Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
R osaline, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs, meticulously traced the lines of a leather-bound volume with a trembling finger.
Each touch of the worn leather, each whisper of the turning pages, was a desperate attempt to quell the tremor of fear that threatened to shatter her composure.
The faint scent of old parchment mingled with the polished wood of the study, grounded her, if only slightly.
Her shoulders were tense, drawn up just enough to betray her inner turmoil, though she kept her posture poised. His indifference gnawed at her like a slow, insidious poison, sinking deep into her chest.
He hasn ’ t even looked at me properly since the day of that kiss , she thought bitterly, the familiar sting of rejection igniting a cold fury within her.
Her finger hesitated mid-trace, lingering over an embossed fleur-de-lis on the book’s cover. The tiny detail, so intricate and perfect, mocked her.
Her gaze drifted to the scars that marred her arms, peeking just beneath the hem of her sleeve.
A botched embossing by fate.
A surge of heat rose to her cheeks as she pulled the fabric down, hiding the evidence of the vicious carriage accident that had claimed her family and left her a broken reminder of the past.
I am a book, doomed to be judged by my cover, even by my own husband.
The scars, a grotesque tapestry of violence, twisted and writhed across her skin, a constant, silent reminder of the night that had devoured her world.
Fear, a venomous serpent, coiled around her heart, its grip tightening.
What if he never sees me for what I am? The thought—a viper—struck, injecting a potent dose of dread. What if no one ever does? Now that I am wed, who would dare to try?
Her hand, a fist of fury, clenched, her nails digging into her palm, carving half-moons into the flesh.
Perhaps this is for the best, and I can pretend my reclusive husband is simply a hermit, and not hiding from the scars.
A wave of nausea washed over her, threatening to engulf her. She forced a breath, slow and deliberate, a desperate attempt to quell the rising panic.
Enough brooding, she commanded herself, setting her shoulders.
Pushing the book away, its leather a cold comfort against her palm, she rose, her movements surprisingly graceful, a stark contrast to the turmoil within.
She spent the rest of the day immersing herself in the workings of the estate. Her movements were deliberate, purposeful—a flurry of activity to stave off the creeping sense of inadequacy that threatened to overtake her.
If nothing else, she would prove her worth to herself, even if no one else cared to notice.
Rosaline moved through the gardens, her gaze sharp and observant. She scrutinized every leaf, every bloom, her brow furrowed in concentration.
At a prized rose bush, she paused, her fingers tracing the edges of a drooping leaf, tinged with yellow and curling inwards.
“Stress,” she murmured, her voice low and thoughtful. “Perhaps it’s retaining too much water.”
She turned to the gardener, a weathered man with hands roughened by years of toil. He stood stiffly nearby, his gaze fixed on the ground, his wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over his face, pale beneath his tan.
Forcing herself not to sigh with disappointment at how terrified the man seemed, Rosaline addressed him carefully.
“Mr. Peabody,” she began, her voice firm yet gentle, ignoring how he flinched. “The soil might be too saturated. Perhaps a touch more fertilizer, and ensure proper drainage.”
Mr. Peabody started, his eyes widening. He blinked, seemingly unsure of how to respond.
Rosaline, noticing his apprehension, offered a small smile. “My mother,” she explained softly. “She had a green thumb. She taught me about roses. This one,” she gestured towards the ailing bush, “reminds me of her.”
Mr. Peabody, visibly surprised, relaxed slightly. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice gruff but warmer now. “I…I didn’t know.” He gestured towards the rose bush. “My wife loved roses too. Always said they were a gift from the heavens.”
He hesitated, then added, “I’ll try your suggestion, Your Grace. And…thank you.”
He gave a nod, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Rosaline smiled back, a genuine warmth in her eyes.
He seems genuinely grateful , she thought, a fleeting sense of pride warming her chest. It was an odd feeling, this pride, but she had no time to dwell on it. There was more work to be done.
She moved on, visiting the stables next on her tour of duty, to inquire about the livestock. Her curiosity was genuine, her questions insightful.
