Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
“ F ive minutes,” Adam said once the music had faded.
The laughter that had once filled the room now subsided into a murmured conversation, the murmur of polite discourse that often lingered after such a grand affair.
Adam guided her away from the dance floor and just as he was about to walk off, he was stopped.
Lord and Lady Claridge approached them. Their faces were plastered with strained smiles, as though rehearsing the performance of civility.
“A most delightful evening, Duchess,” Lady Claridge purred. Her words sounded like flattery, but Rosaline could tell it was merely an obligation—a duty to make nice with the duke’s wife.
Lady Claridge’s eyes lingered a moment longer than usual, a disconcerting intensity in her gaze that made Rosaline uncomfortable.
“The music, the dancing…simply exquisite,” Lady Claridge continued, though Rosaline could hear the faintest hint of condescension in her voice.
Rosaline forced a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “The entertainment was indeed splendid, Aunt Evelyn.”
Lord Claridge turned his attention to Adam. His voice was loud and jovial, an almost practiced volume that grated on Rosaline’s nerves. “And Your Grace, I trust you enjoyed yourself?”
Adam’s eyes, cold and distant, flickered toward Lord Claridge before he gave a curt nod.
“A satisfactory evening.” His tone was clipped, and there was a certain hardness in his gaze that Rosaline recognized immediately—he was not in the mood for small talk.
He was, however, always in control.
He wears control like a second skin, Rosaline thought. I envy that.
“I would say so myself, Your Grace. Some improvements could be made on the orchestra and the wine served, but alas, I am not one to place judgement,” Lord Claridge went on. “You know, I was quite looking forward to meeting Lord Finch. I have a rather intriguing shipping proposal to make him.”
The conversation devolved into meaningless politeness, but she could see Adam’s jaw tighten.
Lord Claridge never knew when to stop and it was clear that Adam had reached his breaking point. The duke was a man of few words, but when he did speak, it was sharp and to the point.
After a solid minute of rambling, Lord Claridge chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “I was hoping to have a word with you, Duke, about a matter of considerable importance.”
Adam’s posture stiffened, his body language rigid.
This is not the time, Claridge, he seemed to say with his silence, though Rosaline knew better than to interpret the icy look he shot at the man.
She felt a fleeting sense of frustration at her own helplessness—what could she do to stop these tiresome men from their endless politicking?
“I understand Mr. Finch is a business associate of yours, is he not?” Lord Claridge asked, his eyes glinting with a purpose Rosaline couldn’t decipher.
She glanced at Adam, and her stomach fluttered as she noticed how his expression darkened even further. He was about to lose his temper, and she couldn’t blame him. These were the moments that reminded her of how little she understood her new husband—so commanding, so powerful, yet utterly unreadable.
Adam’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Mr. Finch is a valued associate.” The duke’s words were a warning, but Claridge didn’t heed it.
Instead, he pressed on, “Well, I would love to meet him, like I said. Perhaps you could introduce us, Your Grace?”
The duke clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white, and Rosaline’s gaze softened with concern, though she remained outwardly composed. She could feel the tension radiating off of him.
Adam’s response was only two measured words, but his body was vibrating with restrained anger.
“Not tonight.”
Rosaline noticed how Adam’s eyes darted to her, a subtle flicker of apology passing through his gaze. His frustration was obvious, but he had the grace to acknowledge it with a quiet glance.
She smiled faintly, her hand brushing against his arm in silent support.
“If not tonight, then when, Your Grace? Carpe diem , as the Romans would say. What say you, shall we?” Lord Claridge said and gave Adam a very pointed look.
Something was going on between them, and it wasn’t mere dislike.
Adam let out an exasperated sigh, “Very well. If you’ll excuse us, Duchess, Lady Claridge.”
“Your Grace,” Lady Claridge curtsied, and Rosaline offered them a simple nod.
As Adam and Lord Claridge walked off, Rosaline felt a wave of unease wash over her.
What could her uncle want? And why did Adam seem so agitated?
The questions hung in her mind like an unanswered riddle.
Lady Claridge, her face a mask of disapproval, scrutinized Rosaline from head to toe, her icy gaze lingering for far too long.
“Ruby red, dear? Really? Such a vibrant color. And those sleeves do nothing to conceal those hideous markings of yours.”
