Claiming his Cursed Duchess (Cursed Brides #2)

Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

“ W hoa!” Rosaline gasped as the carriage lurched violently, its wheels striking a deep pothole with a deafening thud that rattled through the entire vehicle.

Rosaline was thrown against the opposite seat with a force that stole the breath from her lungs.

For a split second, her world seemed to tip, everything spinning wildly as if gravity itself had betrayed her. Her breath hitched sharply in her throat, and a panic-stricken gasp escaped her lips. Her heart hammered fiercely against her chest, a frantic rhythm that seemed to echo in time with the memory of a far darker, far more terrifying moment from her past.

The carriage accident—its violent impact, the twisting of metal, the cacophony of screaming voices, the weight of a wreck that had cost her everything—flashed before her eyes.

“Rosaline,” a muffled voice tried to wiggle through the vision.

For a moment, she could almost feel it all over again. The searing pain, the unrelenting fear, the crushing weight of the wreck. Her family—gone.

“Rosaline. Come back to me,” the voice said again, this time sharper.

A sudden change in the carriage’s movement caught her off guard, snapping her out of her thoughts. Her breath stilled when she realized that the duke was now watching her intently, his gaze sharper than ever. It was as if he had sensed her inner turmoil, though no words had been exchanged between them.

She noticed his lips barely moving as he spoke to the driver, his low voice grating against the air, but Rosaline couldn’t focus on the words. Her mind was elsewhere—on the wave of unease that gripped her whenever his eyes lingered too long.

Her gaze shifted to him, quickly noting his posture. His broad shoulders were set with the same rigid control that marked every other part of him. His frame, tall and commanding, exuded a quiet power that could turn a room cold with just a glance.

Yet there was something else in his posture, something faintly vulnerable in the tightness of his jaw, the way his hand gripped the side of the seat. It made her heart beat just a little faster. She couldn’t help but wonder what it was that made this powerful man seem so…human.

“Look at me. Focus on me,” he leaned forward, his movements fluid and deliberate, a silent question hanging in the air between them, as his hand hovered near her cheek.

“It’s all right. You’re all right,” he said.

His fingers trembled, just slightly, as if he were unsure whether to offer comfort or to pull away. But then, without hesitation, his hand gently traced the delicate curve of her jaw.

The touch was brief, but it was enough. A shock of electricity shot through Rosaline’s body. She froze, her breath catching in her throat as her heart raced in time with the realization that no one had ever touched her like that.

Her body reacted instinctively, tensing, pulling back, as though to protect herself from the overwhelming sensation that now seemed to invade her every sense.

She could not pull away, could not move. His fingers lingered on her skin, a warmth that was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. The sensation was electric, powerful, like a spark in dry tinder, igniting something deep inside her.

Adam, however, seemed unaware of the effect his touch had on her. He simply turned his head slightly, his eyes turning to the passing countryside outside the carriage window.

“How did you…how did you know?” were the only words that could come out of her mouth.

His voice was low, calm, and steady, as if his earlier moment of intimacy had never happened.

“Henry, you see, was terribly skittish after the fire. Panic would grip him, and he would withdraw, trembling, refusing comfort from anyone but me.”

His gaze drifted farther away, his eyes softening as he spoke, though he kept his voice carefully controlled, as though his vulnerability might betray him.

Rosaline found herself listening intently, watching him, noting the slight tension in his jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders that betrayed a hint of discomfort. She couldn’t look away.

She leaned forward slightly, her body drawn to him as if by some invisible force.

“How did you do it?” she asked, her voice softer than she intended, her words almost a whisper.

The question slipped from her lips without thinking, drawn by a deep fascination with the man who stood before her, seemingly impervious to the world. Yet here, in this fragile moment, he had shown a piece of himself, something tender and raw. She found herself captivated by the way his voice softened as he spoke, and the pull of his story drew her in even more.

Adam’s expression hardened immediately, the softness vanishing in an instant. His features tightened, his jaw setting into a rigid line, and Rosaline noticed how his body stiffened. It was as if a wall had gone up between them.

The vulnerability he had just shared seemed to evaporate in the blink of an eye, replaced with something more guarded, more distant.

He turned his head sharply, his gaze flashing, and she could feel the tension shift in the air. It was as though a string had been pulled tight, about to snap.

