Page 50 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess
“Henry, you see, was terribly skittish after the fire. Panic would grip him, and he would withdraw, trembling, refusing comfort from anyone but me.”
His gaze drifted farther away, his eyes softening as he spoke, though he kept his voice carefully controlled, as though his vulnerability might betray him.
Rosaline found herself listening intently, watching him, noting the slight tension in his jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders that betrayed a hint of discomfort. She couldn’t look away.
She leaned forward slightly, her body drawn to him as if by some invisible force.
“How did you do it?” she asked, her voice softer than she intended, her words almost a whisper.
The question slipped from her lips without thinking, drawn by a deep fascination with the man who stood before her, seemingly impervious to the world. Yet here, in this fragile moment, he had shown a piece of himself, something tender and raw. She found herself captivated by the way his voice softened as he spoke, and the pull of his story drew her in even more.
Adam’s expression hardened immediately, the softness vanishing in an instant. His features tightened, his jaw settinginto a rigid line, and Rosaline noticed how his body stiffened. It was as if a wall had gone up between them.
The vulnerability he had just shared seemed to evaporate in the blink of an eye, replaced with something more guarded, more distant.
He turned his head sharply, his gaze flashing, and she could feel the tension shift in the air. It was as though a string had been pulled tight, about to snap.
“It doesn’t matter now,” he muttered, his voice rougher than before, almost as though he were brushing her off.
His hand, which had been so close to her cheek just moments ago, retreated as if it had been burned.
The absence of his touch left a sudden, hollow emptiness that Rosaline felt deep in her bones. She couldn’t explain it, but there was something about the sudden removal of his presence that made her feel small and invisible.
The connection, fragile as it had been, was now fractured.
Despite the coldness in his words, something inside Rosaline stirred—a surge of defiance, a refusal to be dismissed so easily. She would not let him shut her out. Not now. Not ever.
The carriage lurched again, this time coming to a sudden, jarring halt. The wheels screeched as they ground to a stop before the imposing façade of Oldstone Manor.
Rosaline, the weary lines etched deeper around her eyes, finally sought Adam out in his study. The incessant ebb and flow of his mercurial moods had become an intolerable symphony of frustration.
Enough,she thought, her hands clenching into fists beneath the heavy velvet of her gown, the fabric rustling softly as her fingers tightened.
She knew, without a doubt, that this charade had to end. She had been patient—too patient—had played the role of the dutiful wife, suppressed her every instinct to assert herself, to demand respect.
As she stepped into the room, her gaze swept across the lavish study, noting with slight distaste the clutter of papers scattered across his desk, the usual sign of his erratic work habits.
“Adam,” she began, her voice low and dangerous, a tremor in her hands betraying the fury simmering beneath the surface.
“Duchess.”
“This charade must cease. Why this constant game of push and pull? Why this…this torment?”
She could see the tension in his posture shift, his body rigid with a barely-contained annoyance. It was always like this with him—this quiet storm that raged behind his icy demeanor.
He slowly turned his gaze toward her, his eyes glacial, the blue of his irises like a winter storm, an emotional blizzard that would freeze anyone in their path.
“Torment, Rosaline?” he drawled, his voice oozing with mockery. The arrogance was evident, thick as smoke, and it grated against her nerves like a jagged stone. “I believe the torment is entirely of your own making.”
Her fingers curled into fists beneath the voluminous sleeves of her gown, the soft fabric brushing against her skin like a whisper of the past.
“You married me,” she countered, her voice rising despite herself, the tremor betraying the years of suppressed anger. “Yet you treat me as if I am some…some unwelcome guest. Why? What is it you hide from me?”
He reached out, his hand hovering near hers, a thought forming on his lips. But then, he froze. His hand dropped to his side, his fingers clenching into fists.
“I…I have matters to attend to,” he said, his voice gruff, his gaze hardening.
He turned back to his desk, burying himself in his work, effectively cutting her off.
