Page 74 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess
She pushed the quilt aside, the soft fabric slipping off her body, and slid her feet to the cool wooden floor.
Swallowing hard, she brushed the thought aside, her hands steady as they reached for her robe, tying it snugly around her waist. With measured steps, she moved toward the door.
In the darkened hallway, the voices grew clearer.
“Hush now, Henry,” came Adam’s steady reply.
There was a commanding softness in his voice, an attempt at comfort that Rosaline had not heard from him before.
Her hand paused on the bannister as she leaned forward, curiosity curling in her chest. She knew she shouldn’t. Eavesdropping wasn’t proper, but her instincts were too sharp to ignore.
But Henry’s next words were too garbled to make out. Frustration flickered through her. She didn’t have time to debate propriety or puzzle out their words.
With a steadying breath, she descended the staircase, her slippers barely making a sound against the polished wood.
The parlor door was slightly ajar, golden light spilling into the dim hallway. She pushed it open gently, stepping inside.
Adam stood near the fireplace, his tall frame partially silhouetted by the flickering flames. He was in his shirtsleeves, his cravat loosened, his hair slightly tousled as though he hadrun his hands through it one too many times. His posture was tense but contained, a controlled storm.
In contrast, Henry slumped in an armchair, his face flushed and his eyes glassy.
“What’s going on?” Rosaline’s voice cut through the quiet.
Both men turned to look at her. Adam’s gaze met hers first, dark and intense, assessing. There was something unreadable in his expression that sent a ripple of awareness through her, a quiet but powerful pull that tightened in her stomach.
Henry, on the other hand, barely seemed to register her presence. His intoxicated state left him oblivious to everything but the swirling thoughts in his head.
“Nothing of concern,” Adam said after a beat, his voice measured. “Go back to bed.”
The words were simple, dismissive even, but his tone carried an edge of protectiveness. It was the kind of tone that might have made another woman obediently retreat. But Rosaline had never been one to back down so easily.
“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”
Adam’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, a tiny expression that might have been missed by anyone else. But Rosaline had learned the art of reading him.
He was stubborn, aloof—an immovable object. His body language was always so tightly wound, so carefully controlled, as if the moment he let his guard down, he might unravel.
Before Adam could respond, Henry let out a bitter laugh. “He’s lying to you, my lady,” he slurred. “It’s not nothing. It’s blood and guilt and?—”
“Henry,” Adam interrupted, his voice sharp now, his gaze cutting toward the man.
Rosaline’s brows knitted together as she moved further into the room. Her eyes softened as they landed on Henry, who looked utterly undone. Whatever demons haunted him tonight, they had clearly taken their toll. She could feel the weight of his distress in the air.
“He is drunk,” Adam said, his tone clipped, as though that explained everything.
“Yes, I can see that,” she replied, her voice laced with wry amusement. Her lips twitched into a faint smile before she turned her attention fully to Henry. “Come on, then. Let’s get you to bed.”
Henry blinked at her, his expression muddled with confusion and gratitude.
“You are very kind,” he mumbled, his words barely coherent.
Rosaline moved closer, crouching slightly to his level. Her movements were fluid, deliberate, betraying none of the discomfort she felt at the way Adam’s gaze burned into her from across the room.
“Anything for family,” she said lightly, though her stomach twisted at the way her scars caught the firelight as she reached for Henry’s arm.
Henry staggered as she helped him to his feet, and she winced slightly at the weight of him leaning against her.
Before she could steady them, Adam was there, his large hand reaching out to steady Henry on the other side.
