Page 13 of Til Death Duke Us Part
The grave digger sat beside Victor on the front bench of the brougham in a high-necked blue gown. It was frayed and faded and had seen better days years ago. But she looked fresh. Innocent. Sweet.
But the body beneath that thin muslin was a beautiful sin.
And his hands itched to do some sinning.
Why not? She was a widow, and he’d been too long without a woman. If she was amenable…
“Do stop staring at me like that,” she said without looking at him. She’d been looking straight ahead since they’d taken off, little nose pointing up like a compass toward truth.
“Like what?”
“Do not pretend,” she snapped. “I know when a man is using his eyeballs to undress a woman. I’m not a green girl.”
Her eyes were green, though. So very. “How old are you?”
“One and thirty.”
“I’m three years your senior.”
“And that is significant because?”
He shrugged. “I suppose I need you to know I’m superior to you in every conceivable way.”
“Not morally.”
“You’ve promised to help me rob graves, so I’m not sure your moral high ground remains.”
Her hands clenched in her lap.
“I was looking at you,” he said, “because you’re pretty.”
A flush of red flashed across her cheeks.
“When you meet a woman covered in mud and wearing britches, you don’t expect she’s a beauty. But you’ve surprised me. I thought I’d have to glamour your appearance to be seen with you in public. But you clean up nicely.”
“Good God, you can’t help it can you? Insulting and rude around every corner. Do you go to school for it? Or do dukes like you inherit such hubris with your magic?”
“Comes before the magic. We’re born with it.”
She scowled then studied his profile, finally looking at him instead of the horse’s rear end. “You look different.”
“I’ve glamoured my face. Just a bit. So no one recognizes me.”
“You’re ridiculous. The whole lot of you are ridiculous.”
“The whole lot of us?”
“You transcendents. Nothing is real about you. Nothing is solid. It’s all sleight of hand and distraction. Pretty illusions hiding a rotten core.”
“You’re right.” He’d been so excited to inherit his father’s talent, the magic that was his by birthright but only his through death. His father’s last exhalation had entered him, set his blood ablaze. Anything, he’d thought, I can do anything now.
What a lie.
“That easy?” she said. “I tear down your people, the class that rules England, and you simply agree with me?”
He shrugged and maneuvered the brougham through a space in the traffic. He’d be glad when the crowds of London gave way to the open road.
“You’re very good, though,” she said. “With the glamours. I’ve seen some that appear entirely fake, sparkly and flat, and when you try to touch them, they don’t even waver. But yesterday, when you fiddled with your clothes, it appeared as if you were truly touching the finery. I thought it was a trick, and I know you cannot touch the glamours, not really. I felt your hands last night though it appeared as if you were wearing gloves.”