Rosaline’s fingers twitched, almost instinctively, tracing the intricate embroidery along the cuff of her gown.
The silk felt cool beneath her touch, the threadwork a delicate reminder of the effort she had put into choosing this gown—one that reflected her own boldness, her independence.
She allowed her fingertips to glide over the smooth silk, the embroidery’s complexity grounding her in the present moment, steadying the sharp flare of irritation beginning to burn in her chest.
She took a slow breath, exhaling through her nose as she lifted her chin slightly, offering a smile that, though warm, didn’t reach her eyes.
“The color suits me, Aunt Evelyn. And the sleeves…” Rosaline allowed herself a slight shrug, her posture relaxed but firm, her gaze unwavering. “They are perfectly comfortable.”
She turned just slightly to the side, almost as though it was a casual gesture, but her spine was straight, the confidence in her stance more resolute than any words she could speak.
Lady Claridge scoffed, a sound like air escaping from an overinflated balloon.
“Comfortable? At a ball? What a rustic notion. You should be striving for elegance, not comfort. And those scars…they are truly a blight upon your lost beauty.”
Rosaline’s breath hitched for just a moment, though she was careful to keep her expression steady.
With a slight tilt of her head, Rosaline finally met her aunt’s eyes, her gaze calm, but cold.
“The scars are a part of me, Aunt. Just like the color of my eyes or the shape of my nose.”
Lady Claridge’s expression turned to a sharp frown, her lips pulling back into a tight line. “Don’t be impertinent, Rosaline. You should be grateful for the opportunities this marriage has afforded you. The Duke of Oldstone is a powerful man. A man who could have chosen any woman in the kingdom.”
The mention of Adam made Rosaline’s heart clench tightly in her chest, but she kept her composure.
He didn ’ t choose me, Aunt.
The thought was bitter, thick as honey in her throat.
It was an alliance, nothing more. A means to an end.
Her fingers tightened even more, twisting the delicate fabric beneath them.
“Of course, Aunt,” she replied smoothly, though her voice betrayed none of the tightness she felt inside.
Before Rosaline could retort, a sudden interruption came in the form of Henry, Adam’s younger brother. His presence was like a breeze on a hot day, effortlessly cooling the tense atmosphere.
“Your Grace! There you are,” he said, his tone light and easy, “May I have this dance? Pardon me, Lady Claridge. I have been looking my sister-in-law for a bit, so I must steal her away from you.”
“Of course, I understand, my lord,” Lady Claridge responded in her empty, polite tone.
The relief that flooded through Rosaline was palpable, so sudden it nearly caught in her throat. She smiled at Henry with genuine warmth, glad for the distraction.
“So, shall we?” Henry turned back to Rosaline.
“Of course, Henry,” she said, nodding graciously.
The tightness in her chest eased as she placed her hand in his, the smoothness of his palm a welcome change from the tension of Lady Claridge’s unwelcome scrutiny.
The moment Henry’s hand clasped hers, Rosaline felt an odd sense of comfort.
Dancing, she thought, is the only thing that still makes sense anymore.
The movement of her body, the rhythm of the music, offered her a temporary respite from the sting of her aunt’s words.
As they glided onto the crowded dance floor, the noise of the room and the heat from the mass of bodies made her feel a little lighter, as if the music could carry her away from the sting of her aunt’s words.
“Thank you,” she whispered to Henry.
“No need, Your Grace. I know what bothersome family members are like. I hope it is a long time until you meet Uncle Tobias,” Henry replied with a warm smile.
“Uncle Tobias?”
“Mmhm. Unless you have an unhealthy interest in turnips.”
Rosaline chuckled. “No, unfortunately, I am not particularly fond of turnips.”
“Then trust me, you must steer clear of him.” Henry whispered in a conspiratorial way.
“I shall bear that in mind, thank you, my lord,” Rosaline said with a smile as they reached the dance floor.
She kept her focus on the dance steps, but her mind wandered, her thoughts drawn to the briefest of flashes from the conversation with Lady Claridge.
The faintest flicker of an idea stirred in her.
Am I grateful?
No, she thought. Grateful for the sake of a title? For a marriage dictated by duty? Hardly.
“Pardon my directness, Your Grace, but you look rather stunning tonight. Red suits you very much,” Henry remarked and smiled warmly at her.
