Page 72 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess

A few quiet, comfortable moments passed by. Then, Rosaline heard Adam sigh.

“I…I also lost someone I loved,” he said, his voice low and husky. “My brother, David. He…he died in a fire.”

Rosaline, startled, turned to him. “I…I am so sorry, Adam.”

“It was…my fault,” he confessed, his voice thick with guilt. “I should have…I should have done more.”

He recounted the events of that fateful night, the flames engulfing the house, the screams, the desperate struggle to save his brother.

“I couldn’t reach him,” he said, his voice breaking. “I was injured, my leg…a half-burnt beam fell on it. The bone had shattered, and I could only drag myself through the flames.”

He looked at her, his eyes filled with a deep-seated pain. “I couldn’t…I didn’t make it in time to save him. If I had been stronger, if I had been faster…”

Rosaline, touched by his raw vulnerability, reached out and gently stroked his cheek.

“Adam,” she said softly, “it wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could.”

He shook his head, his eyes filled with a haunted look. “No. I failed him.”

Rosaline, remembering the pain of her own loss, knew how deeply his grief ran. “You cannot blame yourself for something that was beyond your control,” she said, her voice firm. “You tried, Adam. You did everything you could.”

She gently touched his injured leg, her fingers tracing the faint scars. “Remember what you told me about my scars,” she said softly. “Your injury? You faced the fire, you risked your own life to save others. You saved Henry!”

He looked at her, his eyes searching hers. “You…you knew?”

“Henry told me bits about it. At the ball.”

Adam’s jaw clenched. “He shouldn’t?—”

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that I understand now,” she said, her voice sincere. “I understand you, Adam. And I want you to know that you shouldn’t punish yourself anymore.”

He pulled her closer, his arms holding her tightly. “Thank you, Rosaline,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for listening. For understanding.”

As they lay together, a comfortable silence settled between them, a silence filled with unspoken emotions, a shared understanding of loss, and a growing sense of connection.

A moment later, Rosaline shifted and Adam winced.

“Are you all right?” she asked, concerned.

“It’s nothing,” he grumbled.

“Perhaps I can help,” she offered, her voice soft and gentle. “My mother, bless her soul, was quite interested in medicine. She taught me how to prepare a liniment for such ailments.”

Adam, startled, looked at her, his eyes wary. “I don’t need your pity, Duchess.”

Rosaline smiled, a gentle, reassuring smile that belied the tremor in her hands. “Pity has nothing to do with it, Duke. It is merely…an offering of comfort.”

She rose from the bed and after putting on her nightgown, she ran to her room.

She returned moments later, carrying a small, intricately carved wooden box.

“This,” she said, opening the box to reveal a small, amber-colored jar, “is a liniment my mother used to prepare for my father. He injured his shoulder a long time ago, and this seemed to help. It is one of the few things I kept of hers.”

Adam, intrigued despite himself, watched her with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

“It may not be a miracle cure,” she cautioned, “but it should offer some relief.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Very well.”