Page 22 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess

Mrs. Thornhill, taken aback by Rosaline’s directness, stammered, “N–no, Your Grace. It’s…it’s just that…”

Rosaline cut her off with a gentle smile. “I understand. The rumors…they can be quite frightening.” She paused, her gaze meeting Mrs. Thornhill’s. “But I assure you, there is no need to fear me. I am not the monster they say I am.”

“I…I believe you, Your Grace,” Mrs. Thornhill said softly.

Rosaline smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached her eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Thornhill. I hope that one day you will believe in me as well, Alice.”

As Mrs. Thornhill and Alice left the room, Rosaline turned back towards the window, a newfound sense of hope stirring within her.

Perhaps, just perhaps, this new life, this unexpected elevation, would not be the gilded cage she had initially feared. Perhaps it would be an opportunity to finally break free from the shadows of the past and embrace the future, not as a cursed duchess, but as simply Rosaline, a woman finally finding her voice.

As she slipped into a silk nightgown, she couldn’t help but wonder about Adam. What was he like? Was he as cold and distant as he seemed? Or was there something more beneath that imposing exterior?

She thought of his piercing blue eyes and the way he had looked at her, with curiosity and something else, something deeper.

A thrill of anticipation coursed through her as she imagined what the future held.

Perhaps, just perhaps, this arranged marriage would not be so dreadful after all.

The days that followed were a monotonous blur of formal dinners in which Rosaline tried to crack the mysterious, stoic duke’s hard exterior.

She would study his every move, his every word, searching for a glimpse of the man beneath the facade. He was so guarded, so distant, but there was something there, a spark.

She would flash him a wry smile, a knowing look, hoping to ignite a response.

Stilted conversations and endless hours of solitude followed.

Adam, ever the elusive figure, would disappear for hours at a time, leaving Rosaline to wander the halls of the manor alone, lost in her thoughts.

I want to know why he deigned to marry me,she thought with determination, her chin tilting up defiantly.

She paced the polished floor, her mind racing.

I need answers for how I came to be here.

The staff avoided her, often scattering when she walked into a room they were in, or feigning urgent business that prevented them from interacting too long.

Their fear was palpable, their eyes darting to the long gloves she wore, a constant reminder of the scars that marred her beauty.

They pitied her, or they thought of her as a monster. Even though she’d made some progress with Mrs. Thornhill and Alice, the rest of them were still reluctant around her.

As Rosaline wandered into the kitchen, usually a hub of lively chatter and the clatter of pots and pans, the room fell silent.

The maids, huddled around a table—their faces flushed with suppressed laughter—curtsied to her, and then quickly turned their attention to their tasks.

“You know how these things work. Curses spread, they don’t just stay in one place,” one whispered, her eyes darting towards Rosaline’s figure.

“Spread?” another chimed in, her voice hushed. “But how?”

“They say it’s in the very air she breathes,” the first maid hissed. “Anyone who comes near her risks being touched by the blight.”

Rosaline paused, her gaze sweeping across the room.

“The bread, it’s burning!” one maid exclaimed, scrambling to the oven, her voice a little too loud, a little too panicked.

“See?” the first maid whispered to the other, “she’s only been a moment in here and something’s already gone wrong.”

Rosaline, her lips pressed into a thin line, continued towards the pantry. The silence that followed her was deafening. The maids exchanged nervous glances, their eyes wide with a mixture of pity and fear.