Page 39 of The Duchess Curse

“You are too glib about your own existence.”

She picked a careful way around him. “I wouldn’t say that.”

He didn’t lose a single step, walking beside her this time.

As they crossed the street toward the park, she said, “Are you going to apologize?”

“For?”

“The kiss.”

“No.”

Once in the park, she strayed from the path immediately, her boots sinking into grass. The sky was turning velvet blue at the very top, like the stars were drawing a curtain over the day.

“You’re my wife.” The words curled like a cat around her.

But she had no use for soft things. “And we decided long ago that meant nothing.”

“Why? Why did we decide that? I always assumed you hate me. But you claim you don’t want me dead. And you respond to my kisses. But you run from them, too. I know there is no hope for us. But after six years, at least let me know why.”

“I…” She shook her head

“You expected to marry a real duke. Not a second son of a second son whose entire family had to perish for him to have power. I am not what you wanted or expected. I always knew your parents looked down on me, found me unsophisticated and… lucky.”

“No. That’s not⁠—”

“It’s fine,” he said gruffly.

“No, no. No.” Each word quieter than the other. She’d never told him why she’d left. She’d been too panicked, made him promise not to come after her, promised in return she would not besmirch the Braxton title with her chosen lifestyle. But perhaps he should know. Yet it was hard to say. So terribly difficult because she knew how ridiculous it would sound to him. But if it would make him understand, make him leave her alone, she’d humble herself a little. “I left, and I will leave again, because… ofthecurse.” She rushed the last three words together.

“Curse? As in something a witch does to someone she does not like?”

She nodded.

“You and I both know witch is merely a pejorative for a woman who dabbles in potions. Many have called you witch.”

“It’s true.”

“Why didn’t your parents tell me of it when they arranged our marriage?”

She shrugged. “They always told me never to speak of it. I always thought that unfair.”

“Why tell me now, then?”

“Because you’re like a dog with a bone. You won’t let go with those sharp teeth until you’ve torn all the way through me. I know it sounds like a fairy tale, but my family is cursed. If we succumb to… softer emotions, the person we love dies. We die.”

“You believe falling in love will kill you?” His usually smooth stride broke into jerky steps like a puppet master controlled him with strings.

“Yes.” She whipped her cane up behind her and held it across her back with both hands. “Do you remember what I told you about my first husband?”

“He was a friendly old man you liked a great deal.”

She nodded. She’d told him that on their wedding night. “And what I said about the other man?”

“The one you were in love with? During your engagement to your husband?”

Tommy had worked in the stables, and Edward remained in London most of the time. She’d spent the first eight years of their engagement in his house, alone but for servants. He’d returned when she was eighteen to marry, and by that time she’d been in love with Tommy and ready to prove the curse was nothing more than a myth. Youthful folly had concocted a plan, an escape that had led to a rainy night and wild hopes, the smell of wet horse, the feel of wet leather, the shadow of her beloved riding ahead of her through the storm.