Page 86 of The Duchess Curse

“A simple day dress, I think,” Guin said. She went to the washbasin to freshen up. Her face, between her legs where she was tender and wet. She’d aroused herself by pleasing Bran. Perhaps she should have made him please her before leaving.

Across the room, the door to the bathing chamber was ajar, and across the bathing chamber, the door to Bran’s room was, too. She could see Bran striding around, his pace quick, his steps languid.

“Your Grace? Your Grace!”

“Oh! Yes, apologies, Susan. I was woolgathering. I’ve much to do today.”

Through two doorways, Bran stopped, studying his hands. No glamour.

“Bring a cloak,” she called out. When he looked up at her, she added, “Just in case.”

He nodded and swept out of her line of sight.

“No, not the silk,” Guin said, studying the options Susan laid out for her. “I need simple, forgettable. And a cloak too. Preferably brown.”

“Brown cloak won’t hide you,” Bran called out. “You’re impossible to hide.”

She stepped into a fresh chemise and corset, and Susan tightened it. “I hid well enough for six years.”

“Did you?” He leaned into the doorway, eyebrow raised.

Ah, yes, she hated him. It sent a thrill right through her. She tossed him a crude gesture, and he grinned and disappeared once more.

“You and his grace are friends now?” Susan asked.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Guin stepped into her gown and Susan fastened it. It was a dull yellow that would be easily hidden behind a dull cloak. “But we’ve come to an understanding.”

“Good. He deserves some happiness.”

“Why would you say that?” He was a duke. He had everything he could desire. Including a secret second life.

“We didn’t see him much before you returned. But whenever we did, he was… blank. The glamour hides most everything, but you learn to tell. A good servant knows. He was tired and empty.”

“Guin!” Bran called out from his bedchamber. “Are you ready?” He stood in the doorframe, his back to her, wearing all black as usual, brown cloak with multiple dusters thrown over one arm, his hair tamed backward and a little wet on the ends.

She knew it felt thick and silky. “I-I am.”

He shot her a curious look, and she turned away, flustered.

“Your hair, miss!” Susan lurched for the hairbrush.

“I’ll braid it.” Guin took her cloak and ran off, and when she stepped beside him, she took his arm.

“We have time for you to do something with your hair,” he said, twisting a lock of it around his gloveless fingers.

“I’ll manage it in the coach.”

“Where are we going?”

“The docks.”

A half hour later, they stepped into a warm winter sun. The air was thick with mud and salt and fish, and Guin blinked at the glare of the sun across the muddy Thames as her eyes accustomed themselves to the light. Beside her, Bran pulled up his hood.

“Your glamour appears dormant,” Guin said. A few golden sparks bobbed about him, but his sleeves were black, his hands big and calloused, the face peering at her from the hood craggy and beautiful. His thick, dark brows seemed lighter today, and there was no deep groove between them. His eyes beneath the hood were the dark green of shadows in the woods.

“Think I’ll keep the hood up. Not taking any chances the Duke of Braxton is seen walking about the docks.”

Guin set her steps toward a particular set of low and crowded buildings nearby. “Would you mind if the duke’s reputation was so sullied? He did, after all, marry Lady Guinevere.”