Page 55 of The Duchess Curse

No because she wanted exactly what he was offering. It seemed a basic need like air or water, but unlike those, she couldn’t trust it to actually sustain her. He could disappear, become someone else, die.

“I’m dying, Guin.”

She threw her head back and laughed, loud and long and without an ounce of mirth, and when she opened her eyes, she found him leaning back against the squabs again, legs spread wide as he squeezed what she assumed was his engorged member beneath the glamour.

She wanted to see. Damn her curiosity, but she needed to see. She pulled the shade over one window then the other, casting them in semidarkness, and his glamour began to flicker. The face dissolved first. Those glamours with the most detail were airy, thin, and fragile, and always dissipated with little encouragement. The intricate snowy-white cravat went next, revealing a simpler knot of black-stained linen. Then the blue waistcoat dissolved to black, leaving the simple elegance of the duke’s arms and legs. Then those went, too, and she could see the whole of Bran—a muscled brute dressed in black. A beautiful, deadly, liar.

Eyes closed and lashes fanned dark across high cheekbones. The scar down one cheek, through one brow. The black hair, thick and disheveled. His large hand, an instrument of violence, clutched around his cock, the head of which rose, just barely, above the waist of his trousers.

When his eyes fluttered open, he caught her watching, cursed and sat upright with a groan.

“Oh the things a man can do behind a glamour,” she said, sounding breathless.

“Oh the things a man can do if only you’ll let him.”

There was something wrong with her. There must be. Because despite everything, she found that invitation terribly tempting.

Thank Gaia the carriage stopped and a footman opened the door.

She stood and paused, holding Bran’s gaze before stepping outside. “You do not touch yourself unless I say so.”

His eyes gleamed in the shadows. “Will you say so?”

“We’ll see.”

The modiste, Mrs. Bennington, was Guin’s usual, and was glad to see her returned. “Lady Guinevere! I had begun to worry!” she called out almost as soon as they entered. She approached with a wide grin, pushing through a disinterested crowd of shoppers. “What can I do for you today, Lady Guinevere and…?” Her smile fell as she looked at Bran, whose glamour was now fully in place.

“I need a ball gown.” Guin gestured to Bran. “My husband, the Duke of Braxton, and I are to attend the Morington affair at the queen’s behest.”

“Husband!” Mrs. Bennington’s mouth dropped open. “B-b-but… Him? You’re a duchess?”

“I’m afraid I am, and I have been for some time.”

“I knew it! All the girls here know I knew it.” She yelled out across the shop, “A duchess, Miriam, didn’t I tell you she was titled! That lady isn’t just pretending! Never was! My, my, my.” She turned back to Guin and hopped to her feet. “A ball gown you say?”

“Yes. And perhaps one or two more gowns for daytime calling hours.”

“Of course!” Mrs. Bennington bustled across the shop, gathering materials as she went. “Oh, Lady Guinevere, I was so despondent to hear about your shop, then you disappeared! And we were all right sad to hear about Mr. Bran. It was quite a loss, and you have my deepest condolences.”

“Yes, well,” Guin mumbled. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Bennington led them into a private back room, unloading her arms onto the table there, then she clapped. “I always knew you were a high one, Lady G—oh, apologies, Your Grace. I suppose I should call you Lady Braxton now.”

“Lady G is fine. I prefer it.”

Mrs. Bennington smoothed her skirts. “Yes, well, Miriam thought there was a spark of some sort between you and”—she hid her mouth behind her hand and whispered—“Bran, but I always maintained you were destined for more than a brute of a guard.” She stuck her head out the door and yelled, “Didn’t I say that, Miriam? That Mr. Bran wasn’t good enough for our Lady G?”

“Yes, Mrs. Bennington.”

“See, it’s just so. Now, hop onto the box and let me measure you.”

Guin did as she was bade, and Bran seemed to be folding in on himself, not that Guin cared for his discomfort. He leaned against the back wall, across from the door, the only other entrance to the room, a window high above his head. He’d picked the darkest part of the room where little light spread across the walls and floor, and he seemed to make it darker, gathering the shadows so that all the light focused in the center where Guin and Mrs. Bennington stood before a mirror, and all the darkness draped over him like a heavy cloak. In the shadows, his glamour melted away once more. The longing scored into every line of his face as he watched almost stopped her heart, made her hot and achy between her legs.

Perhaps the love potion had been a terrible idea, as much a torment for her as for him.

Yet, every now and then, he shifted from one foot to the other as if uncomfortable, and when he did, his lips twitched with irritation, a little pain. He was still hard and suffering. For her.

Good.