Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
“ C laridge,” Adam growled to himself.
The missive had arrived, an unwelcome serpent slithering into the tranquility of his study.
Adam, his brow furrowed into a deep, predatory frown, snatched the letter from the silver tray. He didn’t need to look at the sender to know it was Claridge.
The bastard always found a way to insert himself into his life, a venomous thorn in his side.
The elegant script of Lord Claridge, a venomous viper itself, writhed across the parchment.
He crushed the letter in his fist, the parchment crackling ominously. His knuckles whitened, veins bulging beneath his skin.
Rage, a molten beast, erupted within him, threatening to consume him whole. For a moment, he considered throwing the letter into the fireplace. His body froze at the thought.
“No, no fire is needed,” he muttered to himself. There never was a fire in his study. Not since David died.
He stalked towards the window, his gaze fixed on the rose garden below.
The vibrant blooms, a riot of color against the emerald green of the lawn, offered a fleeting moment of tranquility. A fragile, fleeting moment. He found a strange comfort in the ordered chaos of the garden, a reflection of the control he craved in his own life.
But the serenity was shattered by the memory of Claridge’s smug smile, the cruel glint in his eyes as he’d laid out his demands. Adam’s jaw tightened, his knuckles white against the stone windowsill.
He would make Claridge regret the day he’d dared to cross him. He would make Claridge suffer.
Slowly. Painfully.
He got up and walked to the French doors that led to the rose garden and stepped outside.
With a calculated movement, he stooped, his back rigid, and buried the letter beneath the earth of the rose garden. He would bury this humiliation, this insult, along with the memories it dredged up. He would bury the past, lock it away in the deepest recesses of his mind, and move on.
Once he was back inside, he closed the French doors.
“Your Grace?” he heard Rosaline’s voice from behind.
She approached him silently, her footsteps barely audible on the thick Persian rug.
The air hung heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and unspoken words, a tension that crackled between them like static electricity.
“Is everything all right?” she inquired, her voice a gentle murmur, a melodic counterpoint to the storm brewing within him. “What strange ritual is this?”
Adam, startled by her unexpected presence, wheeled around, his eyes blazing with a dangerous intensity.
The suddenness of her appearance, the intrusion into his private turmoil, ignited a surge of irritation within him. His chest heaved with barely contained fury, the pulse at his temple throbbing with the force of his emotions.
He clenched his jaw, the muscles tightening, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
He had not wanted an audience, not for this. He wanted to deal with this alone, to confront Claridge on his own terms, to savor the sweet taste of victory.
“Nothing that concerns you, wife,” he growled, his voice rough with suppressed fury.
He turned away, his back to her, his shoulders rigid, a silent command for her to leave him be.
Rosaline, though taken aback by his abruptness, maintained her composure.
“Very well,” she retorted, her voice laced with a hint of steel. “Today, my lord, is the day we had agreed to visit our tenants. A duty, I believe, that falls squarely within the purview of both of us.”
Adam groaned, the sound escaping him like a wounded animal. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration gnawing at him.
This was the last thing he needed, a reminder of his obligations, a distraction from the venomous thoughts swirling in his head. He had completely forgotten, his mind consumed by the venomous taunts of Lord Claridge.
He resisted the urge to slam his fist on the nearest table, to unleash the fury that threatened to consume him. He would not allow Claridge to dictate his every move. He would show Claridge that he was not to be trifled with, that he would always emerge victorious.
“Very well,” he conceded, his voice weary, a dangerous calm masking the storm brewing within him. “Let us leave.”
He turned away, his shoulders slumped, the weight of his troubles pressing down upon him like an invisible crown of thorns.
As they walked through the verdant pastures, the morning sun casting long shadows across the land, a silent promise formed in his mind.
He would face Claridge, he would protect his loved ones, and he would finally begin to heal the wounds that had haunted him for far too long.
Rosaline kept her chin lifted, her posture rigid with the kind of defiance that only came from years of enduring whispers and pointed stares.