She tilted her head slightly, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of a stall door as she addressed the stable master. “Have you considered supplementing their feed with a mixture of clover and alfalfa? It’s worked well in cold weather and lean times.”
The stable master, whose frown lines were as deep as the furrows in the land, blinked, looking at her with something akin to surprise.
“Smart as a whip, aren’t you, Your Grace?” he muttered, almost to himself. “Clover would keep them warm, and stretch the alfalfa to last the season.”
Rosaline, her cheeks coloring faintly at the unexpected praise, nodded politely.
She curtsied modestly, the motion practiced yet elegant. “Thank you, Mr. Smith. I simply enjoy learning, and my father had a fondness for our carriage horses before he passed. I spent many a day among stalls like these.”
She petted the velvety nose of a black mare that craned over its stable door.
Her gaze flicked to the horizon outside the open barn door, where the rolling green of the estate met the pale blue of the sky.
Perhaps, just perhaps, I can prove that I am not as helpless or monstrous as everyone seems to think , she pondered, her lips curling upward at the corners.
Later, she assisted Mrs. Thornhill in resolving a minor crisis. A shipment of fine linens had arrived, but a rogue storm had drenched the delicate fabrics en route, threatening to ruin the entire order.
Rosaline’s mind raced as she calculated the best course of action. She worked alongside Mrs. Thornhill and several maids with swift precision, laying out drying racks, measuring their height, and spacing them just so.
The air was thick with the scent of damp fabric and lavender, the latter Rosaline’s suggestion to ward off any mildew.
“Well done, Your Grace,” Mrs. Thornhill remarked, her voice softer than usual, tinged with an admiration that Rosaline had not expected. “You have a keen mind for such matters, and you are collected under pressure. You have my gratitude for your patience.”
Rosaline, her cheeks flushed with warmth at the unexpected praise, lowered her gaze briefly in modesty. “Thank you, Mrs. Thornhill. It was a pleasure.”
With a final glance around the room, ensuring everything was in order, she excused herself and stepped into the hallway.
The house seemed quieter now, the earlier bustle fading into the background. She hesitated at the base of the staircase, her hand brushing against the polished wood of the banister.
For a moment, she allowed herself to wonder if the duke would notice her efforts at all.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she shook the thought away.
It doesn ’ t matter if he notices , she told herself firmly.
What mattered was that she had done something. That she had proven—if only to herself—that she was capable, scars and all.
And yet, as she climbed the stairs to her room, a quiet hope flickered in the back of her mind, stubborn and persistent.
However, the fleeting sense of accomplishment was swiftly extinguished by a distressing scene unfolding in the drawing-room.
Hearing voices from within, Rosaline paused in the doorway, her heart skipping a beat. She had known he would be here, but seeing him in person, so imposing, was an entirely different matter.
His broad shoulders seemed to fill the room, his presence radiating an aura of power and authority that made the air itself feel heavy.
The Duke of Oldstone sat rigidly upright in an armchair, his posture as unyielding as the oak trees that lined the estate grounds. His brow furrowed in a stubborn crease, lips set in a thin, tight line.
“No. Take this away,” he said, refusing the tonic the physician that Mrs. Thornhill had summoned, a kind, elderly man with a gentle demeanor, had prescribed for his leg.
Rosaline paused in the shadow of the doorway, watching as a muscle in Adam’s jaw twitched in irritation as the physician hovered over him. The estate’s butler stood at attention in a corner of the room, should he be needed.
The butler was the only one whose eyes locked onto Rosaline, and for a breathless moment, she wondered if she would be announced and disrupt the moment.
“The tonic will aid in the healing process, Your Grace,” the physician was saying, his voice soft and coaxing. “The sooner you begin, the quicker you will regain more use of your leg.”
Rosaline held her breath, but the butler said nothing, his gaze returning to the scene playing out in the center of the room.
Adam’s eyes remained fixed on the empty hearth, his posture stiff, and his jaw clenched so tight it seemed as if it might shatter. His knuckles were white from gripping the armrest.