“It doesn’t matter now,” he muttered, his voice rougher than before, almost as though he were brushing her off.

His hand, which had been so close to her cheek just moments ago, retreated as if it had been burned.

The absence of his touch left a sudden, hollow emptiness that Rosaline felt deep in her bones. She couldn’t explain it, but there was something about the sudden removal of his presence that made her feel small and invisible.

The connection, fragile as it had been, was now fractured.

Despite the coldness in his words, something inside Rosaline stirred—a surge of defiance, a refusal to be dismissed so easily. She would not let him shut her out. Not now. Not ever.

The carriage lurched again, this time coming to a sudden, jarring halt. The wheels screeched as they ground to a stop before the imposing facade of Oldstone Manor.

Rosaline, the weary lines etched deeper around her eyes, finally sought Adam out in his study. The incessant ebb and flow of his mercurial moods had become an intolerable symphony of frustration.

Enough, she thought, her hands clenching into fists beneath the heavy velvet of her gown, the fabric rustling softly as her fingers tightened.

She knew, without a doubt, that this charade had to end. She had been patient—too patient—had played the role of the dutiful wife, suppressed her every instinct to assert herself, to demand respect.

As she stepped into the room, her gaze swept across the lavish study, noting with slight distaste the clutter of papers scattered across his desk, the usual sign of his erratic work habits.

“Adam,” she began, her voice low and dangerous, a tremor in her hands betraying the fury simmering beneath the surface.

“Duchess.”

“This charade must cease. Why this constant game of push and pull? Why this…this torment?”

She could see the tension in his posture shift, his body rigid with a barely-contained annoyance. It was always like this with him—this quiet storm that raged behind his icy demeanor.

He slowly turned his gaze toward her, his eyes glacial, the blue of his irises like a winter storm, an emotional blizzard that would freeze anyone in their path.

“Torment, Rosaline?” he drawled, his voice oozing with mockery. The arrogance was evident, thick as smoke, and it grated against her nerves like a jagged stone. “I believe the torment is entirely of your own making.”

Her fingers curled into fists beneath the voluminous sleeves of her gown, the soft fabric brushing against her skin like a whisper of the past.

“You married me,” she countered, her voice rising despite herself, the tremor betraying the years of suppressed anger. “Yet you treat me as if I am some…some unwelcome guest. Why? What is it you hide from me?”

He reached out, his hand hovering near hers, a thought forming on his lips. But then, he froze. His hand dropped to his side, his fingers clenching into fists.

“I…I have matters to attend to,” he said, his voice gruff, his gaze hardening.

He turned back to his desk, burying himself in his work, effectively cutting her off.

Rosaline watched him, her heart pounding in her chest. He was retreating, building walls around himself, as he always did. But this time, she would not let him. She would not allow him to push her away. She would break through those walls, one brick at a time. She would make him see her, truly see her. “What are you hiding?”

“You know very well what I hide,” he hissed, his voice lowering to a menacing tone. His eyes were like twin flames, heated with a dangerous intensity. “Your uncle…”

“My uncle?” she repeated, bewilderment thickening her words as confusion clouded her thoughts. She could feel her mind scrambling to make sense of what he had just said. “What has he to do with this?”

Adam opened his mouth to speak, but the words faltered on his tongue. A flicker of realization crossed his face, quickly masked by an impassive expression. She could see the shift—the way his jaw tightened, the way he seemed to retreat into himself.

“Nothing,” he muttered, almost too quickly, turning away from her.

The lines of his face hardened, the mask of indifference sliding back into place as though it had never left.

“Nothing?” Rosaline scoffed, her voice laced with disbelief. “Or is it something else? Is it…is it just that you find me…repulsive?”

The room seemed to close in on her as Adam’s eyes burned into her with a fury she could not yet understand. He whirled around, his movement as swift as a storm crashing through the night, his features twisted with a rage that both terrified and strangely exhilarated her.

“Repulsive?” he repeated, his voice rising as the absurdity of her accusation seemed to dawn on him. He exhaled sharply, his breath hot and ragged. “Do you truly believe that, Rosaline?”

Her heart thudded loudly in her chest, and her hands clenched tighter in frustration.

