Page 33 of The Duchess Curse

MIRRORS IN THE DARK

Bran leaned against a pillar at the back of the conservatory and watched for glimpses of red-gold through the leaves. She was humming somewhere in there, a slow, mournful tune that knocked the breath out of him. The humming stopped, and she mumbled something that sounded like, “Earthworms? No, likely not,” before picking up the tune once more.

He’d been waiting years to kiss her again, and last night he’d gotten one sweet, short taste. Worth it. Worth the wait, worth her shock, worth her retreat. Wasn’t sure if it was worth never tasting her again. And if she had her way, likely, that would be the outcome.

She’d run from him last night like he’d run from her the night of the love potion. He’d known two things would have happened if she caught him, persuaded him, that other night long ago. First, he would have never stopped kissing her, and second, she’d have stopped it. Hard and fast with a punch to the face. Because she’d have recognized in tongue and teeth and lips the man she’d married.

At least now she couldn’t recognize Bran in her husband’s kiss. Thank Jupiter for small blessings.

A clatter beyond the leaves. Her curse clipped into silence, which meandered into thoughtless, off-key humming that charmed a smile from his reluctant lips.

Her husky, lovely voice followed him all the way to his study where he locked the door and stood before the mirror.

He flickered. Or more precisely, the glamour flickered, revealing one side of his face, his right hand, his left knee. He was a patchwork man, part silken noble, part scarred ruffian—the man he was supposed to be and the one he actually was.

Dying had worked. The glamour was dissolving. But only partially and slowly, and he possessed no damn control over it.

He’d startled his valet—a long-suffering man who didn’t get much use as he’d like for himself—when he’d been scraping a blade along his jaw. Chives had yelped and jumped back and left Bran with one hell of a cut.

He’d apologized profusely and gestured vaguely to Bran’s face. “The glamour’s fading. I’m actually quite pleased now I can see your face to do my work. It’s quite a chore working by feel only. And by the brief glimpse of your cheek I got, my work has been patchy indeed.”

Bran had run to the mirror and stared at his cheek—his cheek—for longer than he ever had in his life.

Until now.

He was coming back to himself. But not all at once, and this proved a difficulty. How in hell was he going to keep it from Guin?

A knock on the door behind him swung him around.

“What is it?” he called.

“A message from her grace.” Bentley the butler, his bald head polished to a high shine, his tall frame poised and perfect.

Bran unlocked and opened the door, and Bently blinked at him. His servants had seen the real him many times over the years. At the potion shop he was Bran. In society he was Braxton. At home he was whoever the hell he needed to be.

“What is the message?”

Bentley spoke haltingly, fixated on Bran’s features. “Her grace is not going out today.”

“Did she seem like she was lying?”

“And what does that seem like, Your Grace?”

“Stuttery. Won’t make eye contact. Shoulders hunched.” As if she were guarding her lie in the hollow of her body.

“No, Your Grace. She looked me right in the eye and spoke clearly.” He narrowed his eyes and leaned closer to Bran’s face.

“Do you have something to say, Bentley?”

The butler popped backward, brows shooting high. He cleared his throat as he smoothed his lapels. “It is only you are much more like your family than I used to think. Your resemblance to the glamour is negligible, at least I thought so, but…”

“Spit it out.” He didn’t resemble his family at all. Never had. In any way.

“It is only… seeing half your face glamoured and the other half naked, I see it now. The high cheekbones and strong jaw, the shape of the eyes, though they are different colors, is exactly the same.”

Bran turned back to the mirror. Were his eyes similar to the first duke’s? His features had always been rougher than his grandfather’s, his father’s, his cousin’s and brother’s. Even his brother, who had shared Bran’s dark coloring, had possessed finer features. The title, the glamour—had Bran ever seen it on him—would have fit him better.

It didn’t matter. “Thank you, Bentley, for delivering her grace’s message. Could you deliver one for me? To Philpot Lane, a plant shop there.” He went to his desk, scribbled out a few lines for Apollo, then folded the epistle and handed it to Bentley. “Have whatever footman you send wait for a reply.”