Page 44 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess
Adam groaned, the sound escaping him like a wounded animal. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration gnawing at him.
This was the last thing he needed, a reminder of his obligations, a distraction from the venomous thoughts swirling in his head. He had completely forgotten, his mind consumed by the venomous taunts of Lord Claridge.
He resisted the urge to slam his fist on the nearest table, to unleash the fury that threatened to consume him. He would not allow Claridge to dictate his every move. He would show Claridge that he was not to be trifled with, that he would always emerge victorious.
“Very well,” he conceded, his voice weary, a dangerous calm masking the storm brewing within him. “Let us leave.”
He turned away, his shoulders slumped, the weight of his troubles pressing down upon him like an invisible crown of thorns.
As they walked through the verdant pastures, the morning sun casting long shadows across the land, a silent promise formed in his mind.
He would face Claridge, he would protect his loved ones, and he would finally begin to heal the wounds that had haunted him for far too long.
Rosaline kept her chin lifted, her posture rigid with the kind of defiance that only came from years of enduring whispers and pointed stares.
Adam had seen it before—the way people shrank under the weight of scrutiny, how they let rumors shape them. ButRosaline? She wielded her dignity like a weapon, refusing to cower beneath the superstitions of frightened fools.
He had heard the rumors himself. The cursed duchess, they called her. A woman whom misfortune followed like a faithful hound. But as he walked beside her, the crisp autumn leaves crunching beneath their boots, he saw no harbinger of doom. Only a woman who carried her past like an iron brand, shoulders squared against the weight of it.
“You seem remarkably composed for someone facing such adversity,” he remarked, watching her carefully.
A flicker of something unreadable passed over her face before she turned to him, her expression smoothing into practiced ease.
“And you, Duke,” she countered, eyes glinting with mischief, “seem surprisingly concerned for the well-being of the cursed duchess.”
Adam raised a brow, pretending to scoff. “Concerned? Hardly. I merely find it inefficient to allow superstition to hinder our progress.”
She laughed, and the sound caught him off guard. It was warm, effortless—so at odds with the harsh rumors that surrounded her name.
“Progress?” she echoed, tilting her head. “Or is it simply a matter of maintaining order within your domain?”
Adam found himself smiling, a slow, involuntary curve of his lips. She was quick, sharper than most, unafraid to challenge him. He was unused to such brazen wit. Unused to finding it… enjoyable.
“Perhaps,” he conceded, his gaze lingering on her for a fraction longer than necessary. “But order is essential, wouldn’t you agree?”
They reached Old Man Hemmings’ farm, the land weary and withered, much like its owner. Adam’s presence usually commanded immediate deference, but the farmer’s faded eyes darted toward Rosaline, uneasily. The rumors had done their work well.
Adam watched her closely. Watched as she ignored the man’s hesitation, stepping forward with quiet grace. She did not shrink, did not let his wariness wound her. Instead, she extended her hand, hovering just above the old man’s gnarled fingers—a gesture of reassurance, one that was both unexpected and strangely endearing.
Something unfamiliar twisted inside Adam’s chest. Possessiveness.
She was his. Whether she knew it or not. And he would see to it that no amount of ignorance, no baseless superstition, would touch her.
“Good day, Mr. Hemmings,” Rosaline said, her voice gentle, warm. The sound of it sent an odd sort of calm through him.
Hemmings stiffened, his gaze dropping to the ground. When her sleeve shifted, revealing the faint scars on her arm, he flinched.
Adam’s jaw tightened. Cowards, the lot of them. Terrified of what they did not understand.
“The crops, Your Grace,” Hemmings muttered, his voice a near whisper. “They’re withering. Dying. I fear a blight…”
Adam exhaled sharply. “Nonsense. A little fertilizer, a bit more water?—”
A hand rested on his arm, halting him mid-sentence.
Rosaline.
She turned to him, her expression composed, but her eyes held a warning. A silent challenge. He could have shaken her off, pressed forward with authority. Instead, he found himself captivated by the quiet insistence in her gaze.
