Page 58 of The Duchess Curse

And she could bring him to his knees.

13

NO PENANCE WITHOUT CONFESSIONS

Bran had been climaxing at least five times a day since he’d begun to take the love potion. Every time he pissed it out, she had another bottle waiting for him. He found little amber bottles balanced on the lip of the bathtub, on the table beside his bed, on the corner of his desk. There was even one in his greatcoat pocket one day. She wanted him wild, on the edge of shattering with need.

For her.

And he was willing to drive himself mad if it might buy a little forgiveness. He could spit the stuff out, refuse to take it. He was her husband, and he didn’t have to torture himself like this. He could say no.

But he knew what he deserved—whatever torment she wanted to gift him.

Every time he walked into a room where she was, she had a bottle ready, and he held her gaze as he guzzled the potion down and slipped the empty vial in her pocket. A little gesture to let her know he was in on this game, a consenting if not exactly eager participant.

Some men wore hair shirts.

Bran guzzled love potion.

Some days he wondered if the potion was effective at all. It changed nothing—no racing heart, no uncontrollable thoughts. He was never acting against his will. The potion gave him permission to act out the truth, to behave like an obsessed man, to give into every urge connected to her name. No more hiding how he felt. He drank the potion and he hit his knees and he begged her for forgiveness.

Forgiveness that would never come.

The looking glass in his bedchamber showed a man in control. He wore a formal evening suit, and his valet had tamed his hair into something acceptable for when the glamour eventually slipped. As it would. Tenacious demon that it was, he still could not control it. And he’d soon be waltzing into the ballroom across the square with every eye on him.

He martialed his focus and reached for the light to draw the too-familiar glamour across his face. But shadows extended liquid arms toward him, and he could not beat them back. Did not want to. Shadows were comfort. Light was… awkward and ill fitting.

But there were no shadows without light. Every Second Shadow was helpless in complete darkness.

He wouldn’t worry. Once he stood beneath the glittering chandeliers, the glamour would snap into place. That its only dependable rhythm—it rushed up to greet him in heavy light and drained away in the darkness.

He strode toward the bathing chamber that stood like a wall between his room and the duchess’s and paused on the tiled floor. She’d been in that tub an hour ago. He’d sat on the bed and listened to the little sounds she made. Whatever potion had been in him hours ago had been well diluted, almost run through. But he still felt like a man obsessed, gathering up every sound and pocketing it in every corner of his mind. He took a deep breath. Mint and warm water and Guin.

Then he strode into her bedchamber without knocking. A man brought so low as he’d been brought took power where he could get it.

But he almost toppled to the floor when he saw his wife. She stood before her looking glass, as he had earlier, biting her bottom lip, turning this way and that to view her body from every angle. The amber gown was a dreamy delight that nipped in her waist and lifted her breasts. The dress possessed no shoulders and hers rose rounded and creamy from the puffy little amber sleeves high on her arms. It appeared to be made of satin with a gauzy stream of fabric laid over it. If they’d alarmed Mrs. Bennington in her shop a week ago, she’d not let it impact her work.

He propped a shoulder against the doorframe to keep himself upright and crossed one ankle over the other. “If things were different, I’d call myself a lucky man.”

She wasn’t even startled. She met his gaze in the looking glass. “You are unhappy.” Artemis ruffled her feathers from her perch atop the mirror, and Guin reached up to soothe her with a long stroke of lovely fingers down one blue-black wing.

Bran popped off the frame and ambled toward Guin. “Not at all.”

Guin’s brows drew together, confusion knit with fear. She shook it away, her expression lightening. “If I were a normal wife, I would confess myself lucky, too.”

When he reached her, close enough to touch but not daring to, he said, “But none of this is normal.” Curses and assassins and potions. “I never thought Lady Guinevere wanted normal.”

“Gabriella once did.” There was something of a… falter in her voice. “Lady Guinevere is merely no longer innocent enough to think it possible.”

Didn’t think he could truthfully offer an objection to that. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“No, you’re not. Not quite.”

She tilted her head. Always did love a good mystery.

He couldn’t help but grin as he slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out a box.