Page 75 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess

Their fingers brushed briefly in the exchange, the contact sending an unexpected jolt through her. She pulled her hand back quickly, her heart giving an unbidden flutter, a sensation she could neither explain nor ignore.

Adam glanced at her, his dark eyes narrowing slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

His words carried the weight of an unspoken command, a directive she was no stranger to. But something about them felt different this time—less like an order and more like a plea.

She raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a faint, almost teasing smile. “And yet, here I am.”

Something flickered in his expression—amusement? Frustration? It was gone before she could be sure, replaced by his usual composed demeanor.

Together, they managed to guide Henry out of the parlor and up the stairs. It was an awkward, cumbersome process, and by the time they reached Henry’s room, Rosaline’s arms were trembling with the effort of holding him steady.

Adam opened the door, and they maneuvered Henry inside, settling him onto the bed. Rosaline smoothed the blankets over him with practiced care, her movements gentle.

“You didn’t have to help,” Adam said as they stepped back into the hallway, his voice low, but not unkind. It was always this way with him—stoic, distant, as though kindness was an effort he had to force upon himself.

She glanced at him, tilting her head slightly. “And let you handle him alone? That hardly seems fair.”

He studied her for a moment, his gaze intense, unreadable.

“I can never win with you, can I?” he sighed, almost in defeat.

Adam glanced at the latest missive from Claridge, a venomous curl twisting his lips.

The earl’s handwriting, usually elegant and flowing, now scrawled across the page with the manic energy of a caged beast.

Blackmail, threats…Adam scoffed, methodically shredding the note until it was barely more than parchment dust on his desk.

The man thinks himself clever.

The arrogance in Claridge’s words grated against Adam’s nerves, a sharp reminder of the many enemies who seemed to think they could challenge him.

He paced the length of his study, his gaze sweeping across the room, a silent inventory of his possessions.

Claridge dared to threaten him? The thought was ludicrous. Adam, the Duke of Oldstone, was accustomed to getting his way, to bending the world to his will.

Turning sharply, he approached the bell pull.

“Harris,” he called to his butler, his voice low and cold. The servant appeared within moments, bowing respectfully.

“Fetch Silas for me,” Adam ordered. “Tell him I need him immediately.”

The butler hesitated but for a second. “At once, Your Grace.”

As Harris left the room, Adam returned to his pacing, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

He needed answers—and he needed them now. Silas had a knack for gathering information quietly, efficiently, and without fail.

Within minutes, the door opened again, this time to reveal Silas, a man of imposing presence who had been Adam’s most trusted stable hand before being promoted to other, more discreet tasks.

Silas met his gaze and said nothing, waiting for Adam’s instructions.

“Silas,” Adam commanded, his voice low and dangerous, “I need you to find me a letter.”

Silas bowed his head, his expression impassive. “Which letter, Your Grace?”

Adam fixed him with a chilling stare, his eyes narrowed. “It has very sensitive information about Lord Henry. Whatever letter Claridge has that has my brother’s name in it, I need it. And whatever else you can find that could destroy Claridge once and for all.”