Page 119 of The Duchess Curse

“Stories are powerful. Scary stories even more so. I suspected it was something like this, though. I just needed the evidence to convince you.”

She swatted his arm. “Yes, yes, you’re quite observant and intelligent and⁠—”

“An excellent kisser.”

“Naturally.”

“And good with a sword.”

She kissed his chest. “Of course.”

“And madly in love with you.”

No of course to that. It felt like a miracle. But she’d revel in it anyway, believe in it. She might as well put her experience believing in the impossible to better use.

“I would have fought by your side my entire life, Guin,” Bran said, voice gruff. “As long as it took to keep you safe.”

“I’m glad it didn’t take that long.”

He kissed her temple and chuckled, and she rested against him, pulled the silver chain from her bodice where it dipped from her neck into her cleavage. The potion bottle had become lovers, entwined entirely so there was no end or beginning to either of them. Male and female, love and hate, light and dark, secrets and truth. All bound impossibly, beautifully together.

Stepping back into the Mayfair mansion three days later felt right. It wasn’t Guin’s shop. It wasn’t her tiny flat off Finsbury Square. It was too big for two people and possessed a conservatory with a heated floor, a bathing chamber with a stained-glass window, a bird somewhere dropping black feathers, a few too many well-armed guards, and a man she adored walking a half step behind her, his big, warm hand at the small of her back and his voice rough in her ear.

“Sounds like it’s not going well,” he said.

Also, it was currently spiraling into chaos.

A hellcat, apparently, had been let loose in their house, and she was flying down the stairs, screeching like a tiny blond banshee and brandishing a wooden sword. The unknown child slashed at Bran’s legs, and he picked her up by the legs, held her upside down, and she was so startled, she dropped her sword and stared at him with her mouth open.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Her hands hit her hips. “Who are you?”

“I’m the Duke of Braxton, and this is my house. I don’t remember inviting any ruffians in.”

“Oh, but you did.” Hesperus appeared from the shadows and pointed at the tiny hellcat. “That’s Madwoman Poppy’s sister. The madwoman refused to stay put unless we brought along the little kitten with claws. She’s unexpectedly slippery.”

“Madame Poppy or the sister?” Guin asked.

“Both,” Hesperus drawled.

“What’s your name?” Guin asked as Bran set the girl on her feet.

“Isadora,” she lisped.

“It’s not,” Hesperus said. “They won’t tell us what her real name is, and she has a new one every hour.”

“It’s her name, let her choose it.” Madame Poppy appeared from the direction of the conservatory and eyed Guin over. “You’ve returned. Dragged back or of your own accord?”

“Entirely under my own powers, thank you very much.”

Madame Poppy shrugged and wandered off, and Isadora bolted, and Hesperus looked to Bran.

“Anything I should know?” Hesperus asked.

“Not right now. I’ll call you if there is.”

Guin pulled Bran up the stairs and to her bedchamber where the writing desk was still a potion-cluttered worktable, though as well organized as Berkley or Susan were likely to manage.