Adam had seen it before—the way people shrank under the weight of scrutiny, how they let rumors shape them. But Rosaline? She wielded her dignity like a weapon, refusing to cower beneath the superstitions of frightened fools.
He had heard the rumors himself. The cursed duchess, they called her. A woman whom misfortune followed like a faithful hound. But as he walked beside her, the crisp autumn leaves crunching beneath their boots, he saw no harbinger of doom. Only a woman who carried her past like an iron brand, shoulders squared against the weight of it.
“You seem remarkably composed for someone facing such adversity,” he remarked, watching her carefully.
A flicker of something unreadable passed over her face before she turned to him, her expression smoothing into practiced ease.
“And you, Duke,” she countered, eyes glinting with mischief, “seem surprisingly concerned for the well-being of the cursed duchess.”
Adam raised a brow, pretending to scoff. “Concerned? Hardly. I merely find it inefficient to allow superstition to hinder our progress.”
She laughed, and the sound caught him off guard. It was warm, effortless—so at odds with the harsh rumors that surrounded her name.
“Progress?” she echoed, tilting her head. “Or is it simply a matter of maintaining order within your domain?”
Adam found himself smiling, a slow, involuntary curve of his lips. She was quick, sharper than most, unafraid to challenge him. He was unused to such brazen wit. Unused to finding it… enjoyable.
“Perhaps,” he conceded, his gaze lingering on her for a fraction longer than necessary. “But order is essential, wouldn’t you agree?”
They reached Old Man Hemmings’ farm, the land weary and withered, much like its owner. Adam’s presence usually commanded immediate deference, but the farmer’s faded eyes darted toward Rosaline, uneasily. The rumors had done their work well.
Adam watched her closely. Watched as she ignored the man’s hesitation, stepping forward with quiet grace. She did not shrink, did not let his wariness wound her. Instead, she extended her hand, hovering just above the old man’s gnarled fingers—a gesture of reassurance, one that was both unexpected and strangely endearing.
Something unfamiliar twisted inside Adam’s chest. Possessiveness.
She was his. Whether she knew it or not. And he would see to it that no amount of ignorance, no baseless superstition, would touch her.
“Good day, Mr. Hemmings,” Rosaline said, her voice gentle, warm. The sound of it sent an odd sort of calm through him.
Hemmings stiffened, his gaze dropping to the ground. When her sleeve shifted, revealing the faint scars on her arm, he flinched.
Adam’s jaw tightened. Cowards, the lot of them. Terrified of what they did not understand.
“The crops, Your Grace,” Hemmings muttered, his voice a near whisper. “They’re withering. Dying. I fear a blight…”
Adam exhaled sharply. “Nonsense. A little fertilizer, a bit more water?—”
A hand rested on his arm, halting him mid-sentence.
Rosaline.
She turned to him, her expression composed, but her eyes held a warning. A silent challenge. He could have shaken her off, pressed forward with authority. Instead, he found himself captivated by the quiet insistence in her gaze.
“He means well,” she said, addressing Hemmings but keeping her eyes locked on Adam. “But his bluster will only frighten you further.”
Adam felt something shift. An unfamiliar stirring deep in his chest.
She was a woman who knew her own mind. Who did not shrink before him, who refused to be cowed by superstition or rank. And damn him, but he wanted—needed—to keep her safe. To shield her from the very darkness he had long since embraced.
His grip flexed at his sides.
The cursed duchess, they called her.
Fools.
They had no idea that they should be fearing him.
Rosaline turned back to Hemmings, her gaze steady, a quiet resolve settling over her. She could feel the weight of his fear, his uncertainty, but she would not let it sway her.
“Tell me, Hemmings,” she said, her voice calm and soothing, like a lullaby that could dispel a storm. “What have you done to nourish the soil?”
Hemmings hesitated, his hands twitching at his sides, but he began to speak, his voice raw with frustration.
“I…I’ve tried. But nothing works.” His shoulders sagged as he spoke, as though the weight of the failure was too much to bear alone. “The soil’s been hardening even after the rain. I don’t know what to do anymore.”
