Page 68 of The Duchess Curse

“Last night’s performance isn’t over yet.”

Her eyes slanted open just enough for him to see her ire. “Too early.”

“You stay up late almost every night, your head in some recipe, then wake up early the next day. You’re used to it.”

She rolled onto her belly, stretched her legs out, then stuffed her head under her pillow. He barely heard her mumble, “There is no champagne involved with that. Or dancing. Leave me alone.”

“The queen’s plan seemed to be successful last night, but I’m not taking chances. Get up or I’ll help.”

She went entirely still. “You wouldn’t.”

He grabbed her ankle and pulled her toward him.

She groped for the pillow with a yelp, and when he got her legs over the side of the bed, he grasped her hips and flipped her, slammed his palms on the mattress on either side of her body so they were nose to nose.

Sleepy eyes grew sharp, and dream-plump lips slightly parted.

He could kiss her. Before she fully woke. Before she strangled him or punched him or twisted his testicles right off his body.

He needed to kiss her.

Instead, he said, “Good morning.” Then he slapped her luscious thigh and made for the bathing chamber. “Get dressed.”

An hour later, they were riding through Hyde Park side by side.

“Are you ready to talk?” he asked.

“I suppose. The morning air has diluted my urge to kill you. Go ahead.”

He pointed toward Rotten Row. “There’s one of the men from last night. The one who admitted to hiring mercenaries to go after you.”

“And we are going after him, I assume? Bran, couldn’t you have done this on your own with Hesperus? Sneak into their houses and terrify them.”

“That won’t work. They need to know you’re not just a friend of the queen. They need to know Braxton will carve their hearts out with his signet ring if any of them touches a single hair on your head.”

“Signet ring? That would take ages.”

“I’m a patient man. Oh, and Guin, gird yourself. We’re coming back this afternoon.”

“I’m the one who is supposed to be torturing you. You’ve got this all turned wrong.”

“Different audience at noon. Think of this as a matinee. The main show is later.”

“And just what is the play, Your Grace?” She lifted her nose, and her dusky pink riding habit rippled behind her with each of her mare’s movements. She wore a jaunty little top hat with something flimsy and pink waving in the wind behind her, and a snowy white cravat peeked out at her throat.

It wasn’t hard to say with utter conviction, “The one where I’m in love with you.”

She laughed long and low, throwing her head back, that pink gauzy stuff attached to her hat fluttering behind her. The angle of her neck gave him a good view of the little silver potion pendant he’d commissioned the toy maker to craft for him from her wedding ring. He’d have to thank Sir Nicholas not only for his craftmanship but for getting the gift to Guin without giving away the actual giver. This way she could have something from him that was not a chain, but a symbol of her independence.

“My,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye, “that is theater.”

No good way to respond to that. Besides, they were too close to the others for conversation. And those others had caught sight of Guin. Every horse restless as every gaze hit Guin hard, remained riveted as she and Bran approached.

“Should I try to appear besotted?” she whispered.

“That’s my task.” An easy one, at that. “You just do your best to act superior. Yes, just like that. You’re a natural.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, and he brought his horse right up beside her. Her legs were draped across the other side, and he caught her chin, stroked his thumb down her jaw, and kissed her. She startled, stiffened, and Jupiter, he wished she’d melt into him instead.