Page 74 of The Duchess Curse

He studied his arms. They were in full sunlight, the warmth of early morning magnified in the conservatory’s windows. His glamour should be strongest here and did seem to gain ground every few seconds, Braxton overtaking Bran slowly.

“Let me know,” she said, “if you notice a significant weakening of the glamour.”

He grunted, and she felt such a fool for not having seen Bran beneath the Braxton glamour sooner. She should have known Bran’s grunt as well as her own laugh. There’d been nights she’d laid in her narrow bed above the shop aching for his strong arms, then crying herself to sleep with guilt. She’d felt like she was betraying Braxton, and the whole time she’d been the one betrayed.

She did need sleep. Her eyes were sharp and tingly. She pressed the heel of her hand into her eye socket. “Hand me that knife.”

“The golden one?” Bran asked.

“Yes.”

He did so.

“Hand me that bowl.”

Only one on the table, and he pushed it her way, even though she could have reached it easily herself.

She pushed knife and bowl back toward him. “Slice your palm open over the bowl.”

He picked up the tool, positioned his hand over the bowl.

She grabbed his wrist before he could set blade to skin. “No, Bran. Don’t.” Anger shot like lightning through her body. “Will you always simply do as I say?”

He placed the knife carefully onto the table. “You’re the potion master. If you need my blood, I’m sure there’s a reason.”

His trust was immovable, pure and complete. It infuriated her. “It wasn’t about any damn potion, Bran! It was about you and me and⁠—”

“Revenge.”

She rubbed her brow, feeling a thousand years old. “Yes.” Revenge was a game she grew tired of playing.

He knocked her hand away from her brow and smoothed the lines of her forehead with his thumb. He drew his knuckles down her cheek until he found her chin, and that he tipped up, forcing her to meet his gaze. Too green. Too golden. She closed her eyes. He looked at her with such tenderness, such determination, and what could have been between them—without the curse, without his betrayal—was an open wound that might never heal.

“I was your servant before,” he said. “And I still am. However long you remain here, is how long⁠—”

“Your Grace.” Bentley the butler’s voice rose high above the plants. He refused to set foot into any room with a glass ceiling, so he was forever yelling. “Are you at home?”

Bran held her gaze a beat longer then dropped his hand. She rather itched to know what the rest of the sentence was.

“We’re both here, Bentley,” Bran said.

“Who is asking for an audience?” Guin asked. She made her way toward Bentley, Bran close behind.

They stepped out of the foliage together and into the long, columned hallway to find the butler standing in front of three women, one with Queen Victoria’s profile for a reticule, another with Egyptian mummies glamoured and walking across her gown, and a third with a horn around her neck to help with hearing. Baroness Folley, Miss Anna Prince—a viscount’s daughter—and the dowager countess of Maryville. They’d come calling a few days ago for gossip and potions, a mission only scantily disguised as a social call.

“Ah. Good morning,” Guin said. “It’s rather early for a visit, but I suppose we can manage.” She gave Bentley a look she hoped he interpreted as meaning Why in Gaia’s good name would you let them through the door at this hour. She turned to the ladies. “You’ll have to excuse my appearance. I’ve been up for hours.”

Bran flicked a hand toward her, and she found her gown glamoured—the wrinkles gone, the stains dissolved, the color changed. It was red now, an amber sash tied round the waist, and the little silver potion bottle necklace that was currently upstairs in her bedchamber glamoured round her neck. The glamour was a signal to the women: Guin was his duchess and should be treated as such. It was nice to know she would not be at a disadvantage with her well-dressed guests. But it was high-handed. He could dress her like a doll, and she would not be able to shake his magic on her own.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she mumbled.

“I have business in my study. Good day, ladies.” He bowed to them then strode down the hallway. Or seemed to. She felt him still. He must have taken up residence in a shadow nearby, watching.

“Bentley,” Guin said, “Refreshments, please.”

“No, thank you.” Miss Prince stepped forward. “We do not want tea. We want potion.”

Lady Folley stepped forward, too. “I need a facial salve for my freckles. Cook’s attempts are not so potent as yours.”