13. No Penance Without Confessions
NO PENANCE WITHOUT CONFESSIONS
Bran had been climaxing at least five times a day since he’d begun to take the love potion.
Every time he pissed it out, she had another bottle waiting for him.
He found little amber bottles balanced on the lip of the bathtub, on the table beside his bed, on the corner of his desk.
There was even one in his greatcoat pocket one day.
She wanted him wild, on the edge of shattering with need.
For her.
And he was willing to drive himself mad if it might buy a little forgiveness. He could spit the stuff out, refuse to take it. He was her husband, and he didn’t have to torture himself like this. He could say no.
But he knew what he deserved—whatever torment she wanted to gift him.
Every time he walked into a room where she was, she had a bottle ready, and he held her gaze as he guzzled the potion down and slipped the empty vial in her pocket. A little gesture to let her know he was in on this game, a consenting if not exactly eager participant.
Some men wore hair shirts.
Bran guzzled love potion.
Some days he wondered if the potion was effective at all.
It changed nothing—no racing heart, no uncontrollable thoughts.
He was never acting against his will. The potion gave him permission to act out the truth, to behave like an obsessed man, to give into every urge connected to her name.
No more hiding how he felt. He drank the potion and he hit his knees and he begged her for forgiveness.
Forgiveness that would never come.
The looking glass in his bedchamber showed a man in control.
He wore a formal evening suit, and his valet had tamed his hair into something acceptable for when the glamour eventually slipped.
As it would. Tenacious demon that it was, he still could not control it.
And he’d soon be waltzing into the ballroom across the square with every eye on him.
He martialed his focus and reached for the light to draw the too-familiar glamour across his face. But shadows extended liquid arms toward him, and he could not beat them back. Did not want to. Shadows were comfort. Light was… awkward and ill fitting.
But there were no shadows without light. Every Second Shadow was helpless in complete darkness.
He wouldn’t worry. Once he stood beneath the glittering chandeliers, the glamour would snap into place. That its only dependable rhythm—it rushed up to greet him in heavy light and drained away in the darkness.
He strode toward the bathing chamber that stood like a wall between his room and the duchess’s and paused on the tiled floor.
She’d been in that tub an hour ago. He’d sat on the bed and listened to the little sounds she made.
Whatever potion had been in him hours ago had been well diluted, almost run through.
But he still felt like a man obsessed, gathering up every sound and pocketing it in every corner of his mind.
He took a deep breath. Mint and warm water and Guin.
Then he strode into her bedchamber without knocking. A man brought so low as he’d been brought took power where he could get it.
But he almost toppled to the floor when he saw his wife.
She stood before her looking glass, as he had earlier, biting her bottom lip, turning this way and that to view her body from every angle.
The amber gown was a dreamy delight that nipped in her waist and lifted her breasts.
The dress possessed no shoulders and hers rose rounded and creamy from the puffy little amber sleeves high on her arms. It appeared to be made of satin with a gauzy stream of fabric laid over it.
If they’d alarmed Mrs. Bennington in her shop a week ago, she’d not let it impact her work.
He propped a shoulder against the doorframe to keep himself upright and crossed one ankle over the other. “If things were different, I’d call myself a lucky man.”
She wasn’t even startled. She met his gaze in the looking glass. “You are unhappy.” Artemis ruffled her feathers from her perch atop the mirror, and Guin reached up to soothe her with a long stroke of lovely fingers down one blue-black wing.
Bran popped off the frame and ambled toward Guin. “Not at all.”
Guin’s brows drew together, confusion knit with fear. She shook it away, her expression lightening. “If I were a normal wife, I would confess myself lucky, too.”
When he reached her, close enough to touch but not daring to, he said, “But none of this is normal.” Curses and assassins and potions. “I never thought Lady Guinevere wanted normal.”
“Gabriella once did.” There was something of a… falter in her voice. “Lady Guinevere is merely no longer innocent enough to think it possible.”
Didn’t think he could truthfully offer an objection to that. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“No, you’re not. Not quite.”
She tilted her head. Always did love a good mystery.
He couldn’t help but grin as he slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out a box.
“No, Bran.”
How many times over the last ten days had she said no, and he’d stopped in his tracks? Uncountable.
