Claiming his Cursed Duchess (Cursed Brides #2)

Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

T wo days later, Rosaline found herself standing before the grand doors of the Lockwood estate, her arm tucked into Adam’s.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured as the butler swung the doors open.

“No, I’m not,” she replied, though her fingers curled tighter around his sleeve.

He arched a brow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Very well. Shall I blame the wind, then?”

She didn’t have time to retort. As they stepped inside, all eyes turned to them. The low hum of conversation faltered, replaced by whispers and sharp, appraising glances.

Rosaline’s pulse quickened. She felt the weight of the stares, the disapproval cloaked in faux curiosity. This was her first public appearance since their wedding, and Rosaline had made a bold choice with her scars—once veiled by gloves—now bare for all to see.

“Duchess,” Adam said, his voice calm and commanding, “forget about them. They do not deserve to occupy your mind.”

“Do you think that is so simple?” she asked through clenched teeth, her tone light but her nerves evident.

He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “Smile. And remember—if anyone dares insult you, they will answer to me.”

Her lips curved into a faint, defiant smile as they entered the dining room, arm in arm.

At the long, polished table, Lady Elmsworth, an aging marchioness, was the first to speak.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness, “how unexpected to see you here tonight…and with your new wife,” the marchioness turned to Rosaline. “Your Grace, you have opted for such an interesting ensemble.”

Her sharp eyes flicked to Rosaline’s scars, her lips twitching in a way that suggested mockery rather than politeness.

Adam didn’t hesitate. “I would say the surprise is mine, Lady Elmsworth,” he said coolly. “It’s not often I encounter someone with such a gift for speaking before thinking.”

The marchioness paled, her forced smile faltering. “I—I only meant that?—”

“You meant no harm,” he cut in, his voice sharp enough to silence the table. “But do continue. I am sure everyone is eager to hear your defense.”

Rosaline hid her shock behind a sip of wine. The room fell uncomfortably silent, the tension crackling like a struck match.

Another guest—a young viscount eager to fill the void—spoke up. “But truly, Your Grace, marriage! We were all certain you’d remain a bachelor indefinitely.” He chuckled nervously. “Tell me, what inspired this…change of heart?”

Adam’s gaze turned glacial, though his tone remained deceptively polite. “I married because I chose to. A concept that, I suppose, may be foreign to some.”

The viscount’s smile faltered, and he quickly turned to his soup.

Rosaline bit back a laugh, feeling a surge of admiration for Adam’s sharp tongue. Yet the scrutiny shifted to her.

“Your Grace,” a young debutante piped up, her tone falsely sweet. “Your scars—how brave of you to display them. I imagine gloves are terribly uncomfortable.”

Rosaline’s jaw tightened. Before she could respond, Adam spoke, his voice dangerously smooth.

“Indeed, they are,” he said, his gaze fixed on the debutante. “And terribly impractical for someone with nothing to hide.”

The girl flushed, shrinking back into her chair.

Rosaline glanced at Adam, her heart beating faster. His hand rested lightly on the back of her chair, a subtle but protective gesture.

“You needn’t defend me,” she murmured softly.

He turned his head slightly, his voice low and for her ears alone. “I will defend you as often as necessary.”

The next course arrived, drawing the attention of the guests and giving Rosaline a moment to collect herself.

But as the conversation around the table resumed, she caught snatches of murmurs.

“Married so quickly…strange, isn’t it?”

“They say she was in a carriage accident—ruined her prospects entirely.”

“What does he see in her?”

Her chest tightened, the words digging into her like tiny barbs.

Adam leaned closer, his voice low. “Focus on me,” he said.

She turned her head, startled by his quiet intensity.

“You do not need their approval,” he continued and gently placed his hand on her thigh from underneath the table.

Warmth bloomed in her cheeks, and although she knew Adam’s gesture was meant to steady her, it did the opposite. Well, it did distract her from the others, indeed, but her heart began pounding in her chest.

She bit her lip and saw Adam’s eyes darken. He leaned in and whispered, “Do you like that?”

His hand slowly trailed up her leg.

Rosaline gulped and looked around the table. Some guests were still whispering among themselves but no one really looked at them.

“Y–yes,” she murmured, her cheeks heating up further.

Adam smirked and leaned back in his seat, his hand still on her, now caressing the inner part of her thigh, sending wild jolts of heat to the center of her.

She knew she had to swat his hand away. This was highly improper.

And yet…it felt so good.

A dangerous heat bloomed in her cheeks. She liked the way he looked at her, a possessive glint in his eyes, as if staking a claim. She liked the way he seemed to challenge her, to push her, to awaken a part of her she never knew existed.

This was not the cold, indifferent duke she had come to know. This was a man of passion, a man of…danger. And she, inexplicably, found herself drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

Adam kept his face straight—and his hand fixed on her—right until the final course was served.

As they departed the dining room, Adam offered her his arm again.

