Page 62 of The Duchess Curse

Bran caught her arm and pulled her close against his body. “Don’t run off. I need you within arm’s reach at all times.”

“No one knows who I am yet.”

“Any of these women could recognize you from the shop, and they don’t know you’re a duchess yet. You’ll be safer once they do. I have to find Morington. Don’t”—his lips brushed her ear—“run off.”

She yanked her arm out of his grip. She should have given him the love potion. Her mercy had been as much for herself as for him. When he was clearly and painfully aroused for her… she could not escape a similar painful arousal for him.

“Morington’s over there.” Bran pointed to the top of a staircase where a man with tousled golden hair lounged against the balustrade, a glass of champagne in one hand, his other arm draped intimately around a petite woman with curly hair the shade of Artemis’s feathers—a sleek blue black. “Come on.”

Bran cut through the crowd like a fish through water, his big hand tight around hers. The crowd in the entry hall was lining up to greet the duke and his duchess, slowly filing up the staircase, and they joined the queue. He positioned Guin in front of him, his arm behind her, braced on the banister, a group of people in front of her.

“I feel caged,” she hissed.

“That’s the point. Don’t worry. Once your identity is revealed, I’ll open the door.”

“And I’ll run all the way back to my old flat.”

They moved up a few steps, then he said, “You’d leave your conservatory?”

“Your conservatory.”

“I don’t use it. I made it for you.”

“I didn’t ask for it.” She’d not even lived there when he’d had it designed and built. But if she were tasked with designing her perfect, private workroom, it would look exactly like the one he’d built her. “Perhaps I’ll remain in Mayfair until I’ve brewed the queen’s potion. Or until I have a new shop.”

They moved up a few more steps. She shifted from foot to foot and back again.

“Stop fidgeting,” he said.

“This is so tedious. I’d rather be fighting off an attack in a back alley that smells like piss.”

The woman in front of her turned around just to glare.

Guin glared back. “I was not talking to you.”

The woman opened her mouth to berate her no doubt, but then her eyes narrowed before shooting back open wider than before. She whipped back around, and the line moved forward.

Bran’s hand tightened on Guin’s waist. “She may have recognized you. Do you know her?”

“I remember very few of my customers.”

“Rumors will begin circulating soon. I’m sure more will recognize you.” They finally reached the top of the staircase, and Bran nodded at the waiting duke. “Morington.”

“Braxton.” The duke was handsome in a sharp sort of way and did not appear to be wearing a glamour. “Have you met my wife? Duchess of Morington.”

Bran bowed to the other woman then slightly nudge Guin forward. “And this is my wife, Duchess of Braxton.”

Lady Morington wore a friendlier expression than her husband. “It is a delight to finally meet the mysterious duchess across the street. Please call me Persephone. I’m more at home with informality and graveyards than I am with precedence and ballrooms. I worked for you briefly, Lady Guinevere. I was a horrible potion mistress, though. Didn’t last long.”

Morington looked to Bran. “I’ve an entire production planned. Potion bottles as tall as you, amber of course.” He winked at Guin. “Excellent choice of gown this evening. It will match perfectly.”

Guin shook her head. “I do not wish for a production.”

“Too bad. A production is why I’ve been put in charge of this evening,” Morington said. “I know the necessity of drama.”

“He really is good at making a scene.” Lady Morington hooked her arm though Guin’s. “I’m going to steal her.”

“Perhaps later,” Bran said. “She must stay by me until⁠—”