Page 11 of Once Charmed, Twice Cursed
I’d sooner hurl myself from a third-story window than be shackled to the duke of Alverton.
“No,” I say. “Absolutely not. Anyone but him.”
Brendan frowns. “Lower your voice, will you? He’s come all the way from the country. He’s downstairs right now, waiting for my answer. Waiting for myagreement.”
Each word drives another stake through my heart. I grope for a nearby chairback to prop myself up.
This can’t be happening. My luck should prevent the duke from eventhinkingof offering for me. I glance down at my chest, half expecting to find it bare, but my triquetra stares back, a mocking black gleam in the early light.
“Impossible,” I whisper.
Brendan’s frown deepens. “It’s not. Which says something, doesn’t it? Your luck wouldn’t let me pair you with someone you wouldn’t like. Which means you’ll probably fall in lovewith him. You’ll probably be deliriously happy. You’ll have a dozen strapping sons.”
The floor tilts, the room receding. Fortuna, I don’t want a dozen sons. I can’t stand the thought of being kept, of being milked for my luck and forced to bear children for a man old enough to be my father.
I want...
Panic squeezes me until my fingertips tingle. Out. I want out. I need to run.
I stumble backward, then turn on my heel and flee. Bitter tears sting my eyes. The hallway rushes past, then the staircase, then another. I barrel down the final step and crash into a solid body. I reel back, peering up at a face I’ve never seen before.
My insides liquify. He’s...handsome. Older, yes, but the years have carved a rugged symmetry into his features, the kind only men get to enjoy. A few silver streaks thread hair the color of iron. His waistcoat is cut from rich red brocade, the shirt beneath as spotless as freshly milled paper.
He smiles. “Bria Radcliffe, I presume?”
My throat works, but nothing emerges.
His eyes trail over my hair and face, ultimately landing on my Mark. His sapphire eyes glint. “Very pretty.”
I don’t know if he means me or my tattoo. Nor do I care. I try to push past him, but he catches me by the arm, spinning me around and backing me against the wall.
My thoughts ricochet inside my head like rubber marbles. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be able to offer for me, shouldn’t be able to lay hands on me at all.
This is one stroke of bad luck after another, and it makes no sense.
The duke leans close. His proximity accelerates my breathing. A smile flickers across his mouth. “Not only pretty, but responsive, too, I see. That should make things less of a chore for me.”
I whimper. Fortuna’s blessings, how is this happening?
The duke grips my jaw and turns my head, inspecting me from this angle and that. I screw my eyes shut, but the wall prevents me from retreating. When I dare to look again, he’s gazing at me with open avarice.
Or at my Mark, rather.
Movement flashes behind him. When I glance past his shoulder, silence fills my ears, a white roar that blots everything else out. It’s...Weston. Standing in the foyer, not ten feet away. He looks stricken.
Suddenly, the situation makes sense. With him here, my luck might as well not exist.
“Birdie?” he says. My nickname drops into the quiet, small and misshapen.
I don’t stop to consider. I just open my mouth. “Help. Help me.Please.”
At my broken plea, Weston’s brows lower, his uncertainty hardening into the surly look I know so well. He crosses the foyer in three long strides, then grabs the duke’s shoulder and wrenches him away. “Get your hands off her.”
Outrage twists the duke’s features. He shakes off Weston’s grip and looks him up and down. Then up again. He has no choice, considering Weston’s height. “And who might you be?”
“A friend of the Radcliffes’.” Weston throws his shoulders back. It’s an obvious dare. Ahit-me-and-see-what-happenschallenge.
The duke barks out a derisive laugh. “A friend? Is thatright?” His gaze lingers on the worn fabric of Weston’s shirt. “Well, whatever you are, you’d do well not to touch me.”
