Page 45 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess

“He means well,” she said, addressing Hemmings but keeping her eyes locked on Adam. “But his bluster will only frighten you further.”

Adam felt something shift. An unfamiliar stirring deep in his chest.

She was a woman who knew her own mind. Who did not shrink before him, who refused to be cowed by superstition or rank. And damn him, but he wanted—needed—to keep her safe. To shield her from the very darkness he had long since embraced.

His grip flexed at his sides.

The cursed duchess, they called her.

Fools.

They had no idea that they should be fearing him.

Rosaline turned back to Hemmings, her gaze steady, a quiet resolve settling over her. She could feel the weight of his fear, his uncertainty, but she would not let it sway her.

“Tell me, Hemmings,” she said, her voice calm and soothing, like a lullaby that could dispel a storm. “What have you done to nourish the soil?”

Hemmings hesitated, his hands twitching at his sides, but he began to speak, his voice raw with frustration.

“I…I’ve tried. But nothing works.” His shoulders sagged as he spoke, as though the weight of the failure was too much to bear alone. “The soil’s been hardening even after the rain. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Rosaline observed him carefully, her sharp eyes noticing the subtle shifts in his posture, the way his eyes flickered nervously toward the barren fields.

She leaned in slightly, close enough to hear the rustle of his breathing, but not too close to crowd him.

He’s a good man, hardworking and honest, she thought, her heart aching for him.

He deserved better than to be plagued by fear and superstition.

As Hemmings described his methods—diligent but unsuccessful—Rosaline listened intently. Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of her cloak, but she kept her posture open and kind. She sensed his reluctance to trust her, but she would not let his doubts fester.

With a gentle smile, she offered her suggestions, her voice laced with a quiet confidence.

“Perhaps,” she suggested softly, “a different rotation of crops? And have you considered adding lemon to the soil? It can help balance the acidity.”

She paused, gauging his reaction. Hemmings’ brows furrowed in confusion, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes. Hope.

Hemmings blinked, his face a mixture of awe and disbelief. His gaze lingered on the faint scar that marred her cheek—an imperfection that she had learned to ignore, but one that seemed to capture his attention.

“Your Grace,” he stammered, his voice filled with wonder, “you… you are familiar with such matters?”

Rosaline felt a flush creep up her neck, but she nodded, her expression softening.

“My brother, Michael,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, the weight of his memory pulling at her chest. “He taught me much about the land, about the delicate balance of nature.”

She thought of Michael, her beloved brother—his brilliant mind tragically cut short that night.

The sharp pang of grief shot through her, but she quickly quelled it. She would honor his memory by sharing his knowledge with others.

As they left Hemmings’ farm, Adam found himself studying Rosaline.

The woman was a puzzle—soft-spoken yet firm, diplomatic without being patronizing. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but she’d managed Hemmings far better than he ever could.

The next stop was Wilkes’ farm, where Adam prepared himself for resistance. Tom Wilkes was a stubborn man, prideful to a fault.

If anyone would test Rosaline’s calm resolve, it was him.

Wilkes greeted them at the gate, his broad figure dominating the muddy yard. His scowl deepened when his eyes landed on Rosaline.