Not tonight.
“You’re the Duchess of Braxton, and these jewels belong to her.” He opened the box, revealing his grandmother’s parure of pink diamonds set in gold.
Her inhale was a little sharp, and she reached for the pieces, transfixed, hand hovering, the glitter of the diamonds reflecting in her eyes. Artemis vaulted into the air and settled on Bran’s arm so she could inspect the sparkly bits.
Bran stroked one shiny wing, then rested the bird high on his shoulder, out of the way.
“Let me.” He removed the necklace from the box, stepped behind her, and set the long chain of warm gold and cool pink along the base of her throat, letting his fingers linger against her skin.
Dipping low, he nuzzled her nape, setting there the lightest kiss, hoping she wouldn’t notice, then said against her skin, “The color goes well with your gown.”
She turned toward the looking glass to study her reflection, her hand lightly trailing along the jewels.
He moved with her like a shadow, one hand light on her bare shoulder.
Where her shoulder met her neck was the perfect place to drop a kiss if he were allowed.
She didn’t want kisses from him. She’d accept the parure but only because it aligned with their intent for the evening.
But she did not shrug him away, so he kept his hand right where it was, where it felt best.
“You look pale,” she said, and he looked up to see she was watching him in the looking glass. “Are you unwell?”
“I’m fine. A little tired. You do know how to run a man ragged. Speaking of which…” He gave a great sigh as he held out his hand. “Hand it over. I suppose I should get the torture started before we leave, so that I am in a high frenzy of need by the time we arrive.”
She curled one hand against her belly, looking at his palm as if a spider or a snake sat there. Then she looked up at him and said quite calmly, “Not tonight. I need all your wits about you.”
“You always need all my wits about me.”
“No. Most of the time, Hesperus or Ned are nearby to make up for your lacking wits as your nether regions pull your attention southward. But they will not be there tonight. It will be you and me and a ballroom full of men who want me dead.”
“You think the Second Shadows do not have men in high places?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Hesperus’s brother is the Royal Alchemist. He’ll be dressed appropriately and lurking in the shadows.
And some others will be outside. I have a fellow dressed as a footman, serving champagne.
You will not be unprotected.” He wanted to wrap an arm around her waist and hold her against him.
The need to do so was almost great enough to risk her wrath.
The little hands, she’d surely pummel him with, the biting remark she’d whip at him.
Instead, he grabbed her cloak from where it was draped over a nearby chair and shook it out.
Artemis flew off to her perch on a table near the window.
She let him throw the cloak over her shoulders and tie it at her neck and pull the hood up over her intricate coiffure.
When he offered his arm, surprisingly, she looped hers through it, set her hand lightly on his forearm, and set her steps to his pace, which he kept slow for her smaller stride.
Once downstairs and out the door, they crossed the street to the garden at the center of Grosvenor Square.
On the other side of the garden, Morington House glowed, wrapped in stars and moons, the duke’s elaborate glamours for the evening’s entertainment. As guests approached the candle-bright entrance, a volley of falling stars greeted them.
“It’s beautiful,” Guin said.
“Morington always has been rather ostentatious.”
Once under the shadows of the trees, Guin released his arm and said, “Could we walk a while in the garden? I’m not nervous, but it is a fine night with a cool breeze, and it will be a heated crush inside.”
He set his steps in a circle around the garden’s edge, and she followed suit.
“You can give me the bottle,” he said. “It will not impede my abilities. I will be fine under its influence.”
“You take your punishment like a good boy. It rather ruins the fun.”
“You are potion enough in that amber gown. The love potion incarnate, ready to swallow a man whole. You had the dress made to taunt me, didn’t you? Another part of my punishment.”
“That was an idea. But also… I rather relish the thought of all those men gathered in that ballroom seeing me look just like that bottle, the one they want me killed for.”
“Brave woman.”
“Am I?” She looked at him with more levity in her features than he expected. “You’re nervous.”
“So are you.” It was why they were strolling about the garden as if this were a normal evening between a normal husband and wife. They were delaying the moment of attack.
“Yes, but you’re a Shadow, and I have come to expect nothing but cool confidence and courage from such fellows.”