Page 79 of The Duchess Curse

Her father closed his eyes and said, “Some generations ago, one of the earls lost the family fortune. He had to marry for money. And Pottingers always do our duty. But then he fell in love with someone else, and his wife considered it a betrayal.”

Why hadn’t she been told this story before? She’d never asked. The past that had cursed her had seemed so far away, untouchable and unchangeable. “What happened then?” The words sounded like they’d come from someone else; she didn’t even feel them cross her lips.

Her father’s face twisted into a grimace. “It’s so long ago. No one really knows. But I was told his wife killed him. She dabbled in potions, and she fed him one. His glamour died out immediately, but he was still alive. It must have been like having an arm cut off. He… he killed himself soon after.”

Guin fell into the back of the sofa, and an arm was there to catch her, to pull her close against a warm, hard chest and there were lips, too, dropping a reassuring kiss to the top of her head. And a large palm, stroking up and down her arm.

Her father spoke in a measured, rhythmic cadence. “His son inherited his glamour as soon as his father exhaled his final breath, but it wasn’t right. My father told me when I was learning about the talent that I would one day inherit, that it could only be produced with rage or sadness. Joy makes it flicker out entirely, and I was to avoid anything producing joy, including love, or risk losing the talent, the title. My mother told me the curse impacted women of the family differently. Whatever transcendent light you’ve inherited from the Pottinger line has been tainted by that potion. You live if you deny joy. You die if you embrace it.”

Her father turned back to the window, leaving Guin in a thick buzzing silence. He’d just admitted women inherited transcendent talent. That’s why she’d been told never to speak of the curse. Because believing in it meant believing women inherited something they weren’t supposed to. Believing in it broke the law.

“Love is supposed to be the greatest joy,” her father said. “I wouldn’t know. You see, I’m alive, and I intend to stay that way. And if you, too, wish to live a long life, daughter, you’ll avoid it as well.”

“Fascinating,” Bran said slowly, thoughtfully. “A potion impacted a glamour, and you believe that the glamour, passed from father to son, has remained corrupted, compromised. And you believe its poisonous effects are triggered by positive emotion. Love.” He squeezed his arm around Guin’s shoulder. “Thoughts, Guin?”

Yes, but she couldn’t form them quite how she wanted to. The entire thing sounded… scientifically plausible, especially considering how Bran’s glamour reacted to conflagration of heat and potion in the potion shop fire. “It is only… the connection to an emotional trigger doesn’t make sense.” When it was a vague supernatural threat, it made more sense. But now… She shook her head. It throbbed.

“That’s right.” Bran squeezed her shoulders again. “And the problem of the potion impacting a glamour, you have decided, is fixable.”

Guin clutched at her husband’s words. They seemed to offer an anchor in a sea she’d always been drowning in. If the curse was a product of a potion… She knew better than most how those worked.

“Do you have any other reason for being here other than to upset my wife?” Bran asked, each word cool and clipped and decidedly dangerous.

Her mother dropped to her knees at Bran’s feet. “You have to keep her here. You cannot let her leave. It will kill her.”

“If there’s one thing I excel at, madam,” Bran said, “it’s keeping my wife alive.”

“Get off your knees, woman.” Guin’s father yanked her mother up by her arm as he passed toward the door. “Take our warning seriously, Braxton. Or you’ll find yourself dead before you sire an heir.” He glanced at Guin, his face softening with distant affection as he dragged her mother out the door.

“Fucking Jupiter,” Guin heard herself say.

“My thoughts exactly.” Bran glanced at her for a long, hard moment then pulled her to her feet. “Off to bed with you.”

“The curse is in my blood,” she said as he half carried her up the stairs.

“There is no curse. It is interesting about the glamour, though.” He dragged her through his bedchamber and into the bathing chamber and turned on the water. Holding tight to the pipe, his hand started to glow, heating the metal and the water that flowed through it.

“Exactly. It makes sense now, how it happens. It’s less of a curse and more of a corruption of the light and blood that connects one generation of Pottingers to another. No wonder they insisted I never speak of it. To do so would be to admit women carry talent, too. High treason in their day.”

Bran snorted. “A curse conveniently triggered by being happy. I don’t trust that.”

“Doesn’t sound trustworthy.”

“Glad you see that.”

She swayed on her feet, exhaustion and revelation making her a weather vane during a storm. Her brain was too muddled to unravel all the threads. Bran roamed around the bathing chamber, gathering what she needed—soap, a towel, bathing oils, and lotions.

No idea how he knew exactly what she needed, but he always did.

She turned, giving him her back. “Help me?”

He set about undressing her, strong fingers brushing against oddly chilled skin, making her shiver, making her quake deep inside. When she was down to her loosened corset, his hands disappeared, and she heard footsteps toward the door.

No risk.

“Don’t leave,” she said.

He stopped.