Page 40 of The Duchess Curse

The flash of lightning.

The scream of a terrified horse.

The thud of Tommy’s skull hitting the ground.

His eyes had already been blank by the time she’d gotten to him.

“Guin?” A voice like warm, rich chocolate on a cold morning and very much alive.

She shook off the nightmare. “Yes. I loved Edward and Tommy in different ways, and they both died.”

“There is no such thing as curses, and you know that.”

“I’ve lived otherwise. The Pottingers die when they fall in love. The ones they love die. And… I liked you too well to want you dead. I… I still do. That is why you must convince the queen to assign another Shadow to guard me. You are too at risk.”

“Is that a declaration, Guin? Do you love me?”

“Stop! I’ve known since I met you that I did not want you to die. I have worked hard to keep that from happening. Do not mock me!”

His gaze swung away from hers, and he grunted, hands deep in his pockets. “I do not believe in curses.”

“Alas, that will not keep you alive.” He would not take her seriously. No use continuing the conversation. She peered at the sky, still permeated by light, though the dark was encroaching, and when she knelt to test the grass between her thumb and forefinger, she felt a cloud move across the bright line of the horizon.

Or Braxton. Yes, him because she could feel his warmth, smell the leather and steel scent of him. Dukes should smell of expensive cologne, expensive brandy, or expensive cheroots. Simply expensive. But even in Mayfair his scent was less refined.

She wandered away from him, toward a line of trees bordering the park. The shadows there would be deeper, and since the fairy orbs had not yet flickered on, this liminal space between night and day, light and dark, might prove a productive sliver of time to pluck a few specimens.

She reached up to twist a leaf off a branch and didn’t see the man until he had a pistol aimed at her belly.

“Don’t scream,” he demanded.

“You should follow your own advice,” she whispered.

Braxton appeared like a wraith behind the man, his eyes glowing golden beneath the brim of his hat as he squeezed a point on the attacker’s neck.

He dropped to the ground, the gun thunking with his thick skull against a tree root.

Braxton stepped over him and wrapped a hand around Guin’s upper arm. “We’re leaving now.”

She no longer possessed the desire to fight him. His arm curling around her waist, she let him guide her out of the park and onto Upper Grosvenor Street.

Where three men were waiting for them in the gathering gloom, a different weapon in each hand, twisting their human forms demonic.

Guin rolled her shoulders back. “Oh good. I’d begun to get bored.” She pressed the button on the handle of her cane, releasing her sword as she reached into her pocket, slipping through the hole there to grasp the dagger holstered around her thigh.

Beside her, Braxton—hat still pulled down low, collar still popped high, the edges of his greatcoat flapping open in a light evening wind—already wielded two daggers. One glowed, slowly lengthening into a sword. His hand glowed, too.

She’d seen it before. So many times. A different man wielding the magic, though.

“Stay behind me,” he barked.

“Keep up with me,” she sang, stepping forward.

The men flew at them.

And Braxton strode forward to meet them. Metal clashed against metal, and Guin remained close to the duke, the way Bran had taught her to stay close to him during battle without getting in the way. If they were back-to-back no one could attack them from behind.

The men were foolish enough to do exactly what all men did. Even though they were after her, they attacked him.