Page 41 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess
His hand slowly trailed up her leg.
Rosaline gulped and looked around the table. Some guests were still whispering among themselves but no one really looked at them.
“Y–yes,” she murmured, her cheeks heating up further.
Adam smirked and leaned back in his seat, his hand still on her, now caressing the inner part of her thigh, sending wild jolts of heat to the center of her.
She knew she had to swat his hand away. This was highly improper.
And yet…it felt so good.
A dangerous heat bloomed in her cheeks. She liked the way he looked at her, a possessive glint in his eyes, as if staking a claim. She liked the way he seemed to challenge her, to push her, to awaken a part of her she never knew existed.
This was not the cold, indifferent duke she had come to know. This was a man of passion, a man of…danger. And she, inexplicably, found herself drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
Adam kept his face straight—and his hand fixed on her—right until the final course was served.
As they departed the dining room, Adam offered her his arm again.
“Well?” he asked, “Did you enjoy yourself tonight?”
Rosaline glanced up at him.
“You did not need to defend me, Adam,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I can handle myself.”
Adam, his jaw clenched, stared out the window, his gaze fixed on the fleeting glimpses of the city slipping past.
“I won’t let them feast on you,” he growled, his voice a low, guttural sound that sent another shiver down her spine. “Never forget who you are, Duchess. No one can hurt you now.”
She felt a jolt, a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins. He was possessive and protective. It was thrilling, terrifying, and utterly intoxicating.
“Thank you,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper.
His gaze, dark and intense, held hers captive. A shiver ran down her spine. He was assessing her, analyzing her, as if trying to decipher some hidden code. She felt a strange flutter in her stomach, a primal urge to lean into him, to feel the warmth of his body against hers.
The carriage rattled along the cobblestone street, the fading light casting long, eerie shadows.
Rosaline leaned back against the plush velvet seat, her breath catching in her chest.
“Still, you must know I have faced the ton’s scrutiny before. I do not require your protection—I must do that myself.”
He turned to face her, his eyes blazing with an intensity that took her breath away. He leaned forward, his gaze unwavering, his presence radiating an undeniable power.
The air between them crackled with a potent energy, a dangerous undercurrent that both thrilled and terrified her.
“I know you are not a fragile bird, Rosaline. I know that. But you are vulnerable.”
“And you are not?” she countered, her voice laced with a bitter edge. “You limp, Adam. You hide it, pretend it does not exist. But I do not hide my scars. I will not pretend they are not a part of me.”
He flinched, the color draining from his face. He subtly shifted his weight, a fleeting moment of vulnerability betraying the carefully constructed facade of indifference.
“I do not want your pity,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
“Pity?” Rosaline scoffed. “Adam, your limp is barely perceptible.” She leaned back against the carriage seat, her eyes narrowed, watching him. “What is it that makes you so desperate to conceal it?”
“It’s none of your concern,” he growled, his voice a low, guttural sound.
He turned away, his gaze fixed on the darkening landscape. The rhythmic clatter of the carriage wheels filled the silence between them.
