Claiming his Cursed Duchess (Cursed Brides #2)

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

“ S tay out of sight, Rosaline,” Countess Evelyn Arnold of Claridge hissed into her niece’s ear, fluttering a fan coquettishly as if sharing a deeply guarded secret.

Such a charade, Rosaline thought, her eyes rolling slightly. As if my presence here is a blight upon this perfect garden party. As if it’s some scandalous affair.

She forced a smile, the lines around her eyes deepening as she suppressed a sigh.

“We cannot have those rumors of your curse spreading any more than they have.” The countess glanced around, surveying the picture-perfect table settings and fine decorations of her garden party, anticipating the arrival of her guests with smug satisfaction.

Rosaline sighed, but simply nodded and smiled in reply.

As if I could possibly forget, she thought, her gaze drifting to the scars that marred her arms. A constant reminder of my misfortune.

“Answer me, child. Or have you gone mute?” Lady Claridge frowned hard at Rosaline, her brows knitting together in a display of irritation.

Her frustration seemed out of place against the stark contrast of her too-bright pink dress and stark white lace.

A fitting metaphor for her character, Rosaline mused.

“Yes, Aunt Evelyn,” Rosaline ducked her head and swept a graceful curtsey.

However, her gesture caused a gap to form between the end of her glove and the hem of her sleeve, revealing a jagged scar on her wrist.

She snatched Rosaline’s wrist, her touch rough and impatient.

“And keep those scars hidden!” The countess paused, studying Rosaline with a critical eye.

As if I could ever forget, Rosaline thought, her heart pounding in her chest. A constant reminder of my ugliness.

“I suppose it is too late to find a hat to match your dress,” Lady Claridge sighed, turning away. “It is a pity I did not think of it sooner, to hide that awful scar on your face. Next time, remind me so we can all be spared the sight; I fear you will put my guests off their appetites.”

Rosaline forced a smile, her eyes sparkling with a defiant light.

As if my presence here, a mere shadow in the grand scheme of things, could possibly diminish their appetites.

“I will do better next time, Aunt Evelyn,” she replied, her voice steady. “Would you prefer I restrict myself to the house?”

She tried to hide her growing impatience, but her voice wavered slightly.

“No, no, that won’t do,” Lady Claridge replied, her attention drawn to the sound of an approaching carriage. “You are one-and-twenty now, and I won’t have you living as a spinster under my roof much longer. I cannot help you find a marriage if you spend all your time sequestered from sight. It has been five years since the accident when you became my burden—five years too many. Simply too many to bear!”

“I am terribly sorry for your trouble,” Rosaline muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible.

“I think it best that you simply smile, nod, and do not draw attention to yourself,” the countess commanded, her voice dripping with disdain.

Rosaline simply smiled and nodded in agreement, her heart heavy with disappointment.

A puppet on a string, forced to dance to your tune.

“You have always been a terrible child,” Lady Claridge lamented, dramatically clutching her forehead. “You offend my delicate sensibilities with your constant malady. I may need to convalesce in Bath for a time.”

Mal de quoi? Rosaline thought, a wry smile tugging at her lips. Perhaps you should consult a physician, rather than a fashion magazine.

“Do you mean mauvaise?” she replied, blinking innocently.

She had noticed that her aunt’s new title seemed to come with a French dictionary, though the countess never used or pronounced the words correctly.

“Of course not,” Lady Claridge snapped, her foot stomping angrily on the ground. “Do not correct me, you vile child. I am the one who has taken a holiday in Paris.”

A holiday in Paris, indeed, Rosaline thought, her amusement growing. A mere tourist, soaking up the superficiality of the city of lights.

“Of course, Aunt Evelyn, je suis désolée,” she replied with a sweet smile, her blue eyes sparkling with humor.

“Stay quiet and stay out of everyone’s notice,” the countess hissed, just before the first few guests rounded the corner of the tall hedge and swept into the garden.

A new audience, a new performance, Rosaline thought, bracing herself.

“Oh! My dear Lord and Lady Germaine! I am simply en erratique to see you!”

En extase, Rosaline whispered to herself, a smirk playing on her lips.

As Lady Claridge rushed towards her guests, chattering incessantly about her own dress and the latest fashion trends, Rosaline couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction.

A tragicomic performance, worthy of the stage.

As more and more guests arrived, Rosaline faded into the background, a solitary figure on the fringes of the festivities.

She adjusted her gloved hand on her glass of lemonade, frowning at how the condensation from the glass had saturated the fabric, making her grip slip and hand feel clammy, even under the summer sun.

Even being as unobtrusive as possible, Rosaline still felt the weight of every staring eye and whispered rumor as the ton marveled at one of the allegedly cursed cousins. She had hidden away from the ton for as long as possible, but it seemed she was to be thrown back into the social fray.

“Imagine, a dress in that color for a garden party. Why, she’d look more at home at a Christmas party in that burgundy, and with long sleeves and gloves!” A woman in a pale pink dress tittered loudly to her friends as she sipped her wine.

Rosaline felt her scarred cheeks redden. There could only be one person the lady was talking about.

“Lady Weatherby, please!” One of the lady’s friends hushed her, and Rosaline felt hope rising in her chest like a soap bubble.

Perhaps the ton is kinder than I recalled, Rosaline had time to think, a smile just beginning to brush her lips when the lady continued.

“What if she curses you, too?” she giggled.

Rosaline deflated like the punctured bubble of hope, blinking rapidly down at her glass of lemonade, tracing the rim with her gloved fingertips.

“Curses me?” Lady Weatherby repeated, eyebrows raised skeptically. “What’s all this, then? You’re not patronizing those mediums again, are you? They fill your head with such dreadful superstitions.” She snorted, rolling her eyes toward the third woman at the table.

The lady’s friend shook her head emphatically.

“No, no. Remember that horrid carriage accident? The one with the Hindports, the Claridges, and the Foxmeres? Lady Rosaline over there is the Countess of Claridge’s niece—the late earl’s daughter,” she nodded toward Rosaline, who quickly looked away, surveying the party and still toying with the rim of her glass.

“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 those scars .”

“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 as though 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.