Rosaline observed him carefully, her sharp eyes noticing the subtle shifts in his posture, the way his eyes flickered nervously toward the barren fields.
She leaned in slightly, close enough to hear the rustle of his breathing, but not too close to crowd him.
He ’ s a good man, hardworking and honest , she thought, her heart aching for him.
He deserved better than to be plagued by fear and superstition.
As Hemmings described his methods—diligent but unsuccessful—Rosaline listened intently. Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of her cloak, but she kept her posture open and kind. She sensed his reluctance to trust her, but she would not let his doubts fester.
With a gentle smile, she offered her suggestions, her voice laced with a quiet confidence.
“Perhaps,” she suggested softly, “a different rotation of crops? And have you considered adding lemon to the soil? It can help balance the acidity.”
She paused, gauging his reaction. Hemmings’ brows furrowed in confusion, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes. Hope.
Hemmings blinked, his face a mixture of awe and disbelief. His gaze lingered on the faint scar that marred her cheek—an imperfection that she had learned to ignore, but one that seemed to capture his attention.
“Your Grace,” he stammered, his voice filled with wonder, “you… you are familiar with such matters?”
Rosaline felt a flush creep up her neck, but she nodded, her expression softening.
“My brother, Michael,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, the weight of his memory pulling at her chest. “He taught me much about the land, about the delicate balance of nature.”
She thought of Michael, her beloved brother—his brilliant mind tragically cut short that night.
The sharp pang of grief shot through her, but she quickly quelled it. She would honor his memory by sharing his knowledge with others.
As they left Hemmings’ farm, Adam found himself studying Rosaline.
The woman was a puzzle—soft-spoken yet firm, diplomatic without being patronizing. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but she’d managed Hemmings far better than he ever could.
The next stop was Wilkes’ farm, where Adam prepared himself for resistance. Tom Wilkes was a stubborn man, prideful to a fault.
If anyone would test Rosaline’s calm resolve, it was him.
Wilkes greeted them at the gate, his broad figure dominating the muddy yard. His scowl deepened when his eyes landed on Rosaline.
“Your Graces,” he grunted, crossing his arms. “Come to tell us what we’re doing wrong?”
Adam bristled at the man’s tone. “You’d do well to mind your manners Mr. Wilkes,” he began, his voice low and dangerous.
But Rosaline stepped forward, cutting him off with a small gesture. “We’re here to listen, not to lecture, Mr. Wilkes,” she said evenly.
Adam clenched his jaw, swallowing his retort. He had never been one for patience, particularly when faced with insolence, but Rosaline moved with a calm assurance that made him pause.
“You expect me to believe that?” Wilkes barked a laugh. “Your kind always come with orders and judgment. Promises don’t put food on the table.”
Adam opened his mouth, but Rosaline beat him to it. “No, they do not,” she said, her voice firm. “But solutions might. What is your biggest challenge here, Mr. Wilkes?”
Adam studied her closely, noting the way her tone shifted—neither condescending nor overly friendly, just steady. Wilkes, to Adam’s surprise, hesitated before answering.
“The drainage,” Wilkes admitted grudgingly. “Rain floods the lower fields, and I lose crops every season. Fixing it costs more than it’s worth.”
Rosaline tilted her head, clearly thinking. Then, she glanced at Adam, her eyebrow up now, as if asking for permission.
He immediately nodded. Considering how she’d handled Hemmings, there was no pointing stopping her there.
Rosaline turned towards Wilkes, “What if you redirected the water to the higher fields?” she suggested. “They seem parched enough to benefit.”
Wilkes frowned. “Redirect it? With what?”
“A system of ditches and embankments,” Adam chimed in, his lips itching to curve up into a smile.
“It would take some labor, but if the neighboring farms pitched in, it could be manageable,” Rosaline added.
Adam almost smiled at the stunned look on Wilkes’ face. She had blindsided the man with practicality—an approach Adam hadn’t anticipated.
“You’d organize that?” Wilkes asked after a long pause, scratching at his beard.
“We will,” Rosaline said, “But only if you are willing to work with us instead of against us.”
