Page 20 of The Duchess Curse

He was sound asleep now and it didn’t even flicker, and his face was peaceful, unlined and youthful. The glamour likely resembled him to some extent, fashioned by the first duke from his own appearance to capture his youth eternally no matter how much he aged. The inheritors of the glamour would have inherited, also, a nose or jaw or hairline similar to the original, slightly distorted more and more each generation.

Was the current Braxton much like the man she saw now, much like his long-ago ancestor? Gorgeous in that golden way she’d come to associate with him—a clean-shaven cheek, high, strong cheekbones, thick golden brows, and thick, bronze lashes fanned across pale skin. A full mouth. All of it together… almost… familiar? Well, he was her husband. But… something in the curve of his bottom lip, the shape of the brows… As if she’d seen those features in another face.

His eyes opened—deep green threaded with gold—a forest at sunrise, and sleepy like a morning fog, and so achingly familiar, she almost cried.

“What is it?” He jumped to his feet, startling Artemis to wing into the air as he inspected every inch of her flat. His hand wrapped like an iron band around her wrist, tugging her up, positioning her behind him, hiding her from an unseen threat.

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” She shook away his grip. “Your eyes… they reminded me of someone else with green eyes.”

His chest rose with an audible inhalation, and he scrubbed his hands down his face. “Do. Not. Scare me.”

“Noted.” She turned to open the door.

But before she could escape, he caught her. “Where are you going?”

“Out. I have much to do.” She’d been awake and dressed for an hour. “You may take the bed now, I suppose. Get some sleep.” She pushed away the pinch of guilt. It was, technically, the queen’s fault he had slept on the floor last night instead of his big, comfortable bed in Mayfair. But the queen had not been the one to insist on returning to Guin’s flat.

“Don’t need sleep. You’re not going anywhere. Not without me.”

“You are going to be noble about this, aren’t you? Remain by my side day in and day out, even if it means sleeping on the hard floor?”

He tilted his head side to side until his neck popped, then he grinned. “Yes. Let’s go.”

He pushed past her and into the hallway, stopping so suddenly, she slammed into his back. It was warm and… so very solid.

“What’s that?” He pointed at a small white square on the floor.

She pushed him backward and bent to inspect the letter. And it was a letter, her name written in dark purple ink across the front.

His hand appeared, reaching for the paper.

She slapped it away. “Do not touch it.”

He curled his fingers into his palm. “Why?”

She stripped her glove from her hand. Holding it doubled, she picked up the paper, returned to her flat, and dropped both paper and glove into the washbasin.

Braxton’s weight settled warm and steady behind her. “Explain.”

“Poison.” She picked a beam of warm sunlight shining through the window and aimed it into the basin, heated it until it sparked and the paper caught fire.

Braxton didn’t even flinch. He should have. She’d only ever used her ability to call heat and court light in front of Bran. As a male transcendent, Braxton should be outraged she could do what she’d just done with ease. She was not particularly talented or powerful in either skill, could only do the littlest things, but she wasn’t supposed to be able to do them at all. Fascinating.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Aren’t you appalled?”

“’Bout what?”

She turned her attention back to the washbasin, the letter was ash, and the glove not far behind. “Take your pick. Poison or… me. I can call heat. Use light.”

“So can the queen. So can that Grant woman. Chester, I mean. Apollo’s wife. That lady marquess, too.”

“Diana.”

“I assume if they can do it, other women can, too. I am, however, more than a little… irked regarding the poison.”

“And I’m more than a little irked about the glove. It’s my last pair.” She tore off the remaining one and tossed it in with its dying companion, watched it spark, flame, and die too. “Well, we should be off. We’ll return later, Arty!”

This time she made it out the door and down the hallway before he caught up, stepping in beside her like their strides had long been locked to the same rhythm.