Page 115 of The Duchess Curse

He kissed the back of her hand. “If there’s a curse, we’ll find a cure for it.”

She made a little pleased sound in her throat, and he was almost asleep when she whispered, “An heir to the Duke of Braxton. You would trap yourself more deeply in the transcendent web of inheritance. And there might be a second son…”

Their conversation was structured by the depth and breadth of each hesitation—hers and his and, it seemed, the sometimes-bated breath of the world itself.

“Do you think it will be fine?” he asked. “Do you think the children will be… happy?”

She lifted her face to the ceiling with closed eyes, every line serious and straight, her eyelids fluttering as she thought. Then she melted, the lines lushening, curving soft and sweet. “I will do everything I can to ensure they are.”

Running through the conservatory, stirring petals in rainwater, playing hide-and-seek in the shadows, and learning glamours in the early morning light. Magic would not be inherited. It would a learned pleasure and privilege, a duty, too, to use the right way.

“I will, too,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

“So… it will be fine?”

“We’ll make sure it is.”

She stiffened and looked out the window. The Cairnsbury estate right outside Bath waited at the end of that long drive. “I don’t feel fine right now. Could we return to London and face a hired assassin?”

“I wish, lass. But I’m afraid we have to face your parents.”

“Of course.” She sat up straighter, and by the time the carriage stopped, she was fully in possession of the sort of steel spine she fought attackers with and that he so adored.

The old house was long and sprawling and well-kept though cold. Each brick perfectly placed and clean, even though it daily contended against weather, and each window sparkling. But empty.

Her parents were surprised to see them, standing in the open doorway, the butler shuffling off behind them.

“Who’s that?” Lord Cairnsbury demanded, pointing at Bran.

“I’m Braxton,” Bran said. “No glamour.”

“Why the hell not?” Cairnsbury studied Bran with something close to disgust twisting up his features. “A brute like you should always wear the glamour.”

Bran shrugged. “This is who I am, so this is who the duke is.”

Guin hooked her arm through his, and he could almost feel her small smile in his very soul. Fuck. Doing the difficult thing felt good when it made his wife proud.

Lady Cairnsbury gave them a warmer welcome, prepared them rooms, gave them time to freshen up, and it wasn’t until dinner that they could all talk. They sat at a formal dining table much longer than necessary for four people, and a meal had been prepared that was lavish enough for the queen.

“What is it that brings you here?” her mother asked, voice pitched high enough to cross the long table.

“I have questions about the curse,” Guin said. A blunt blow, a direct hit. A courageous woman facing what she’d always feared.

Lady Cairnsbury’s silverware clashed against her plate.

Lord Cairnsbury cursed.

“W-we prefer not to talk about it,” Lady Cairnsbury said. Her face had drained entirely of color.

“Why would we?” Cairnsbury asked, rage lifting his voice. “There’s nothing we can do about it. You are our only child, and we’ve done right by you. You married well twice! Neither man you’re likely to fall in love with.”

Guin’s arm froze, halfway to bringing a goblet of wine to her lips. “Why wouldn’t I love Bran… Braxton?”

“Because he’s a backup for a backup.” Her father waved a fork in Bran’s direction. “He’s so far down the ducal tree, he’s basically common. Why would my daughter love a man like that?”

Well, that was lowering.

After a moment, Guin laughed loud and long. When she was done, she wiped a tear from her eyes and looked at Bran. “I think my father lacks imagination.”