Adam noted the subtle challenge in her words, the way she gave Wilkes no room for excuses.
The farmer muttered something unintelligible but finally nodded.
As they walked back to the carriage, Adam couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. “You have a talent for handling difficult men,” he said, his tone laced with dry amusement.
“Every woman has dealt with difficult men in her life, Your Grace, just as I have,” Rosaline simply responded.
The next farm belonged to the Farrows, an elderly couple who had spent decades clinging to their traditional ways.
Adam had dealt with them before—or rather, he had tried. Mrs. Farrow had always been quick to criticize and slow to compromise.
“Your Graces,” Mrs. Farrow greeted them as they approached the house. Her sharp gaze darted to Rosaline. “What is wrong with our farm this time?”
Adam opened his mouth to reply, but something about Rosaline’s calm expression made him stop.
“Not at all, Mrs. Farrow,” Rosaline said. “We came to see what is right with it.”
The unexpected answer caught Mrs. Farrow off guard. She narrowed her eyes, clearly suspicious. “We’ve been doing just fine without interference.”
“Of course,” Rosaline replied smoothly. “But even the finest work can benefit from collaboration. I noticed your orchard—those pear trees near the eastern edge are remarkable. Do you sell the fruit?”
Adam watched as Mrs. Farrow straightened slightly, clearly pleased despite herself.
“We do,” she admitted.
“Then perhaps we can help expand that success,” Rosaline said. “Have you considered preserving the fruit for jams or chutneys? It might fetch a higher price in town.”
Mrs. Farrow blinked, and there was no hiding the glimmer of interest in her eyes.
Adam leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as he watched the exchange.
Rosaline had a knack for disarming even the most obstinate of opponents.
He hated to admit it, but he was impressed—again.
“Good afternoon, Elias,” Adam greeted the blacksmith, a jovial man.
Elias’ forge glowed with an inner light, casting dancing shadows that flickered and twisted on the cobbled street.
The rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil filled the air, accompanied by the scent of burning coal and the sharp tang of metal being shaped.
Elias, a robust figure with a broad chest and burly arms, his face creased with laughter lines, greeted them with a booming voice that seemed to fill the entire street.
“Welcome, Your Graces!” His voice was warm, almost too loud, his words laced with genuine joy. “It’s an honor to have you visit my humble shop.”
Rosaline, despite the slight tremor in her hand as she smoothed the folds of her cloak, offered a regal nod, “Good day, Elias.”
A small, controlled smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
He seems a good man, despite his rough exterior , she mused, her sharp eyes sweeping over the forge, a silent, practiced assessment of his craftsmanship.
The hammer in his hand was well-worn, the leather straps of his apron stained with soot and sweat, but there was something inherently powerful about his presence.
“I’ve forged some new tools that I think would be most useful to you. Let me show you!” Elias continued, wiping a stray bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
He led them deeper into the forge, his heavy boots sounding like thunder on the stone floor. Rosaline’s gaze flitted over the many weapons and tools hanging from the walls, each item crafted with precision and care.
Her eyes lingered on the intricate designs etched into the handles of the swords, the sharp gleam of the blades reflecting the glowing light of the forge.
It was then that Elias began to speak of the past, his voice growing quieter, softer.
“You know, I served your brother, the late Lord Claridge, back in the day. A fine man, he was—true to his word.”
His gaze softened, a fondness taking over his rugged features.
Rosaline’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of her brother. She fought to keep the tightness from her throat, but it was difficult.
A wave of emotion rose within her chest, threatening to break free. She wanted to remain composed, to appear unaffected, but the ache of grief was so deep, so constant.
She forced herself to smile, a thin, bittersweet smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“Michael,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat.
Elias wiped his hands on his apron as he leaned against the anvil, his voice full of warmth and nostalgia.
“I remember him so clearly. He was always laughing. He had this way about him, you know? He’d make you believe the impossible could happen, just with that smile of his,” the blacksmith said.
Rosaline could feel the sting of tears welling up behind her eyes. The memories of Michael, once so alive with laughter and joy, now felt like a distant dream, one that could never be fully realized again.