Rosaline’s heart gave a small, surprised flutter at his kind words, though she quickly suppressed the feeling. She had grown accustomed to the compliments, but somehow, Henry’s lightness felt different.
“Thank you, Lord Henry,” she replied, her lips curving into a soft smile. “You are very kind.”
The music swirled around them, the steps becoming a soothing rhythm as they danced. She felt herself relax, her movements flowing effortlessly with Henry’s. He was, without a doubt, easy to be around—his charm, a balm for the day’s irritations, and his presence, calm and reassuring.
“So…how are you finding married life?” Henry asked, his voice cautious, unsure if he had crossed some unspoken line.
Rosaline hesitated, her gaze drifting to the floor as she considered her response.
“It…” She paused, her brow furrowing for the briefest of moments. “It has its challenges,” she admitted, her eyes now fixed on the swirling patterns of the dancers around them, “But…it’s bearable.”
She managed a small smile, but it felt almost too forced, too hollow.
Henry chuckled, a soft, almost pitying sound. “Bearable? Your Grace, I know my brother isn’t the sweetest apple around, but ‘bearable’?”
Rosaline laughed, the sound light and carefree despite her inner wariness. She tossed her head back slightly as she laughed, her green gown fluttering around her feet.
“Perhaps ‘bearable’ is a bit of an understatement. Adam can be…formidable.” The teasing note in her voice was deliberate, playful—she was in control, at least in this moment.
Henry’s expression grew serious, his lips pressing together into a thin line. “He can be gruff, yes. But beneath that gruff exterior…there’s a good man. A loyal man.”
The word ‘loyal’ struck her in a way she hadn’t anticipated. It echoed in her mind, reverberating through the hollow of her chest. That was something she could respect, something she could understand. She had yet to discover if Adam embodied it, but the word itself had a depth, a steadiness that was undeniably comforting.
Still…
She let her thoughts drift back to Henry as he continued, his voice growing soft with emotion.
“You know, there was a fire…a terrible fire…”
A sudden coldness swept through Rosaline’s chest, the image of a man—young, terrified, and burning—striking her with an unexpected force. She could only nod, encouraging him to continue.
“Adam…” Henry’s voice cracked slightly with the emotion of the memory. “He risked his life to save me. He fought his way through the flames, pulled me to safety. He even tried to save David…”
Rosaline, her throat tight with sudden emotion, barely whispered, “David?”
“Our brother. The middle one,” Henry explained, his eyes clouding with grief. “He…he didn’t make it.”
A heavy silence hung between them, and Rosaline could feel her heart aching for the pain Henry still carried, for the loss that had shaped him.
“I…I am so sorry, Henry.” She placed her hand gently on his arm, offering him what little comfort she could.
“It was a long time ago,” Henry said, his voice thick with the past. “But Adam…he never forgave himself. He carries the guilt of that day with him still.”
Rosaline, touched by his vulnerability, gazed at him with a deep sense of empathy. She could see the sadness etched into his eyes, and she understood, perhaps better than anyone, what it was like to live with scars—visible and invisible.
“He shouldn’t blame himself. He saved you.”
Henry looked at her, his eyes searching her face as if looking for some sign of understanding.
“You…you understand.”
“I understand the weight of loss,” Rosaline said softly, her gaze drifting to the scar on her cheek. “The scars we carry, both visible and invisible.”
Henry seemed to ponder her words for a long while, and when he spoke again, his tone was lighter, though still tinged with earnestness.
“Adam may seem…intimidating at times,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “But beneath that, he’s a protector. He’ll always look out for you, Rosaline. You’ll be safe with him.”
Rosaline, touched by his words, felt a strange warmth spread through her. Safe? The thought was both comforting and unsettling.
As the music swelled, they continued to dance, their earlier conversation dissolving into the rhythm of the waltz. But as her eyes lingered on Henry’s easy charm and gentle kindness, a part of her mind wandered back to her husband.
She caught his gaze across the room, her breath catching in her throat.
Adam was standing near the edge of the crowd, a towering figure of composure. The way he moved through the room was as effortless as a lion among sheep, surveying his domain with the sharpness of a king.
His eyes locked onto hers, a flicker of something dark and intense passing between them.
Her heart gave an involuntary flutter as a strange, electric tension snaked through her body.
What is this man doing to me?