Page 9 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess
“No, no, that won’t do,” Lady Claridge replied, her attention drawn to the sound of an approaching carriage. “You are one-and-twenty now, and I won’t have you living as a spinster under my roof much longer. I cannot help you find a marriage if you spend all your time sequestered from sight. It has been five years since the accident when you became my burden—five years too many. Simply too many to bear!”
“I am terribly sorry for your trouble,” Rosaline muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible.
“I think it best that you simply smile, nod, and do not draw attention to yourself,” the countess commanded, her voice dripping with disdain.
Rosaline simply smiled and nodded in agreement, her heart heavy with disappointment.
A puppet on a string, forced to dance to your tune.
“You have always been a terrible child,” Lady Claridge lamented, dramatically clutching her forehead. “You offend my delicate sensibilities with your constant malady. I may need to convalesce in Bath for a time.”
Mal de quoi?Rosaline thought, a wry smile tugging at her lips.Perhaps you should consult a physician, rather than a fashion magazine.
“Do you mean mauvaise?” she replied, blinking innocently.
She had noticed that her aunt’s new title seemed to come with a French dictionary, though the countess never used or pronounced the words correctly.
“Of course not,” Lady Claridge snapped, her foot stomping angrily on the ground. “Do not correct me, you vile child. I am the one who has taken a holiday in Paris.”
A holiday in Paris, indeed,Rosaline thought, her amusement growing.A mere tourist, soaking up the superficiality of the city of lights.
“Of course, Aunt Evelyn, je suis désolée,” she replied with a sweet smile, her blue eyes sparkling with humor.
“Stay quiet and stay out of everyone’s notice,” the countess hissed, just before the first few guests rounded the corner of the tall hedge and swept into the garden.
A new audience, a new performance,Rosaline thought, bracing herself.
“Oh! My dear Lord and Lady Germaine! I am simply en erratique to see you!”
En extase,Rosaline whispered to herself, a smirk playing on her lips.
As Lady Claridge rushed towards her guests, chattering incessantly about her own dress and the latest fashion trends, Rosaline couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction.
A tragicomic performance, worthy of the stage.
As more and more guests arrived, Rosaline faded into the background, a solitary figure on the fringes of the festivities.
She adjusted her gloved hand on her glass of lemonade, frowning at how the condensation from the glass had saturated the fabric, making her grip slip and hand feel clammy, even under the summer sun.
Even being as unobtrusive as possible, Rosaline still felt the weight of every staring eye and whispered rumor as the ton marveled at one of the allegedly cursed cousins. She had hidden away from the ton for as long as possible, but it seemed she was to be thrown back into the social fray.
“Imagine, a dress in that color for a garden party. Why, she’d look more at home at a Christmas party in that burgundy, and with long sleeves and gloves!” A woman in a pale pink dress tittered loudly to her friends as she sipped her wine.
Rosaline felt her scarred cheeks redden. There could only be one person the lady was talking about.
“Lady Weatherby, please!” One of the lady’s friends hushed her, and Rosaline felt hope rising in her chest like a soap bubble.
Perhaps the ton is kinder than I recalled,Rosaline had time to think, a smile just beginning to brush her lips when the lady continued.
“What if she curses you, too?” she giggled.
Rosaline deflated like the punctured bubble of hope, blinking rapidly down at her glass of lemonade, tracing the rim with her gloved fingertips.
“Curses me?” Lady Weatherby repeated, eyebrows raised skeptically. “What’s all this, then? You’re not patronizing those mediums again, are you? They fill your head with such dreadful superstitions.” She snorted, rolling her eyes toward the third woman at the table.
The lady’s friend shook her head emphatically.
“No, no. Remember that horrid carriage accident? The one with the Hindports, the Claridges, and the Foxmeres? Lady Rosaline over there is the Countess of Claridge’s niece—the late earl’s daughter,” she nodded toward Rosaline, who quickly looked away, surveying the party and still toying with the rim of her glass.
