Page 28 of The Duchess Curse

Wrong move. Bile rose in his throat.

“I’m going to be sick,” he managed to choke out.

“Don’t be sick on me.” That a man’s voice. Apollo Chester! And it seemed to come from somewhere below Bran.

And those hands were still on him like little butterflies, fluttering all over, never quite landing.

Opening his eyes was like peeling away a bloody bandage from a still-sticky wound, but he did it, and light seeped in. Small pinpricks. Candles. The general glow of a fire somewhere nearby. In the dim light, a face hovering above him, pale and pretty and worried.

Guin.

“What happened?” she asked. “Why is Apollo on the floor?”

“Lost consciousness for a brief second.” That Apollo again. Still from the general area of the floor.

“Lost consciousness!” That Sybil. “Why?”

“Showing the duke a trick.”

What a trick. Killing a man. Bringing him back from the dead. Bran remembered now and swallowed the contents of his stomach as he sat upright.

His clothes were the same as before—blue and fine and unbothered by a bit of mortality magic. He still wore the glamour. And he couldn’t try dissipating it with the women around.

“What happened?” Guin demanded again. Her hands had settled on his shoulders, and her eyes brimmed with fear.

For him?

“I’m well,” he said gruffly, though he wasn’t quite certain that was a fact. “Did you find your plants?”

“Yes, but, Braxton⁠—”

“We’ll be leaving now. My thanks, Chester.”

“Look here, duke”—Apollo pushed to his feet, his wife steadying him—“you should stay a moment, recover.”

“Nothing to recover from. Charge my account for the plants. I must get the duchess home.” The room spun, but Bran stood and led Guin out the office door. “Have them delivered to my Mayfair address.”

“Wait for a moment, Bra—” Chester ran a hand down his face. It trembled. Then he offered his wife a smile. “Take Lady G out into the shop, please? I need to speak with the duke.”

His wife’s narrowed eyes said she trusted him about as much as anyone else did, but she did as he asked, leaving Chester and Bran alone.

“Try to release the glamour,” Apollo whispered, leaning on the back of a chair, pale and almost breathless.

Bran tried, tugging at the glamour’s edges. “Nothing.” As solid as before.

“Damn. Well, there was no guarantee. You shouldn’t rush out. Not after that.”

“I’ll hail a hack.”

“Fine. But if you die⁠—”

“I already did.” Something clawed out of his throat that sounded ominously like a laugh. Or like an ominous laugh. “I might need to sleep. My gratitude for trying, Chester.”

“I think you should call me Apollo after that.”

“Apollo.” Bran slapped him on the back. “You know you’re glowing, right?”

Chester—Apollo—stretched out his arms. “Holy Hades, I guess I am. Wonder if that means…” He seemed transfixed by his hands, turning them over and over.