Page 56 of The Duchess Curse

With Mrs. Bennington’s help, Guin began to undress, swiftly, practical as always under such circumstances. But this time her skin tingled. She had an audience. Before, he’d always remained on the other side of the door. Mrs. Bennington threw Bran a glance, clearly curious about why he’d followed Guin into so intimate a setting. Her curiosity wasn’t deep enough to actually question the duke’s presence, though. She would feel what everyone seemed to instinctually feel about Bran… Braxton… No matter which guise he wore, you were not to question him Ever.

Guin wasn’t scared of him. If she’d tried to keep him out, he would have glared at her and insisted on keeping watch, at least, over the door. But she wanted him here.

For vengeance.

Once she was down to her shift and stockings, Mrs. Bennington took her measurements. She was a bit smaller everywhere after eight months of grief and a fortnight of obsessive experimentation.

“Are you eating?” Bran asked from his dark corner.

“When I think of it.”

“Use her old measurements.” Bran’s command was quiet, steely. “She’ll be back up to them soon.”

“Do not do anything he says,” Guin said, pinning him with a look through the mirror. “Do what you think best. The ball is only a week away, and I do not think my focus likely to shift from my current preoccupations to eating in that time.”

“They had bloody well better shift,” Bran barked.

Mrs. Bennington backed away from Guin, tape measurer clutched to her chest. “Perhaps I’ll let you two talk it over. I’ll be out in the shop looking for the right material. Do you have anything in mind, Your Grace?”

Your Grace. That wasn’t her. She pulled the bottle of love elixir from her pocket and held it up to the light. “Perhaps amber.” To remind everyone exactly who she was.

“I like her in red,” Bran rumbled.

“What you like hardly matters.”

Mrs. Bennington ran, the door slamming behind her.

“We shouldn’t make our marital struggles so public,” he said from the shadows.

“Yes, well you shouldn’t have done… well, everything you did.”

The shadows around him dissipated somewhat, and she could see more detail than before. His pained face, his fingers digging into his thighs, the bones shining through the skin, white and sharp.

“Do not let that hand move another inch closer to center.”

“And what if I do?” His hand crept another inch closer to center.

“Are you really so cocky right now?”

“That’s one word for it. I feel as if the whole of my existence has come down to that appendage, and it is focused entirely on you. Fucking Jupiter, Guin, I’ve never felt a need like this before.”

“Now you know how I felt. Now you cannot laugh.”

“I was not laughing.” His voice was quiet, but still it seemed to echo about the room. “Never,” he hissed, “was I laughing. When the love potion was riding you, I almost gave in. I was in hell. I wanted to give you everything you asked for. I couldn’t. It nearly ripped my soul in two.”

“What a heart-wrenching tale. I do so enjoy hearing of your tribulations.” She turned back to the mirror, adjusting the line of her shift at her shoulders.

“Only fear of being found out kept me from kissing you, doing more. I gave over the guard to Ned that night and walked all the way to Mayfair to keep away.”

“All for yourself. To protect your ruse.” She lifted her shift and bent a little to tighten the ribbon keeping her stocking high, and she saw him watching in the mirror, his gaze fixed on her backside, jumping to her leg, to where her cleavage spilled behind the hanging neckline of her shift. His lips were slightly parted, and they leaked a moan. His fingers were once more claws on his thigh, and his shaft strained against his fall.

“Please let me touch, Guin.”

“Touch me? Or touch… yourself?”

“Myself. You won’t allow the other. I know that. At least let me⁠—”

“Not yet.”