Page 52 of The Duchess Curse

And she’d never let him.

That her torture. A cunning retribution indeed.

Artemis found him first and sailed through palms to perch on his shoulder and bring him something shiny. “Bran,” she squawked, dropping the shiny thing in his palm.

It was a ring, the very one he’d given Guin six years ago that she’d worn on a chain around her neck since leaving him.

She didn’t wear it anymore.

“Right.” He pocketed the ring and strode through the potted plants. He expected a clear and forceful go away, but it never came, and he was able to saunter right up to the work table and lean a hip against its edge beside his wife.

She didn’t look at him. “I assume there’s a reason you’re here.”

“Several.”

“Do get on with it.”

“Have you made any progress with the potion?”

“Not particularly. I had been experimenting with my faux glamour potion. It creates the appearance of a glamour using the body’s natural heat to throw off light. But it’s always weak, and I never could brew it so that the user could manipulate what glamour they wore.” She was talking to herself more than him, grinding leaves together in a small stone bowl with a pestle. “People bought them according to illusion—a gown, a hair color, a smile. But the queen needs something that increases her ability to hold a glamour, not a prepackaged illusion.” She dropped the pestle and brushed a curl off her forehead with the back of her hand.

It bounced right back over her eye.

Risking the slice of her nails on his eyeballs, Bran wrapped the tendril around one finger, hooked it behind her ear.

She froze. Then she swatted his hand away. “What do you want?”

He straightened the cuffs of his sleeves, pleased to see the glamour at least wasn’t covering his body. It had dissipated so much, released him so often, he needed to wear proper clothing now, so he was wrapped up in shirt, silk waistcoat, and cravat—all black, as he preferred. The duke ensemble didn’t allow for as much movement as he liked. Bran’s old clothes were more practical for guarding Guin, but he had a dual role to play these days. With the queen’s new instructions, being a duke had become an integral part of keeping Guin safe. And that meant looking like one.

“A poisoned letter arrived this morning,” he said. “Grant burned it.”

She scowled. “I wish he’d shown me first. Did he even read it?”

Damn.

“You didn’t command him to read the letters, did you? You just demanded he burn them.” He crossed his arms over his chest as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Why are men such… such lummoxes? You would think an elite collection of assassins would possess more than two brain cells to rub together, but apparently there’s only one, and you all share it.”

“I’ll modify my command. Do you have a potion that nullifies the poison?”

“I can try to develop one. If I have the poison.”

“Ah. So bring the letter to you next time.”

“If it is not too much trouble, Braxton.” Said in her sweetest tones, and damn he hated it when she called him that.

“Bran.”

“Pardon?” She was sailing to the other end of the table, looking for something, snapping up a knife, then returning to her original spot and slicing open the stem of a rose.

“Call me Bran.”

“I’ll call you whatever I please.”

He ruffled his hands through his hair. “Grant also brought interesting information about our attackers.” He told her about the new potion, the new shop.

She remained entirely still until he’d finished talking, then her face scrunched up. “As soon as I close up shop, someone swoops in to replace me.” She sniffed. “They won’t last long once I reopen. And using opium as a base. Entirely unethical.”

He suppressed a grin. “So you will reopen?”