Page 57 of The Duchess Curse

He sagged against the wall. “Not yet.”

She shrugged one shoulder, and the flimsy muslin shift slipped down her arm.

His jaw ticked. His hand on his thigh squeezed.

And she stepped off the box, lifting the hem of her shift.

He watched her every move as if she were a danger he needed to track to save himself.

There would be no saving himself. She wouldn’t allow it.

As she picked careful steps across the room, she let the shoulder of her shift slip lower, revealing a side of one breast. It caught on her nipple, keeping her from total scandal.

Bran seemed to have stopped breathing by the time she stood right in front of him.

“Make it darker,” she said, lifting her lips to his.

He tried to kiss her.

“No.”

“Damn it, Guin.”

“Darker, Bran.”

The shadows gathered around them, so dark, she couldn’t see the doorway anymore. An illusion of utter privacy. So much about this man was an illusion.

She let the other shoulder of her shift slip, and the whole thing fell, a puddle at her feet. “Can you see in the dark?”

“Yes.” That one word guttural. “Please, Guin, let me touch you.”

“I think…” She spoke with her lips brushing against his. “No. But I…” She found the lapels of his waistcoat in the darkness, and she followed the line of buttons down his taut torso until she came to the waistband of his trousers. “I think I can.” And then she did, cupping the long hard length of him beneath the linen of his pants.

His hips jerked as she squeezed. He cursed as his body rippled and his hips bucked. He cursed through his climax as it ripped through him so quickly, as if he’d been holding himself for hours. As if just watching her was all the arousal he needed. One touch from her unmanned him completely.

She pulled her shift back up, set it primly about her shoulders, and left the corner. Her gown was slung neatly over a chair, and she rifled through its pockets, found the bottle. Returning to the shadowed corner where Bran still slumped almost lifeless against the wall, she pressed the amber bottle into his hand.

“Take it,” she whispered next to his ear.

With heavy movements he did. She felt him uncork it, felt him drink it then press the empty bottle into her palm. Felt, too, how he nuzzled her temple with his lips, not kissing her but wanting to.

And she wanted it too.

So she hardened herself and gave her next, low command. “Now go outside, tell Ned to stand guard, take yourself in the alley, and take yourself in hand.” She found his growing, hardening shaft and squeezed. “See, you’re already in need of relief. Again.”

She stepped back into the light and, trailing a cloud of shadows, Bran stormed from the room, nearly toppling Mrs. Bennington over.

“Is something amiss with his grace?” Mrs. Bennington asked.

“Not at all.” Guin stepped back up onto the box and let the modiste drape her in silks and satins and velvets, in gauzy, dreamy stuff and spangles.

“His glamour’s… unusual. Never seen the like. Looks like shadows.”

“I suppose it does.”

Guin smiled as she considered the fabrics. “The amber. But also… I think… perhaps the red.”

Because here was a man who could command shadows, who could wield blades like they were extensions of his own flesh, a man who had killed.