Pride, Rosaline observed, the thought almost making her smile in wry amusement. Such an impressive display.
“I do not need your remedies, doctor,” Adam growled, his voice rough, dark, and laced with a dangerous edge. “I am a duke, not an invalid.”
The physician’s expression faltered for the briefest of moments before he bowed his head, conceding. He said nothing more as he shut his physician’s bag and ghosted past Rosaline with a murmured “Your Grace,” his eyes locking onto her.
Rosaline stood for a moment, her fingers clutching the doorframe, watching Adam sit stiffly in his chair, glaring into the empty fireplace.
The heavy silence that followed felt suffocating. A pang of concern twisted in her chest, unexpected. Adam’s pride, that formidable fortress of his, seemed destined to be his undoing.
He is stubborn, yes, she thought, a wry smile curling at the corners of her mouth. But also… Her gaze lingered on him, the sharp angles of his face and the tightness of his shoulders. Vulnerable.
She hesitated, then made her move. Her steps were sure as she entered the room and approached her husband, her blue eyes locked on him with an intensity that made her heart pound in her chest. His gaze snapped up to meet hers, and she found herself breathless as he glared at her, his expression stormy.
“Perhaps the physician is right, dear husband,” she said, her voice calm, measured, yet tinged with a subtle challenge.
The words felt strange, foreign on her tongue.
Adam’s eyes narrowed with barely restrained anger. He was a study in contrasts—ruggedly handsome, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and under his stormy eyes, there was a fierce intelligence that made her breath catch in her throat.
“And what makes you such an expert, dear wife ?” the duke asked, his voice low and rumbling like distant thunder.
The tone sent a chill down her spine, but she held her ground.
Rosaline blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected intensity in his gaze. She felt her cheeks flush with a strange warmth, and she bit her lip to steady herself, ignoring the fluttering in her chest.
Strangely enough, it didn’t feel at all like panic, but something much more appetizing.
“I have spent my fair share of time convalescing and healing,” she snapped, her spine straightening, as though that simple fact alone made her stronger.
Her arms instinctively crossed over her chest, and for the briefest moment, she feared he would see the scars peeking from her sleeves again and recoil.
Adam’s gaze flickered downward, briefly settling on her arms. For a fraction of a second, he flinched, looking away.
“How have you injured yourself?” she asked, her voice steady despite the tremor of excitement running through her veins.
Adam grunted, still avoiding her gaze. He was resisting, but she would not relent.
Rosaline stepped closer, her breath steadying, her confidence growing with each step.
“If you will not answer, I will find someone else who can tell me. You know as well as I do that there are no true secrets in this ton, and I would prefer the truth from your lips.”
The challenge was out there now.
He will not like this, she thought, but the words were already out.
Adam barked a harsh, humorless laugh.
“Secrets, indeed.” His gaze locked with hers, prideful disdain darkening his expression.
She stood her ground, eyes unwavering. “Secrets are no small matter.”
He paused, and for so long, Rosaline wondered if he would remain silent forever. Finally, Adam spoke again, his voice quieter now, tinged with a rawness she had not expected.
“It is an old injury.” He hesitated again. “There was a fire, many years ago.”
Rosaline stared at him evenly, her heart racing. Slowly, she lowered herself to her knees beside his chair, her gaze not leaving his. She reached for the tonic, studying it, her fingers brushing the cool glass.
“I understand,” she sighed, her voice soft but steady, her heart pounding as if it might break free from her chest. “I understand how carrying the pain can feel like honoring the memory of what was lost.”
Adam’s eyes widened in surprise. His mouth parted as though he was about to say something but then he stopped, clearly at a loss for words.
“That is—that is very astute of you, Rosaline.” His voice softened, a flicker of something akin to admiration passing over his features, reigniting the fluttering in Rosaline’s chest, a blush collecting in her cheeks.
Rosaline’s heart leaped in her chest at hearing her name from his lips.
He makes it sound like a wish rather than a curse.
She felt a thrilling spark of something—hope, maybe.
This was dangerous territory, but she could not help herself.