Page 47 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess

“Then perhaps we can help expand that success,” Rosaline said. “Have you considered preserving the fruit for jams or chutneys? It might fetch a higher price in town.”

Mrs. Farrow blinked, and there was no hiding the glimmer of interest in her eyes.

Adam leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as he watched the exchange.

Rosaline had a knack for disarming even the most obstinate of opponents.

He hated to admit it, but he was impressed—again.

“Good afternoon, Elias,” Adam greeted the blacksmith, a jovial man.

Elias’ forge glowed with an inner light, casting dancing shadows that flickered and twisted on the cobbled street.

The rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil filled the air, accompanied by the scent of burning coal and the sharp tang of metal being shaped.

Elias, a robust figure with a broad chest and burly arms, his face creased with laughter lines, greeted them with a booming voice that seemed to fill the entire street.

“Welcome, Your Graces!” His voice was warm, almost too loud, his words laced with genuine joy. “It’s an honor to have you visit my humble shop.”

Rosaline, despite the slight tremor in her hand as she smoothed the folds of her cloak, offered a regal nod, “Good day, Elias.”

A small, controlled smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

He seems a good man, despite his rough exterior, she mused, her sharp eyes sweeping over the forge, a silent, practiced assessment of his craftsmanship.

The hammer in his hand was well-worn, the leather straps of his apron stained with soot and sweat, but there was something inherently powerful about his presence.

“I’ve forged some new tools that I think would be most useful to you. Let me show you!” Elias continued, wiping a stray bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

He led them deeper into the forge, his heavy boots sounding like thunder on the stone floor. Rosaline’s gaze flitted over the many weapons and tools hanging from the walls, each item crafted with precision and care.

Her eyes lingered on the intricate designs etched into the handles of the swords, the sharp gleam of the blades reflecting the glowing light of the forge.

It was then that Elias began to speak of the past, his voice growing quieter, softer.

“You know, I served your brother, the late Lord Claridge, back in the day. A fine man, he was—true to his word.”

His gaze softened, a fondness taking over his rugged features.

Rosaline’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of her brother. She fought to keep the tightness from her throat, but it was difficult.

A wave of emotion rose within her chest, threatening to break free. She wanted to remain composed, to appear unaffected, but the ache of grief was so deep, so constant.

She forced herself to smile, a thin, bittersweet smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Michael,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat.

Elias wiped his hands on his apron as he leaned against the anvil, his voice full of warmth and nostalgia.

“I remember him so clearly. He was always laughing. He had this way about him, you know? He’d make you believe the impossible could happen, just with that smile of his,” the blacksmith said.

Rosaline could feel the sting of tears welling up behind her eyes. The memories of Michael, once so alive with laughter and joy, now felt like a distant dream, one that could never be fully realized again.

She swallowed hard, pressing her hand against her chest, as if to contain the weight of her sorrow. It was not easy, but she managed a soft, bittersweet smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Yes, that sounds just like him,” she murmured, her voice wavering with a sorrow that could not be hidden.

“He sounds like a remarkable man,” Adam said, his voice gruff, but laced with a genuine sympathy.