Page 37 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess
Adam, intrigued despite himself, leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “Economy?”
“Indeed, Your Grace. She found ways to improve their feed without breaking the bank.” The butler chuckled, a dry, humorless sound, shaking his head in wonderment. “A duchess should concern herself with balls and receptions, not horse feed.”
Adam, however, found himself strangely captivated. “And what of Mrs. Thornhill and the linens?” he inquired, his voice a low growl. “I was told the shipment would need replacing, but then heard it was salvaged?”
The butler stiffened, his gaze hardening. “Ah, yes. The storm. A most unfortunate affair. The linens were soaked through and through. Ruined, I feared. But Her Grace, with her…uncanny resourcefulness and knack for economy, managed to salvage them. A true miracle, Your Grace. A miracle.”
Adam, despite himself, found the beginnings of a slow smile creeping across his lips. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on the flames dancing in the hearth.
“Uncanny resourcefulness,” he repeated, the words tasting faintly sweet on his tongue. “Indeed.” He glanced at the butler, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
Adam felt a flicker of approval stir deep inside him—a rare crack in the stoic walls he had built around his emotions.
She understood the comfort that it is to carry old pain,Adam mused as the butler rattled off more business, absentmindedly rubbing his bad leg.
His gaze narrowed as he considered the triumphs of his new wife, and despite his best efforts, a slow, approving smile touched his lips.
She had solved the problems with admirable efficiency and an intrepid drive. He couldn’t help but admire her ingenuity. He had always been drawn to sharp minds, no matter where they resided—whether in an experienced lawyer or a spirited young debutante in her first season.
Adam’s fingers drummed idly on the arm of his chair, a rare display of approval for a woman who had until now been little more than a thorn in his side.
His movements, deliberate and measured, betrayed no outward hint of the tension coiled tightly within him. But his mind, ever active, lingered on her more than he cared to admit. She brought a vitality to the otherwise dull corridors of Oldstone Manor, a contrast to the somber mood that usually hung over him like a cloud.
He stilled his thoughts as he realized that he had, at some point, begun to look forward to her presence in a way that was both disconcerting and, oddly enough, comforting.
He shifted in his seat, the leather creaking a mournful tune beneath him, as the butler’s words lingered in the air—a chilling echo of the silence that had become his constant companion.
Adam’s jaw clenched, a muscle in his cheek twitching. He dismissed the man with a curt nod, the gesture sharp and brittle.
He thought of Rosaline. The memory, a fleeting ghost, brought with it the scent of her hair, an intoxicating blend of honey and sunshine. He closed his eyes, the image of her vivid—those piercing blue eyes, the defiant spark that ignited within them, the curve of her lips, the way her laughter, like a melody, chased away the shadows that clung to him.
He remembered the night of their stolen kiss, the feel of her trembling beneath him, her skin warm beneath his touch, the soft sigh that escaped her lips.
He remembered the feel of her in nothing but her thin nightdress, the delicate bones beneath his hands, the wayher body, despite its slender frame, felt impossibly strong, impossibly alive.
She is beautiful,he thought, the admission a whisper against the silence.In spite of her scars, because of her scars, regardless of her scars.
They were a testament to her resilience, a reminder of the strength she possessed, a strength that mirrored his own, buried deep beneath the icy armor he had forged around his heart.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Finch began, ‘his brow furrowed with concern, “the situation with the tenants…it’s escalating.”
Adam barely acknowledged the man’s presence, his gaze fixed on the crackling flames in the hearth.
“Escalating?” he echoed, the word a mere breath in the stillness of the room.
“Indeed,” the solicitor continued, his voice a low hum. “Several complaints have been filed. Noise disturbances, property damage…” He paused, his gaze flickering towards Adam. “And, of course, the usual complaints about the lack of firewood.”
Adam finally turned his head, his eyes, cold and distant, sweeping over Mr. Finch.
“Lack of firewood?” he scoffed. “They have more to burn than they know what to do with.”
“Perhaps,” Finch conceded, “but they seem to disagree.” He cleared his throat, the silence stretching between them heavy with unspoken words. “Your Grace, you understand the importance of maintaining order within your domain.”
Adam leaned back in his chair, his posture rigid, a silent challenge in his icy gaze.
“Order will be maintained,” he said, his voice a low growl.
Finch, ever the diplomat, chose his words carefully. “Of course, Your Grace. However, I believe a more visible presence from you might be beneficial.” He paused, his eyes searching Adam’s face. “It has been some time since you interacted with your tenants.”
