Page 13 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess

The duke’s jaw clenched, eyes dark. “We are going to my wedding,” Adam replied curtly.

Henry’s eyes widened in shock. “Your wedding? What? When? I had no idea you were even courting someone, let alone getting married!”

Adam remained silent, his expression unyielding.

Henry, oblivious to the gravity of the situation, continued to bombard Adam with questions.

“So…who is the lucky lady, then? Is she beautiful? Is she rich? Does she play any instruments? I imagine it would be wonderful to finally have someone play that old piano?—”

Adam’s patience was wearing thin. He couldn’t stand the incessant chatter anymore.

“You will meet her soon enough. “Just get dressed,” he snapped, his tone sharp and impatient.

He turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

As he headed down the hallway, Adam heard Henry speaking to his valet, a portly man named Jenkins, who began the arduous task of dressing his unruly master.

“What in the devil’s name is going on, Jenkins?” Henry asked.

Jenkins, a seasoned servant, simply replied, “If I knew, sir, I would be telling you. But as it stands, I am just as confused as you are.”

A few moments later, Adam was already in the carriage, his mind racing.

He had to admit, he was somewhat surprised by his own decision to marry.

It had been a hasty choice, forced upon him by circumstances beyond his control. But he had made his decision, and he would see it through.

I wonder if that niece of Lord Claridge’s is as horrified by this arrangement as I am,Adam mused. Then he recalled all the desperate mothers parading their daughters in front of him at every opportunity.

Or perhaps she is part of the earl’s scheme.

When Henry finally emerged from the townhouse, he looked somewhat presentable, though his hair was still slightly disheveled and his eyes were bloodshot. Adam eyed him critically.

“You look like a drowned rat,” he remarked.

Henry rolled his eyes. “I did my best.”

The carriage ride to the chapel was a torturous affair. Rosaline sat ramrod straight, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery as they left the country and returned to town.

The once familiar streets of London now seemed alien, a stark contrast to the life she had once known.

Her aunt, willingly oblivious to her niece’s distress, prattled on about the importance of this union.

“For heaven’s sake, stop sulking! This is the best you’ll ever do, and you should thank your lucky stars he is even willing,” she chided. “Not that you deserve a duke, after all you have put me through, and all your uncle and I have done for you.”

Rosaline’s heart clenched. She felt like a chess piece being moved across a grand board, her fate determined by others.

A forced marriage—how utterly pedestrian.

Her aunt’s words stung, a cruel reminder of her perceived imperfections. The scars that marred her body, a constant source of shame, were now a bargaining chip in her family’s game of power and prestige.

Despite the beautiful gown that the duke had sent, a gift likely meant to soften the blow and endear her new husbandto Rosaline, the countess had insisted that Rosaline wear long gloves to conceal her scars.

The gown feels as off-balance as I do,Rosaline thought.

It was a small act of cruelty, but it spoke volumes about the way she was seen now.

Seeing Rosaline’s gaze fixed on the long gloves, Lady Claridge smirked.