Page 11 of The Duchess Curse

THE SECOND SHADOW SOCIETY

It was, perhaps, inadvisable to empty a teapot over the Queen of England’s head. But since Guinevere could no longer argue against Her Majesty, she felt the need to grasp some form of rebellion.

The queen did not seem to notice Guin’s ire. After she’d checked Guin’s first objection to acquiring a guard of the husbandly persuasion, Queen Victoria had taken up a position of silence, sipping her tea, eating her scones, and watching the clouds move across the sky behind the plate glass of her conservatory. She appeared no more than a young girl at a garden party. But this girl’s glare could cut, and Guin had suffered enough attacks that day.

So she did not empty the teapot, but she did venture to say, “Perhaps I shall take my leave.”

The queen raised a single brow. “Not yet.”

“I should start on your potion this very moment, ma’am. There’s much to research before I even pick a plant and⁠—”

“Not yet. We’re waiting for someone. And before they arrive, I must tell you about the Second Shadows.”

“The… second shadows? I’m afraid I’ve never heard of such a phenomenon.”

“That is rather the point. The Second Shadows are not a natural phenomenon. They are a crown secret few possess, not even the wives of members know of their existence. I need my best knights keeping you safe, and they are the best.” She gave a little shrug then sipped her tea.

Guinevere had more than one question, and they gathered all at once behind her eyes to produce a megrim as acute as it was sudden. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Is my husband, perchance, a member of this secret society?”

“I do like how quick you are, Lady Braxton.”

“Guinevere. Please, if you do not mind, call me Lady Guinevere.”

The queen seemed to consider for a long while before saying, “Very well. If I can choose my name, you can choose yours.” She stood and meandered along a line of plants, stroking one petal and twitching one leaf. “Your husband, before he became Braxton, was born a second son to a second son of a quite old family. He never should have inherited. He went, as spares do, into one of the accepted occupations.”

“I thought that was the law. Or the clergy. Or the⁠—”

“Military? Consider the Shadows a secret extension of that common avenue for second sons.”

“Ah. And what do these Shadows do?”

“Acquire a target. Stick to that target like a second shadow, and either protect it or kill it.”

“I feel grateful to fall under the first category.”

The queen laughed. “As you should. My predecessor was not so sure you did not deserve to be in the second.”

“Ah.” Impossible, but the conservatory seemed to grow hotter.

“So you see, your husband is the best person to protect you. He is a duke, and so is an acceptable escort to one of my chosen female companions, but he also possesses the proper kind of warrior knowledge to keep you alive.”

Guin shook her head. That made no sense. He’d always seemed a shy fellow, not at all the type to swing a sword or slit a throat. Yet… the one time they’d laid together, when she’d found the courage to touch him as intimately as he’d touched her—a graze along his shoulder, a gentle touch to his abdomen—he’d been hard and tight, lean with muscle he knew well how to use beneath the glamour that had stayed firmly in place.

A glamour could hide everything. But it couldn’t save him. Only she could do that. “Your Majesty, as much as I appreciate your thoughtfulness, it is not safe for Braxton to⁠—”

“Oh, here he is now!” The queen almost bounced in her seat but soon controlled the urge, the monarch tempering the girl.

Guin turned slowly, gripping the top of the back of her chair to keep her hands from shaking. She could do nothing about the fine hairs on the back of her neck, along her arms. They would stand on end—in anticipation… or warning.

Two men strode toward them down the conservatory path. One a stranger, dark and lethal looking, the other bright and golden and graceful in a powerful, prowling sort of way. Her husband, lean and perfectly tailored in cobalt blue, his cravat crisp, and his expression giving nothing away. One of the benefits of wearing a glamour.

The old familiar panic welled up. The last time she’d seen him had been the night of the fire. He’d appeared out of nowhere, glamoured and beautiful and worried and acting like he had a right to touch her. All she’d been able to do was yell at him, send him away because if something she loved as much as her potion shop could fall beneath the curse, so could he.

She was standing before she knew she’d moved, and backing away from the table, away from him. She’d rather meet a stranger with a blade in a back alley than sit next to her husband. But there he was, striding closer, and she had nowhere to retreat unless she toppled the plants pressing into her back. The wedding ring she kept on a chain always around her neck seemed to burn like the flames that had consumed her life’s work, sizzling a scar into her skin. As if his presence had somehow brought it to life.

His eyes were golden and glowing, intense, and they’d caught her, trapped her until he stood right in front of her and took her jaw in his hands. A gentle touch that contradicted the angry angle of his jaw, the thin, disapproving line of his lips. Not a single waver in his glamour. It was entirely opaque, almost entirely real but for the sparks of gold around the edges.

Beneath the glamour, he wore no gloves. How odd that what she felt—warm, rough skin—put a lie to what she saw—the finest gloves of an almost blinding white wrapped around elegant fingers.