Page 10 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess
“It is no wonder she is unmarried,” an older woman among them tutted, her sun hat jostling as she sniffed disapprovingly in Rosaline’s direction.
“Her entire family, all perished in an accident, leaving her as the sole survivor. I cannot understand how the countess even bears to look at the girl, covered in thosescars.”
“What scars?” asked Lady Weatherby’s friend, having forgotten all sense of decorum as she investigated the rumors.
She didn’t even bother to hide her words with her fan, it dangled limply from her hand, forgotten.
“Can you not see her face?” Lady Weatherby snorted, emptying her wine glass in a rather large gulp and motioning the nearest butler to bring her another. “I would hide in shame if that were me. Imagine having to be seen like that.”
“Her face is the least of it,” the older woman sneered and shook her head as if disappointed by her younger friends’ ability to sniff out gossip.
As she passed by, conversations tended to hush or stop, and Rosaline did her best not to ignore it. She kept her head high, but avoided meeting anyone’s gaze, letting the snippets of their conversations wash over her, the way a roaring river erodes granite.
“It is unnatural, her being the only one that survived.” One whisper was almost indistinguishable from the next, the speaker impossible to pin down now that Rosaline had distanced herself from the true gossips.
“Three families, all in the same accident, in different carriages, and only those three girls manage to make it out?” a voice hissed. “She has made a deal with the devil! The earl and countess better marry her off, and soon! They are saints for having harbored her this long, at any rate.”
Rosaline’s expression didn’t change, but deep in her chest she flinched away from the pain of those words. She suddenly felt asthough her corset had tightened, forcing the air from her lungs, and preventing her from breathing.
The cold, wet, clamminess of her glove reminded her of her rain-soaked clothes that fateful night, and when she glanced down and saw the red on her arms, like fresh blood. She gasped.
Looking up frantically, Rosaline thought she heard the scream of a carriage horse in the laugh of a partygoer. She could hear the crunch and crash of the carriage as footmen shifted plates on the tables.
Rosaline took a deep steadying breath and held her chin high, surveying the party, finally taking a gulp of her lemonade. It had warmed slightly from her carrying the glass like a torch against the darkness, and she winced at the taste.
Seeing Rosaline make a face over her lemonade, a passing footman with a tray of fresh glasses changed course to offer her a fresh one.
Rosaline smiled at his approach, glad to finally be noticed in a way that would not end in disaster for herself, only for the footman to stumble, upsetting the tray.
Reacting instinctively before she could think, Rosaline pitched herself forward, throwing her free hand out to try to save the tray full of crystal and lemonade.
The footman, wide eyed and pale with horror, gasped as Rosaline flung herself at him, managing to catch the tray before the glasses could go crashing to the ground.
One or two tipped over on the tray, but the crystal was all saved, and the crisis was averted for a moment.
“Thank you, my lady,” the footman smiled gratefully and took a step back, not realizing that the ornate tray had snagged on Rosaline’s glove, pulling it halfway off of her arm.
Rosaline froze, then snatched it back, pulling the glove back on, but the damage had been done. A gasp drew her attention, and she glanced over and saw that the entire party had ground to a halt at all the commotion. All eyes were on her, so now everyone had seen the scars marring her skin.
Some faces in the crowd were ghost white in horror, while others were green and crinkled in disgust.
One face in particular stood out to Rosaline—her Aunt Evelyn’s, bright scarlet with fury.
Chapter Four
“You couldn’t follow one simple instruction, could you? To stay out of sight and not draw attention to yourself?”
After the last guest had finally departed, a chilling silence had descended upon the grand parlor.
Rosaline had tried to hide among the servants, helping wash the dishes, but Lady Claridge was a tempest of fury, her temper as unpredictable as the English weather.
She had stormed through the country estate, her footsteps echoing through the corridors, until she’d found her niece.
The countess’s expression was now twisted with rage, her eyes flashing like a predator’s.
Rosaline set her shoulders, bracing herself for the chaos and venom she knew she was about to endure.
I have survived so much worse than cruel words and empty threats,Rosaline reminded herself.I am a stone that the ocean beats against; for all her raging, she cannot move me.
