too painful for him to dwell on.
He wondered what it would be like to truly know her, to see beyond the scars and the rumors.
She was more than just a cursed duchess. She was intelligent, strong-willed, and kind. And she was his.
Even so, Adam had to stay away. For both their sakes.
He turned his attention back to the fireplace, the flames still dancing merrily.
With a sigh, he extinguished the fire, the crackling sound filling the silent room. As he worked, his thoughts drifted to Rosaline.
He knew she was angry, hurt, and perhaps even a little scared.
He had overreacted, he knew, but he couldn’t help himself.
The memory of David was still raw, a wound that had yet to heal.
Adam left the parlor and made his way to his bedchamber.
The room was dark and quiet, the only sound the soft ticking of the clock.
He laid down on the bed, his mind racing.
Damn it all,he thought.
He remembered how her curves had been subtly outlined by the thin nightgown, the way the firelight danced across her skin. He should have sent her to bed sooner, but the conversation had spiraled, a dangerous game of wit and will.
The duke closed his eyes, trying to quell the storm brewing within him. He pictured her bending down to cover herself with the shawl, the delicate curve of her neck, the way her hair had fallen across her shoulder.
Innocence cloaking a sinfulness that made his blood run cold.
He clenched his fists, the sheets rustling beneath him. He couldn’t touch her. Not like this. Not when he was a beast consumed by desire, a shadow of the man he should be.
He needed to control himself, to be the husband she deserved, not the beast lurking beneath the surface.