She swallowed hard, pressing her hand against her chest, as if to contain the weight of her sorrow. It was not easy, but she managed a soft, bittersweet smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“Yes, that sounds just like him,” she murmured, her voice wavering with a sorrow that could not be hidden.
“He sounds like a remarkable man,” Adam said, his voice gruff, but laced with a genuine sympathy.
Rosaline looked up, surprised by his words. She had expected him to remain aloof, indifferent to her grief. But there was a genuine concern in his eyes, a flicker of something akin to empathy.
It was a fleeting moment, quickly masked by his usual stoicism, but it was there, undeniable.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
Elias, noticing the exchange between them, quickly changed the subject, his voice regaining its jovial tone.
“But enough of the past!” he boomed, clapping his hands together. “Let me show you what I’ve been working on.”
Rosaline, grateful for the distraction, focused her attention on the tools Elias proudly displayed.
As she examined them, she couldn’t help but notice Adam watching her, his gaze intense, his expression unreadable.
She felt a strange flutter in her chest, enjoying the attention.
She only hoped it would last longer than this trip of theirs.
Adam watched Rosaline as they stepped out of the forge.
The cool evening air wrapped around them, a welcome contrast to the heat they’d just left behind.
For a moment, he was struck by how natural she seemed here—away from the ballrooms, stripped of the masks society demanded. She was raw, unguarded, and entirely captivating.
The quiet strength beneath her weariness made him pause, something about her pulling at the parts of him he preferred to keep locked away.
“I am sure this wasn’t quite the day you envisioned,” he said finally, breaking the silence.
Rosaline tilted her head toward him, a teasing lilt to her tone. “You think I envisioned anything about this day involving soot, heat, and an anvil?”
Adam’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Forgive me for assuming the company might make up for it.”
Her step faltered slightly, but she recovered quickly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You are rather certain of your charms, aren’t you?”
He stopped walking, and when she noticed, she turned to face him, her brows lifting in question. Adam stepped closer, just enough to draw her attention to the space—or lack of it—between them.
“Am I wrong?” he asked.
For a moment, the teasing light in her eyes dimmed, replaced by something she couldn’t quite hide—vulnerability. But just as quickly, her walls snapped back into place.
“That remains to be seen,” she replied, her voice steady, though her hands betrayed her by twisting the folds of her dress.
Adam’s gaze lingered on her hands, then returned to her face. “You’re not used to letting anyone in.”
The statement struck a nerve, and she stiffened. “And why would I be? Most people prefer to see what they want and ignore the rest. You seem rather practiced at it yourself.”
He chuckled softly, but there was no humor in the sound. “Perhaps. But you are not so easy to ignore.”
She stepped back, clearly trying to regain control. “You speak as though you know me, Your Grace.”
“I know enough of you,” Adam murmured, his voice dropping low.
“Enough of me?” she repeated, “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Enough to know that you are captivating,” he replied, the words slipping out his mouth far too quickly for his liking.
Before she could respond, a faint gust of wind carried the scent of her lavender perfume, and the intensity in his eyes shifted. The teasing edge was gone, replaced by something darker, more primal.
Her lips parted to speak, but the words caught in her throat when he reached for her, brushing a loose curl away from her cheek. His fingers lingered just long enough for her to feel the warmth of his touch.
“Rosaline…” He leaned in, close enough that he could feel her breath against his skin, his hand now trailing lightly down her arm.
“Adam…” she whispered, his name sounding like a plea and a warning all at once.
It broke the spell. He drew back sharply, his chest tightening with restraint.
“You should rest,” he said, his tone clipped. “Tomorrow will be another long day.”
Rosaline blinked, obviously startled by the sudden shift. She hesitated, then inclined her head with a carefully neutral expression.
“As you say, Your Grace.”
She turned and walked ahead, but Adam remained rooted in place, staring after her. His jaw tightened as he shoved his hands into his pockets, his fingers curling into fists.
Whatever this was—this pull between them—it was dangerous.
And yet, he couldn’t seem to resist stepping closer to the flame.