But before she could answer, he surged forward, taking her wrists in a grip that sent a shock of heat through her body. His touch was fierce, commanding, and it took everything in her not to pull away. Instead, she stood her ground, meeting his heated gaze with the same defiant fire that had always been her hallmark.

“Every time you are near,” he growled, his voice low, almost primal, “my senses are ablaze. My body…it aches for you, yearns for you with a ferocity I cannot control. This—this torment, this insatiable desire, it consumes me.”

The words hit her like a sudden storm, throwing her into a whirlwind of confusion and longing. Her breath hitched, her heart pounding. She could feel his raw need, the dark hunger in his eyes, and the heat between them was undeniable.

He was closer now, his scent enveloping her, his hands searing her skin with a touch that was both tender and possessive.

He pulled her against him, his chest a wall of warmth and power that made her feel both safe and utterly lost.

“I want to devour you, wife. I wish to feast on you until you are left trembling,” he rasped, his lips brushing against her ear, sending a shiver of desire through her that she could no longer deny.

Her pulse raced, her thoughts scattered. She wasn’t sure if she should pull away or lean in. She was torn between her stubborn pride, her intellect, and the overwhelming pull of his desire.

As he tilted her chin up, his gaze drinking her in, she felt something shift between them, something palpable and fierce. His eyes traced the curve of her cheek, lingering on the faint scar she had always hated, the one that twisted slightly when she smiled, marking her as different.

For a moment, he seemed to soften, his thumb brushing delicately over the scar, his touch feather-light. She could feel the heat in her cheeks rise with the vulnerability of the moment, and inwardly, she recoiled.

“Do you truly believe I find you revolting?” he demanded, his voice softening into something tender that unsettled her more than his anger ever had.

Before she could answer, he captured her lips with his. The kiss was sudden, fierce, demanding, a claim he made on her lips with a hunger that left her breathless.

His kiss tasted like sin, like desire, and she couldn’t resist it—didn’t even want to resist it. It was everything she had longed for, and yet everything she feared.

He pushed her gently against the cool oak of his desk, his hands exploring her body with a masterful touch, igniting a fire that mirrored the passion in his eyes. She felt as if the very earth had shifted beneath her feet.

His presence enveloped her, and she could not think beyond the urgency of his touch.

Just as the heat between them reached a fever pitch, a sharp rap on the door shattered the spell.

The room fell silent for a heartbeat, the weight of interrupted passion hanging heavy in the air.

“Go away!” Adam snarled, his voice rough with barely suppressed frustration.

He buried his face in her neck, his breath warm against her skin, and she couldn’t stop the soft, pleading moan that escaped her lips.

It was a sound of yearning, of frustration, and the way Adam’s eyes darkened in response made her feel like the very center of his world.

“I apologize for the intrusion, sir,” the butler’s voice quavered. “But Lord Northam has arrived.”

“Tell him to leave,” Adam commanded, his eyes still locked with hers, his gaze possessive and hungry.

Rosaline couldn’t help the wordless moan that escaped her lips once more. Adam’s eyes darkened, his lips curling into a feral smile.

“P–pardon my d–directness, Your Grace, but w–would–wouldn’t it be imprudent?” the butler stammered, his voice barely audible.

“Excuse me?” Adam growled as he turned to face the man, his eyes narrowing at him.

Rosaline, ever the dutiful hostess, intervened before things escalated. “He is right, Duke,” she sighed, a playful glint in her eyes, though her breath hitched in her chest. “It would be…decidedly improper to turn away Lord Northam.”

Adam groaned, frustration darkening his features. “Of course, it would be,” he muttered, his voice a low growl. “Damnably improper.” He turned to her, his gaze possessive, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips. “This isn’t over, Rosaline.”

He leaned in, his breath warm on her ear, his voice a silken caress. “I will claim what is mine,” he promised, his possessiveness unmistakable.

Rosaline felt a shiver—a not at all unpleasant one—running down her spine.

She tilted her head back, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “We shall see about that, Your Grace,” she countered, her wit evident. “Perhaps I shall find a way to make you beg first.”

Adam chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that sent a thrill through her.

“I doubt it, wife,” he said, his gaze hardening. “But I look forward to the challenge.”

He turned and strode towards the door, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, an undeniable aura of power surrounding him.

Rosaline watched him go, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.