Page 43 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess
Rosaline leaned back against the seat, her eyes closed, savoring the memory of his touch, the lingering warmth of his hand on her waist.
Chapter Fifteen
“Claridge,” Adam growled to himself.
The missive had arrived, an unwelcome serpent slithering into the tranquility of his study.
Adam, his brow furrowed into a deep, predatory frown, snatched the letter from the silver tray. He didn’t need to look at the sender to know it was Claridge.
The bastard always found a way to insert himself into his life, a venomous thorn in his side.
The elegant script of Lord Claridge, a venomous viper itself, writhed across the parchment.
He crushed the letter in his fist, the parchment crackling ominously. His knuckles whitened, veins bulging beneath his skin.
Rage, a molten beast, erupted within him, threatening to consume him whole. For a moment, he considered throwing the letter into the fireplace. His body froze at the thought.
“No, no fire is needed,” he muttered to himself. There never was a fire in his study. Not since David died.
He stalked towards the window, his gaze fixed on the rose garden below.
The vibrant blooms, a riot of color against the emerald green of the lawn, offered a fleeting moment of tranquility. A fragile, fleeting moment. He found a strange comfort in the ordered chaos of the garden, a reflection of the control he craved in his own life.
But the serenity was shattered by the memory of Claridge’s smug smile, the cruel glint in his eyes as he’d laid out his demands. Adam’s jaw tightened, his knuckles white against the stone windowsill.
He would make Claridge regret the day he’d dared to cross him. He would make Claridge suffer.
Slowly. Painfully.
He got up and walked to the French doors that led to the rose garden and stepped outside.
With a calculated movement, he stooped, his back rigid, and buried the letter beneath the earth of the rose garden. He would bury this humiliation, this insult, along with the memories it dredged up. He would bury the past, lock it away in the deepest recesses of his mind, and move on.
Once he was back inside, he closed the French doors.
“Your Grace?” he heard Rosaline’s voice from behind.
She approached him silently, her footsteps barely audible on the thick Persian rug.
The air hung heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and unspoken words, a tension that crackled between them like static electricity.
“Is everything all right?” she inquired, her voice a gentle murmur, a melodic counterpoint to the storm brewing within him. “What strange ritual is this?”
Adam, startled by her unexpected presence, wheeled around, his eyes blazing with a dangerous intensity.
The suddenness of her appearance, the intrusion into his private turmoil, ignited a surge of irritation within him. His chest heaved with barely contained fury, the pulse at his temple throbbing with the force of his emotions.
He clenched his jaw, the muscles tightening, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
He had not wanted an audience, not for this. He wanted to deal with this alone, to confront Claridge on his own terms, to savor the sweet taste of victory.
“Nothing that concerns you, wife,” he growled, his voice rough with suppressed fury.
He turned away, his back to her, his shoulders rigid, a silent command for her to leave him be.
Rosaline, though taken aback by his abruptness, maintained her composure.
“Very well,” she retorted, her voice laced with a hint of steel. “Today, my lord, is the day we had agreed to visit our tenants. A duty, I believe, that falls squarely within the purview of both of us.”
