Page 34 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess
Pushing the book away, its leather a cold comfort against her palm, she rose, her movements surprisingly graceful, a stark contrast to the turmoil within.
She spent the rest of the day immersing herself in the workings of the estate. Her movements were deliberate, purposeful—a flurry of activity to stave off the creeping sense of inadequacy that threatened to overtake her.
If nothing else, she would prove her worth to herself, even if no one else cared to notice.
Rosaline moved through the gardens, her gaze sharp and observant. She scrutinized every leaf, every bloom, her brow furrowed in concentration.
At a prized rose bush, she paused, her fingers tracing the edges of a drooping leaf, tinged with yellow and curling inwards.
“Stress,” she murmured, her voice low and thoughtful. “Perhaps it’s retaining too much water.”
She turned to the gardener, a weathered man with hands roughened by years of toil. He stood stiffly nearby, his gaze fixed on the ground, his wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over his face, pale beneath his tan.
Forcing herself not to sigh with disappointment at how terrified the man seemed, Rosaline addressed him carefully.
“Mr. Peabody,” she began, her voice firm yet gentle, ignoring how he flinched. “The soil might be too saturated. Perhaps a touch more fertilizer, and ensure proper drainage.”
Mr. Peabody started, his eyes widening. He blinked, seemingly unsure of how to respond.
Rosaline, noticing his apprehension, offered a small smile. “My mother,” she explained softly. “She had a green thumb. She taught me about roses. This one,” she gestured towards the ailing bush, “reminds me of her.”
Mr. Peabody, visibly surprised, relaxed slightly. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice gruff but warmer now. “I…I didn’t know.” He gestured towards the rose bush. “My wife loved roses too. Always said they were a gift from the heavens.”
He hesitated, then added, “I’ll try your suggestion, Your Grace. And…thank you.”
He gave a nod, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Rosaline smiled back, a genuine warmth in her eyes.
He seems genuinely grateful, she thought, a fleeting sense of pride warming her chest. It was an odd feeling, this pride, but she had no time to dwell on it. There was more work to be done.
She moved on, visiting the stables next on her tour of duty, to inquire about the livestock. Her curiosity was genuine, her questions insightful.
She tilted her head slightly, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of a stall door as she addressed the stable master. “Have you considered supplementing their feed with a mixture of clover and alfalfa? It’s worked well in cold weather and lean times.”
The stable master, whose frown lines were as deep as the furrows in the land, blinked, looking at her with something akin to surprise.
“Smart as a whip, aren’t you, Your Grace?” he muttered, almost to himself. “Clover would keep them warm, and stretch the alfalfa to last the season.”
Rosaline, her cheeks coloring faintly at the unexpected praise, nodded politely.
She curtsied modestly, the motion practiced yet elegant. “Thank you, Mr. Smith. I simply enjoy learning, and my father had afondness for our carriage horses before he passed. I spent many a day among stalls like these.”
She petted the velvety nose of a black mare that craned over its stable door.
Her gaze flicked to the horizon outside the open barn door, where the rolling green of the estate met the pale blue of the sky.
Perhaps, just perhaps, I can prove that I am not as helpless or monstrous as everyone seems to think, she pondered, her lips curling upward at the corners.
Later, she assisted Mrs. Thornhill in resolving a minor crisis. A shipment of fine linens had arrived, but a rogue storm had drenched the delicate fabrics en route, threatening to ruin the entire order.
Rosaline’s mind raced as she calculated the best course of action. She worked alongside Mrs. Thornhill and several maids with swift precision, laying out drying racks, measuring their height, and spacing them just so.
The air was thick with the scent of damp fabric and lavender, the latter Rosaline’s suggestion to ward off any mildew.
“Well done, Your Grace,” Mrs. Thornhill remarked, her voice softer than usual, tinged with an admiration that Rosaline hadnot expected. “You have a keen mind for such matters, and you are collected under pressure. You have my gratitude for your patience.”
Rosaline, her cheeks flushed with warmth at the unexpected praise, lowered her gaze briefly in modesty. “Thank you, Mrs. Thornhill. It was a pleasure.”
With a final glance around the room, ensuring everything was in order, she excused herself and stepped into the hallway.
