Page 23 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess

“Poor creature,” one whispered, her voice barely a breath. “Imagine living with such a curse.”

“A monster,” another muttered under her breath. “A blight upon this household.”

Rosaline, her back to them, felt a chill crawl down her spine. The whispers, the averted gazes, the feigned busyness—it was a constant reminder of the isolation that had become her reality.

“Excuse me,” Rosaline said, her voice calm but firm, interrupting their hushed conversation.

The maids froze, their eyes widening in surprise. They quickly averted their gaze, pretending to be engrossed in their tasks.

“I believe I requested some chamomile tea,” Rosaline continued, her voice unwavering. “Is it ready yet?”

One of the maids, her face flushed, stammered, “Y–yes, Your Grace. It will be ready shortly.”

“Good,” Rosaline replied, her voice a touch colder. “I would appreciate it if you could hasten the process.”

She turned and walked towards the pantry, her steps deliberate and measured. The silence that followed her was even more pronounced now, thick with the tension of their guilt and her suppressed anger.

“Perhaps we should be more mindful of our words,” the maid said, her voice echoing through the kitchen, startling the maids. “After all, curses can be contagious, wouldn’t you agree?”

A hush fell over the kitchen. The maids exchanged terrified glances.

As Rosaline left the pantry, her heart pounded in her chest. She had played into their fears, inadvertently confirming their suspicions. She had pushed them further away by being this cold.

A wave of regret washed over her. She had forgotten that they were just simple servants, afraid and vulnerable.

She stopped in the middle of the kitchen, her gaze sweeping across the room. The maids, their faces pale and drawn, were huddled together, their eyes wide with fear.

“My apologies,” she said, her voice soft and sincere. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

But the maids had scattered, leaving Rosaline alone in the kitchen.

Walking out the kitchen, she clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms.

Rosaline had hoped to one day do away with wearing the gloves her aunt required, but seeing the discomfort she already caused the staff, she couldn’t bring herself to inflict her scars upon them.

Perhaps one day,she thought wistfully,when I have proven myself worthy.

One afternoon, while exploring the manor’s extensive library, Rosaline stumbled upon a hidden room.

It was a small, cozy space, filled with bookshelves and a comfortable armchair. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, casting a soft glow over the room.

It was a sanctuary, a place where she could escape the cold, sterile world of Oldstone.

As she wandered the shelves, her fingers tracing the spines of ancient tomes, a sense of peace washed over her.

This life is still lonely, but it certainly is better than life with my aunt and uncle,she thought, a smile playing on her lips.

Returning to her chambers, Rosaline found a small, wrapped package on her desk. A note, in an elegant script, was attached.

A wedding gift from your new brother-in-law.

Curiosity piqued, Rosaline carefully unwrapped the package, her heart pounding with anticipation.

Inside, she found a beautifully bound book of poetry. As she flipped through the pages, a soft blush crept across her cheeks.

A thoughtful gesture,she thought, her eyes lingering on the inscription.Perhaps he’s not so bad after all, despite his superstitious first impression.

Chapter Eight