Page 64 of The Duchess Curse

She’d been hoping he’d understand her unsaid plea for solitude. He likely did and had determined to ignore it.

“Are you well?” he asked. “You look pale.”

“I am fine. It was hot in there.”

“Everyone’s whispering.”

“What is this production Morington is talking about? I have never desired to tread the boards.”

“Before dinner, he will gather everyone’s attention with a display of fireworks in the ballroom. Glamoured, of course. Then he’ll welcome us as his guests of honor. I talked him down from the six-foot-tall potion bottle illusions.”

“That’s a relief.” She still clutched her own potion bottle illusion to her chest, and she held it up to the dim outdoor light. It was a bottle again.

“What’s that?”

“A gift from Morington’s sister and brother-in-law. The toy maker on the other side of Finsbury Square.”

He took the bottle between finger and thumb, and it shifted shape. “Do you wish to wear it?”

She shook her head and slipped it into her pocket. “It doesn’t go with the diamonds. It reminded me of why I brewed the love potion to begin with.”

“Why’s that?”

“I wanted someone to find love in this world. Find it and keep it.” Because she couldn’t. “Let’s return. I feel like dancing.” Truly, she felt like melting away, like whirling off into nothing. Surely there was peace where existence stopped, a clean, black void where she could rest, feel nothing.

Bran led her to the dance floor for the first set, and it was fast and boisterous, and she let the glamoured candles floating above them intoxicate her, let the spinning of her feet melt her doubts, and let the man she could only feel and not see in all this light steady her.

Steady her.

Steady her.

The whispers increased as the second dance ended and Bran led her from the floor.

“Another set?” he asked.

“No. A refreshment.”

“I’ll be right back. Hesperus is just there.” He pointed toward the windows. “And Morington and Grant and Sir Nic⁠—”

“Yes, yes, I know. I have many wardens tonight. Go and find something to get me drunk.”

“Not a good⁠—”

“Idea. I’m aware. Still.”

He left, and she leaned against a column, closed her eyes.

“Excuse me.”

She opened her eyes and found a rather gray lady wearing a large bonnet and the largest gigot sleeves Guin had ever seen standing toe to toe with her.

“Are you actually Lady Guinevere?” the lady asked.

“I am.”

“The Duke of Braxton brought you?”

“He did.”