Page 72 of The Duchess Curse

“Are you insinuating I would steal your recipes?” Guin looked like she was one more insult away from tossing the table over. “I would never produce such a disreputable potion. Anything that even smells of opium, Miss Poppy, is in bad taste.”

Fucking Jupiter, this might turn into a fight.

Bran put his hand on Guin’s shoulder. “We’re not looking for recipes or anything of the sort, Miss Fairchild. We were attacked by men who’d taken the potion. And we were wondering if you keep records.”

Miss Fairchild pressed a hand to her breast and looked up at them through pale, fluttering lashes. “You want me to snitch on my clients?”

“Only the criminal ones,” Guin said.

“That would be against my ethics, Your Grace.” Miss Fairchild took a step backward and folded her hands primly in front of her.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bran said, holding Miss Fairchild’s gaze. “I killed the men, anyway.” He cracked his knuckles and stepped between Guin and the table, shielding her. “I think it’s time we returned you to the duke, Your Grace.”

Guin craned her neck to look around him, stealing a final glance at the other woman. “Of course.”

With surprisingly little effort, he was able to lead her back outside and onto their horses.

“What did you think?” he asked as they trotted into the traffic heading west.

“I think…” She stuck her hands into her pockets and pulled out a handful of scarlet bottles. “I hope duchesses are as immune to accusations of theft as you and the queen think they are to assassinations.”

Bran chuckled.

“It’s not theft. It’s… strategic research for the queen.”

“Yeah, it is.”

She laughed, too, and for a moment it felt fucking good. Like old times. And when he caught her looking at him, he thought she might be able to forgive him one day.

Then her expression shifted, a wall slamming down between them, and she faced forward, busying herself with negotiating traffic.

He caught sight of his sleeves—blue velvet and gold and damn. He was Braxton again. “Is the glamour all the way on?”

“Yes.”

She was more comfortable with Bran than the duke, but he couldn’t bloody well control the change. “If I could bottle shadows, maybe I could drink the potion and banish the glamour for good.”

“What did Apollo do to break it?”

Holding the reins with one hand he scratched the back of his neck with the other. “Erm… hekilledme.”

“He… Apologies. I didn’t hear that last bit.”

“He killed me.”

Only a momentary pause before she said, “A pity he beat me to it.”

“I was dead for just a moment. He had to turn off all the lights. Even the ones inside. I’m assuming that simply living is keeping the rogue glamour going.”

“Hmm. You want to dim all the lights, but I need to keep them burning. The queen does anyway. It occurs to me our problems are similar. Did you know, sometimes the best way to discover how to do something is to first discover how not to do it?”

“What are you saying?”

“That helping you find the answer to your rogue glamour might help me formulate a potion for the queen.”

“They’re opposite problems. Too much light. Not enough.”

“Precisely. ‘Roses are planted where thorns grow, / And on the barren heath / Sing the honey bees.’”