Page 29 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess

Rosaline’s patience was wearing thin. She had endured countless such incidents, each one a fresh wound to her pride and dignity. But she knew that anger would only fuel the fire of fear and superstition.

She forced a smile, a practiced gesture that masked her inner turmoil.

I must be patient. I must be kind.

“Very well,” she said, her voice steady and calm. “But remember, fear is a powerful enemy. It can blind us to the truth—to the humanity that binds us all.”

She turned and walked away, her heart heavy with the fresh memory of how the servants had flinched away, avoiding her as if she were contagious.

As she retreated to her chambers, she couldn’t shake the feeling of isolation.

She was a prisoner in her own castle, trapped by the fear and prejudice of those around her.

Perhaps one day, they will see me for who I truly am.

It was a scant few days later that Rosaline heard a crash from the kitchen and went to investigate, her heart pounding with a mix of concern and dread.

She pushed open the heavy oak door, her steps light and graceful despite the weight of her worries.

There, in the heart of the kitchen, she found the cook clutching his bleeding hand, his face contorted in pain. Shards of a broken plate were scattered across the floor, in stark contrast to the pristine white tiles.

“Oh, are you all right?” Rosaline gasped, her empathy welling up within her.

She moved towards him, her hand outstretched, a gentle smile playing on her lips.

The cook flinched, his eyes darting nervously around the room. “No!” he exclaimed, his voice sharp and defensive. “Apologies, Your Grace, you need not worry yourself over me. I will take care of this mess.”

His words were harsh, but Rosaline understood the fear that lay beneath them. She had grown accustomed to such reactions, to the fear and suspicion that often followed her.

As she reached out to him once more, her hand hovering over his injured one, the cook stumbled backward, his boot crunching on a shard of porcelain.

A crimson stain spread across the floor, mirroring the growing crimson hue on Rosaline’s cheek.

“What is going on here?”

Adam appeared in the doorway. His gaze swept across the scene, taking in the fear and superstition etched on the cook’s face, and the quiet pain that flickered in Rosaline’s eyes.

A flicker of anger ignited in Adam as he strode towards the group, his presence commanding attention.

The whispers ceased, and all eyes turned to him.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his voice booming through the silent hall.

The cook, his face pale and drawn, cowered under Adam’s gaze.

“A simple accident,” he stammered, his voice barely audible. “I cut myself when I dropped a plate. My apologies for the damage, Your Grace.”

Adam scoffed, his disbelief palpable. “A simple accident, you say? Or perhaps it is a sign from the heavens; a divine punishment for the sins of a woman who danced with the devil?”

The cook flinched, his silence a damning admission. Rosaline’s heart ached.

“You know,” Adam continued, his voice growing colder, “it is a shame that such ignorance still persists in this enlightened age. To believe that a woman—a noblewoman, at that—is cursed simply because of circumstances beyond her control is a testament to the depths of human stupidity.”

The cook hung his head, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Duchess,” Adam turned to her, his gaze intense.

She met his gaze, her blue eyes steady and defiant.He sees me,she thought, a surge of excitement swelling within her.