Page 64 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess

“If not tonight, then when, Your Grace?Carpe diem, as the Romans would say. What say you, shall we?” Lord Claridge said and gave Adam a very pointed look.

Something was going on between them, and it wasn’t mere dislike.

Adam let out an exasperated sigh, “Very well. If you’ll excuse us, Duchess, Lady Claridge.”

“Your Grace,” Lady Claridge curtsied, and Rosaline offered them a simple nod.

As Adam and Lord Claridge walked off, Rosaline felt a wave of unease wash over her.

What could her uncle want? And why did Adam seem so agitated?

The questions hung in her mind like an unanswered riddle.

Lady Claridge, her face a mask of disapproval, scrutinized Rosaline from head to toe, her icy gaze lingering for far too long.

“Ruby red, dear? Really? Such a vibrant color. And those sleeves do nothing to conceal those hideous markings of yours.”

Rosaline’s fingers twitched, almost instinctively, tracing the intricate embroidery along the cuff of her gown.

The silk felt cool beneath her touch, the threadwork a delicate reminder of the effort she had put into choosing this gown—one that reflected her own boldness, her independence.

She allowed her fingertips to glide over the smooth silk, the embroidery’s complexity grounding her in the present moment, steadying the sharp flare of irritation beginning to burn in her chest.

She took a slow breath, exhaling through her nose as she lifted her chin slightly, offering a smile that, though warm, didn’t reach her eyes.

“The color suits me, Aunt Evelyn. And the sleeves…” Rosaline allowed herself a slight shrug, her posture relaxed but firm, her gaze unwavering. “They are perfectly comfortable.”

She turned just slightly to the side, almost as though it was a casual gesture, but her spine was straight, the confidence in her stance more resolute than any words she could speak.

Lady Claridge scoffed, a sound like air escaping from an overinflated balloon.

“Comfortable? At a ball? What a rustic notion. You should be striving for elegance, not comfort. And those scars…they are truly a blight upon your lost beauty.”

Rosaline’s breath hitched for just a moment, though she was careful to keep her expression steady.

With a slight tilt of her head, Rosaline finally met her aunt’s eyes, her gaze calm, but cold.

“The scars are a part of me, Aunt. Just like the color of my eyes or the shape of my nose.”

Lady Claridge’s expression turned to a sharp frown, her lips pulling back into a tight line. “Don’t be impertinent, Rosaline. You should be grateful for the opportunities this marriage has afforded you. The Duke of Oldstone is a powerful man. A man who could have chosen any woman in the kingdom.”

The mention of Adam made Rosaline’s heart clench tightly in her chest, but she kept her composure.

He didn’t choose me, Aunt.

The thought was bitter, thick as honey in her throat.

It was an alliance, nothing more. A means to an end.

Her fingers tightened even more, twisting the delicate fabric beneath them.

“Of course, Aunt,” she replied smoothly, though her voice betrayed none of the tightness she felt inside.

Before Rosaline could retort, a sudden interruption came in the form of Henry, Adam’s younger brother. His presence was like a breeze on a hot day, effortlessly cooling the tense atmosphere.

“Your Grace! There you are,” he said, his tone light and easy, “May I have this dance? Pardon me, Lady Claridge. I have been looking my sister-in-law for a bit, so I must steal her away from you.”

“Of course, I understand, my lord,” Lady Claridge responded in her empty, polite tone.