Claiming his Cursed Duchess (Cursed Brides #2)

Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

“ A re you all right?” Rosaline asked, her voice steady, her tone gentle.

Her heart sank as she approached the commotion that had startled her while she’d been reading in the library.

Her brow furrowed, a subtle sign of her growing concern.

A footman, his face pale and drawn, was being tended to by a group of maids in the kitchens.

As she drew closer, she heard hushed whispers, the same old tune, the same fear-mongering tale that had haunted her for years.

The footman’s eyes widened in fear as he met her gaze.

“I–I–I am all r–right, Your Grace,” he stammered out a response, his voice barely audible.

One of the maids, a young woman with a nervous smile, stepped forward.

“Your Grace, he is just a bit shaken. He accidentally burned himself on the fire.”

Rosaline nodded, her eyes narrowing, a flicker of amusement playing across her lips.

Of course, it ’ s always a simple accident. She knew the truth. The footman’s fear wasn’t born of a simple burn. It was rooted in the superstitious belief that she was cursed—a witch marked by tragedy.

“I see,” she said, her voice laced with a hint of weariness. “Well, perhaps a bit of salve will soothe the burn.”

The maid hesitated, her eyes darting between Rosaline, her gloved arms, and the injured footman.

“We will take care of it, Your Grace,” she said, her voice wary.

Rosaline’s patience was wearing thin. She had endured countless such incidents, each one a fresh wound to her pride and dignity. But she knew that anger would only fuel the fire of fear and superstition.

She forced a smile, a practiced gesture that masked her inner turmoil.

I must be patient. I must be kind.

“Very well,” she said, her voice steady and calm. “But remember, fear is a powerful enemy. It can blind us to the truth—to the humanity that binds us all.”

She turned and walked away, her heart heavy with the fresh memory of how the servants had flinched away, avoiding her as if she were contagious.

As she retreated to her chambers, she couldn’t shake the feeling of isolation.

She was a prisoner in her own castle, trapped by the fear and prejudice of those around her.

Perhaps one day, they will see me for who I truly am.

It was a scant few days later that Rosaline heard a crash from the kitchen and went to investigate, her heart pounding with a mix of concern and dread.

She pushed open the heavy oak door, her steps light and graceful despite the weight of her worries.

There, in the heart of the kitchen, she found the cook clutching his bleeding hand, his face contorted in pain. Shards of a broken plate were scattered across the floor, in stark contrast to the pristine white tiles.

“Oh, are you all right?” Rosaline gasped, her empathy welling up within her.

She moved towards him, her hand outstretched, a gentle smile playing on her lips.

The cook flinched, his eyes darting nervously around the room. “No!” he exclaimed, his voice sharp and defensive. “Apologies, Your Grace, you need not worry yourself over me. I will take care of this mess.”

His words were harsh, but Rosaline understood the fear that lay beneath them. She had grown accustomed to such reactions, to the fear and suspicion that often followed her.

As she reached out to him once more, her hand hovering over his injured one, the cook stumbled backward, his boot crunching on a shard of porcelain.

A crimson stain spread across the floor, mirroring the growing crimson hue on Rosaline’s cheek.

“What is going on here?”

Adam appeared in the doorway. His gaze swept across the scene, taking in the fear and superstition etched on the cook’s face, and the quiet pain that flickered in Rosaline’s eyes.

A flicker of anger ignited in Adam as he strode towards the group, his presence commanding attention.

The whispers ceased, and all eyes turned to him.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his voice booming through the silent hall.

The cook, his face pale and drawn, cowered under Adam’s gaze.

“A simple accident,” he stammered, his voice barely audible. “I cut myself when I dropped a plate. My apologies for the damage, Your Grace.”

Adam scoffed, his disbelief palpable. “A simple accident, you say? Or perhaps it is a sign from the heavens; a divine punishment for the sins of a woman who danced with the devil?”

The cook flinched, his silence a damning admission. Rosaline’s heart ached.

“You know,” Adam continued, his voice growing colder, “it is a shame that such ignorance still persists in this enlightened age. To believe that a woman—a noblewoman, at that—is cursed simply because of circumstances beyond her control is a testament to the depths of human stupidity.”

The cook hung his head, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Duchess,” Adam turned to her, his gaze intense.

She met his gaze, her blue eyes steady and defiant. He sees me, she thought, a surge of excitement swelling within her.

“I apologize for my staff’s behavior,” Adam said, his voice softening. “Do not let their ignorance bring you down.”

Rosaline’s heart swelled with gratitude.

“As for you,” Adam turned his attention back to the staff, his voice sharp, “I expect you to treat Her Grace with the respect and dignity she deserves. Any future acts of disrespect or superstition will not be tolerated.”

“Now, take care of that wound,” he commanded. “And remember, actions speak louder than words.”

As Adam turned to leave, his gaze lingered on Rosaline for a moment longer. She could feel the intensity of his gaze, the unspoken promise of something more.

“Thank you, Your Grace. However I should be able to defend myself,” Rosaline told him.

Adam paused, a slow smile curving his lips.

“Indeed?” He raised an eyebrow, a challenge in his gaze. “Perhaps a demonstration is in order, Duchess. I am always eager to witness a display of your spirited independence.”

Rosaline felt a blush creep up her neck. “I…I meant…I don’t need anyone to protect me.”

“Oh?” Adam leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “And what if I insist?”

He reached out a hand, his fingers brushing against her arm. A jolt, raw and unexpected, shot through her.

Rosaline pulled back, her breath catching. “I…I don’t know what you mean.”

Adam chuckled, the sound low and amused. “Don’t you? I believe we both know exactly what I mean, Duchess.”

He stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over her, from the defiant tilt of her chin to the way her breasts rose and fell beneath the silk of her gown.

Rosaline felt a shiver crawl down her spine. She wanted to deny it, to push him away, but the truth was, she wanted him. She wanted to feel the heat of his gaze, the touch of his hands, to explore the dangerous depths of the desire that simmered between them.

“I only protect what is mine, Duchess. And you…you are mine. You belong to me ,” he said, his voice a silken thread.

Rosaline felt a thrill course through her. She wanted to lean in, to taste the promise of his lips, to lose herself in the intoxicating heat of his gaze. But she held back, a flicker of fear battling with the overwhelming desire.

Adam smiled, a slow, predatory smile that sent shivers down her spine.

“And when you are ready, I will show you that you are mine,” he murmured, his voice a silken caress.

He turned and walked away, his gaze lingering on her over his shoulder.

“That is a promise.”

Rosaline watched him go, her heart pounding like a drum.

She was left breathless, shaken, and utterly captivated.