“Well?” he asked, “Did you enjoy yourself tonight?”

Rosaline glanced up at him.

“You did not need to defend me, Adam,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I can handle myself.”

Adam, his jaw clenched, stared out the window, his gaze fixed on the fleeting glimpses of the city slipping past.

“I won’t let them feast on you,” he growled, his voice a low, guttural sound that sent another shiver down her spine. “Never forget who you are, Duchess. No one can hurt you now.”

She felt a jolt, a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins. He was possessive and protective. It was thrilling, terrifying, and utterly intoxicating.

“Thank you,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper.

His gaze, dark and intense, held hers captive. A shiver ran down her spine. He was assessing her, analyzing her, as if trying to decipher some hidden code. She felt a strange flutter in her stomach, a primal urge to lean into him, to feel the warmth of his body against hers.

The carriage rattled along the cobblestone street, the fading light casting long, eerie shadows.

Rosaline leaned back against the plush velvet seat, her breath catching in her chest.

“Still, you must know I have faced the ton’s scrutiny before. I do not require your protection—I must do that myself.”

He turned to face her, his eyes blazing with an intensity that took her breath away. He leaned forward, his gaze unwavering, his presence radiating an undeniable power.

The air between them crackled with a potent energy, a dangerous undercurrent that both thrilled and terrified her.

“I know you are not a fragile bird, Rosaline. I know that. But you are vulnerable.”

“And you are not?” she countered, her voice laced with a bitter edge. “You limp, Adam. You hide it, pretend it does not exist. But I do not hide my scars. I will not pretend they are not a part of me.”

He flinched, the color draining from his face. He subtly shifted his weight, a fleeting moment of vulnerability betraying the carefully constructed facade of indifference.

“I do not want your pity,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

“Pity?” Rosaline scoffed. “Adam, your limp is barely perceptible.” She leaned back against the carriage seat, her eyes narrowed, watching him. “What is it that makes you so desperate to conceal it?”

“It’s none of your concern,” he growled, his voice a low, guttural sound.

He turned away, his gaze fixed on the darkening landscape. The rhythmic clatter of the carriage wheels filled the silence between them.

The carriage gave a sudden lurch as it hit a rut in the road.

The world tilted.

The breath seized in her throat. The sharp jolt sent her crashing against the cushions, the violent motion too familiar. A storm. A carriage skidding off the road. The deafening crack of splintering wood. A scream— her scream—ripping through the night.

The scent of damp earth. The crushing weight of debris. Blood. So much blood.

Michael. No, no, no ? —

A hand caught her waist, firm and steady. Heat pressed against her side, solid, unyielding.

“Rosaline,” Adam’s voice, low and close.

She couldn’t breathe.

“Look at me.”

Her pulse roared in her ears. The walls of the carriage pressed in, suffocating her?—

His fingers flexed against her waist, a grounding pressure. “Rosaline. You are safe.”

She gasped, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat before she even realized what she was doing.

Not then. Now.

The scent of sandalwood, not rain-drenched wood and decay. The warmth of a man’s body, not the cold, unyielding grasp of death.

Her breaths came in quick, shallow pants, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

“Breathe,” he murmured. “That’s it.”

As if realizing how tightly he held her, Adam abruptly let go, his body going rigid. He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his dark hair.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was gruff, unreadable.

Rosaline swallowed hard, forcing the lingering terror back into the recesses of her mind. She had spent five years learning how to do this. How to pull herself out of the abyss before it swallowed her whole.

She drew in a slow, deliberate breath, smoothing a shaking hand over her skirts.

“No,” she murmured, forcing a touch of levity into her tone. “Though I do believe you startled me, Your Grace.”

His eyes—dark and piercing—studied her as if searching for something beneath the teasing words.

She lifted her chin, determined to meet his gaze, even as the phantom echoes of the past still whispered at the edges of her mind.

He hesitated before inclining his head. “Then I shall consider myself forgiven.”

A small smile curved her lips, though her fingers remained curled tightly in her lap. “It was simply… unexpected.”

The carriage rocked gently onward, the storm a distant memory. But deep inside, Rosaline knew—some ghosts did not fade so easily.

He studied her face, his gaze lingering on her lips. She felt a shiver of anticipation run down her spine. This was dangerous, she knew. Playing with fire, flirting with disaster. But the thrill of it, the thrill of pushing him, of testing the limits of his control, was intoxicating.

He turned away, his gaze fixed on the darkening landscape, his breathing ragged.

He was fighting it, she realized, fighting the primal urge that had compelled him to touch her. And she, for some inexplicable reason, found herself inexplicably drawn to him, to the raw, untamed power that simmered beneath his icy exterior.

The carriage rattled along the darkening street, the silence between them heavy with unspoken desires.

Rosaline leaned back against the seat, her eyes closed, savoring the memory of his touch, the lingering warmth of his hand on her waist.