Page 28 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess
But the image of her, vulnerable and defiant, continued to haunt him.
Rosaline walked away, her head held high. She was angry, yes, but mostly she was hurt. She had never felt so small, so insignificant. But she refused to let him see her weakness. She would not let him win.
She ran a nervous hand over the scars on her arms, the lingering ghost of pain a constant, unwelcome companion. She’d learned to conceal them, to drape herself in long sleeves like a shroud, but she knew Adam had seen them.
The memory of his gaze lingering, assessing, sent a shiver down her spine.
Does he pity me?she wondered, the thought both bitter and strangely alluring.Or does he fear what I’ve endured?
In the adjoining room, the sound of his deep voice, a low rumble that vibrated through the walls, sent a jolt of awareness through her.
He’s so close, she thought, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.Frustratingly close.
She imagined him there, in the parlor, his voice echoing, his eyes gleaming with something that made Rosaline’s core both dewy and fiery. The image of him lifting her away from the hearth, his hands strong and sure, his touch a whirlwind, ignited a spark deep within her.
Regret gnawed at her. She’d been sent to bed, banished from the scene, robbed of the chance to witness the spectacle she craved—to see her husband lose control, to see the raw, untamed beast beneath the polished veneer.
He could have taken me there, she imagined breathlessly, breasts heaving as she panted at the thought, right there on the sofa, the firelight dancing on our skin.
The thought was both thrilling and terrifying, sending shivers through her entire body.
Rosaline traced the delicate curve of her collarbone with a fingertip, the touch arousing a flutter of nerves. She’d always been a solitary bird, her soul a cage of loneliness.
But with Adam, something was different.
A flicker of hope, a dangerous, intoxicating hope, ignited within her. He was a storm, a force of nature, a man who could challenge her, who could make her think, who could shatter the carefully constructed walls she’d built around her heart.
And she, for the first time in a long time, was dangerously close to letting him.
Chapter Ten
“Are you all right?” Rosaline asked, her voice steady, her tone gentle.
Her heart sank as she approached the commotion that had startled her while she’d been reading in the library.
Her brow furrowed, a subtle sign of her growing concern.
A footman, his face pale and drawn, was being tended to by a group of maids in the kitchens.
As she drew closer, she heard hushed whispers, the same old tune, the same fear-mongering tale that had haunted her for years.
The footman’s eyes widened in fear as he met her gaze.
“I–I–I am all r–right, Your Grace,” he stammered out a response, his voice barely audible.
One of the maids, a young woman with a nervous smile, stepped forward.
“Your Grace, he is just a bit shaken. He accidentally burned himself on the fire.”
Rosaline nodded, her eyes narrowing, a flicker of amusement playing across her lips.
Of course, it’s always a simple accident.She knew the truth. The footman’s fear wasn’t born of a simple burn. It was rooted in the superstitious belief that she was cursed—a witch marked by tragedy.
“I see,” she said, her voice laced with a hint of weariness. “Well, perhaps a bit of salve will soothe the burn.”
The maid hesitated, her eyes darting between Rosaline, her gloved arms, and the injured footman.
“We will take care of it, Your Grace,” she said, her voice wary.
