Page 92 of The Duchess Curse

“One of the ones I stole was an inebriation potion—immediate drunkenness, no unwelcome consequences the next day.”

“I know what an inebriation potion is, Guin.”

“Of course.” An awkward laugh. “The one I almost cracked tonight might be a sleeping draught of some sort. I’m not entirely sure.”

“No pain reducer?”

“There’s still three more bottles to investigate.”

“Are you done talking of potions?”

“Oh, I don’t kno—ack!” She clung to his shoulder as he lifted her off the bed then swooped her down to the mattress, resting his big body over hers. His shaft pressed against her hip, hard and throbbing.

“Now are you done?” he growled.

“Yes.”

And when he sank into her who knew how many minutes and climaxes later, she wasn’t even sure she remembered what potion meant.

21

A GIFT, A KISS, BETRAYAL

Bran studied the meticulously drawn family tree rolled out on top of the broad, uncluttered desk in the Marchioness of Fordham’s library. There were few branches, but all of them had produced tremendously ripe fruit, an abundance of it.

“I knew,” he said, “that the Pottingers married well, but I had never understood how well until now.”

Beside him, Diana traced the first Earl of Cairnsbury’s line all the way down to Guin. “Every marriage arranged, a business matter. When love is not part of the marriage equation, riches can be guaranteed.”

“Yes.”

From behind him, Diana’s husband asked, “Why are you doing this, Bran?”

Because Guin moved closer and closer to a potion for the queen every day, and Bran needed to find a way to undermine the curse before she did so. Because she’d leave, and she wasn’t about to let him go with her. Hell, the only reason she shared his bed each night was because she thought herself safe from loving him, which was… not ideal. She wouldn’t even meet him mouth to mouth. Kisses had to be scattered across necks and chests and bellies, the insides of thighs and the curves of hips. God, how he missed her mouth.

Bran turned to face the Royal Alchemist and leaned a hip on the table. “That’s not my story to tell.”

Temple lounged across a sofa, head and feet propped on arms that looked too delicate to support his weight. “It’s to do with Lady Guinevere.” The alchemist still used Guin’s pseudonym, but he said that self-made title with as much respect as he would have a duchess’s. “Everything you do is about her.”

Bran shrugged. “She’s my wife. Thank you, Lady Fordham.”

“If you need anything else, I’m happy to help.” She wandered over to the sofa and stood by her husband.

That man clasped her hand in his. “The babe is due to arrive soon, though, so there are limits to her kindness.”

“There are not.”

“Well, there are to mine.”

Bran understood Temple perfectly, so he smiled and thanked them, promised he would never burden a new mother, and walked into the early evening, making for Grosvenor Square.

When he reached the house, he sent Bentley to order a coach and gather Guin’s coat and bonnet. A muff and scarf too because the night was cold, the sky low, and snow was a thick scent in the air. He headed to Guin, pushing through the thick branches of the conservatory, lit by floating fairy orbs. She was bent over the worktable, as usual, her hands hovering over a golden bowl. She must have heard him approach because she looked over her shoulder. Her eyes were tired. He wanted nothing more than to take her up to bed.

Not yet.

“I want you to come with me,” he said, reaching her side.

She rubbed her eyes. “Where?”