Page 48 of The Duchess Curse

“You know nothing.”

They reached the mews behind the Grosvenor Square house, and he dismounted, holding up his arms to help her down. She jumped to the ground on her own and swept toward the house without waiting for him.

His bootsteps were heavy and quick behind her.

“Leave me alone, Bran—” She covered her face with both palms. “Brandon Lennox. I’m such a fool.” And she hated him for making a fool of her as much as for everything else. She ran for the back stairs.

He followed.

She meant to lock herself away in her room, but he remained close on her heels, storming into her chamber almost at her side.

She pushed him back toward the door. “What would you have done then, you great lumbering nodcock?”

He rocked on his heels but steadied himself. “Guarded you.”

“Guarded me, a newly widowed shopkeep. Knowing I wasn’t widowed at all!” Knowing she wouldn’t have been able to mourn her husband openly. She hit his shoulder, and an animal sound escaped her throat as she paced away from him. Behind her, she heard the click of the lock in the door, then she felt him behind her, his presence a solid heat. Too much.

She fled to the window and threw it open, taking great gulps of air.

“You’re not a fool,” he said quietly. “You could not have known. I just wanted to keep you safe. And to live as you did. Free.” He was right behind her, incredibly still and radiating heat.

She spun with fists made to shatter even the strongest man and hit his chest again and again and again, calling him names, cursing him for lying, for dying, for not dying, for kissing her and not kissing her and⁠—

She screamed, pushing him backward with all her might.

He stumbled backward only a step. He didn’t fight back. But he didn’t hang his head. His body was partly in the sunlight streaming through the window and partly in shadow. Where the sun hit him, Braxton glittered, and in shadow, Bran glowered.

They had the same lips—firm and shapely and completely incapable of telling the truth.

“You said the other night you knew Bran had wanted to kiss me.”

His jaw twitched.

“You knew because you are him. Tell me…” She pressed her body against his, making sure the generous mounds of her breasts were firm against the hard plane of his chest. “Was that a lie, too? Were you laughing when I chased you round the shop like a green girl mad with love?”

“No.”

“Or did you regularly fantasize about bending your wife over her desk and⁠—”

“Guin, stop.”

“Fucking me.” She lifted her lips to him, and though his jaw twitched, he made no move to kiss her.

And she hated him, more than she could think. Perhaps that’s why she did it. Or perhaps she did it to make a fool of him.

The reason didn’t really matter.

And the kiss wouldn’t either.

It was born of rage and fueled by revenge. It made no sense, yet it felt like redemption when she pressed her mouth against his and he gave in. Oh yes, he gave in as soon as they touched, his arms banding around her, pulling her up as he dipped down to dedicate himself fully to the folly Guin had started.

She opened her mouth and his tongue met hers. She was wild with rage and grief and something else. No room for thought. No words would make any of this right. So she kissed him to teach him, to punish him. And he took punishment as if he craved it.

When she jumped, he caught her. When she wrapped her legs around his hips, he carried her. When he sat on the edge of her bed, she continued kissing him, biting his bottom lip until he hissed. A teeth-clashing kiss with needy hands as her skirts pooled around their bodies.

He ripped away from her. “Wait.” The word came out as a breath, raw and hopeless.

Good.