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Valentine stared at him in astonishment. “Do youknowthe marquis? The man is a ferret with hands like tentacles.” He scowled at Ashvale’s amused expression. “And yes, I know those two things have nothing to do with each other, but trust me that you do not want him near your sister. You worry about her reputation being compromised with me, and yet you send her off to certain debauchery with a libertine for a companion.” He bit off the end of his outburst, knowing he was being unreasonable but unable to help himself all the same.
“Tremblay and I have known each other for years,” Ashvale said. “He knows what will happen if he thinks of putting one tentacle out of line. And besides, the Comtesse de Valois is with them.”
Somewhat pacified, Valentine watched Bronwyn’s aunt enter the carriage.
“She invited him on purpose,” he muttered.
“Who?”
“Your sister did to aggravate me.”
Ashvale grinned and patted him on the back. “I’m beginning to think that I might have to take pity on you and not flog you to within an inch of your life after all. It seems you’re being punished quite enough. Who knew my sweet, gentle, harmless sister had it in her?”
Valentine scowled. Given any choice in the matter, he’d take the beating. “If you think she’s harmless, you’re a bigger fool than I am.”
***
The look on the duke’s face had been worth coming back to London without any solid answers as to who wanted her dead. Bronwyn trusted Rawley, but she had wanted to be there when the assailant awoke. Things were missed in translation.
You have worse things to worry about.
That was true. Someone in England wanted to expose her. On top of that, she had yet to hear from Wentworth since Sesily had not written, which could mean one of two things—either her letter had not in fact reached London, or Sesily had been compromised in some fashion. Either way, Bronwyn had things to do, but she wasn’t above acting like a petty brat when it came to Thornbury.
She didn’t even know what she was irritated about.
He’d offered her the protection of his name, but she didn’t want it. Bronwyn didn’t want to be married to him. Not like that anyway. God, she was a fool a hundred times over. The duke might be an excellent lover and a brilliant strategist, and a man whose mind fascinated her as much as his body did, but he did not have a working heart.
At least one that was capable of love.
Was outstanding sex worth the cost of a loveless marriage? She swallowed around the knot in her throat. She’d watched her mother pine away for a man whose heart had been buried with his long-dead previous wife—Courtland’s beautiful West Indian mother—and Bronwyn had sworn from a young age that she would never fall in love with a man who could not love her back. Her breath fizzled in her lungs.
Dear God, was it possible that she wasin lovewith Thornbury?
No, this wasn’t love. It wasn’t sweet and gentle and lovely, and all the things love should be. It was raw and wild and unprincipled. All teeth, nails, and gasping breaths. Naked bodies and fervent demands. Deliciously filthy promises delivered in the heat of the moment. No, this was lust bordering on pure, impassioned attraction.
That was why she had barricaded herself in her room on the clipper. Being in any close proximity to him resulted in a complete lack of willpower where he was concerned, and Bronwyn wasn’t sure that she wouldn’t yank him into the closest alcove and demand he repeat the carnal acts that had gotten them in trouble in the first place.
The Duke of Thornbury was best put out of her head.
Inviting the Marquis de Tremblay had been Aunt Esther’s brilliant idea, and of course, the gentleman had agreed, delighted to charm his way through greener pastures after declaring boredom with Paris. Bronwyn had seen it as the perfect wedge to drive some space between her and Thornbury, and it had clearly worked, considering his thunderous expression on deck. Strangely, it did not feel as gratifying as she’d thought it would, leaving only a strange hollowness in the pit of her stomach.
That was likely nerves. She hadn’t seen her mother in a few weeks, and no doubt, she would be in a tizzy. She wondered if Lady Borne would approve of the marquis. Tremblay was handsome and wealthy and ticked all her boxes, with the sole exception that he was French. And of course, the dear friend and possible former lover of the marchioness’s estranged sister. Bronwyn glanced at her aunt, whose head rested on Tremblay’s shoulder. It was curious that those two had an on-again, off-again relationship, considering she was twice his age, but they got along marvelously well.
Bronwyn lifted a brow at them. “Are you two going to behave?”
The marquis let out a chuckle as her aunt grinned, making her look much younger than her forty-odd years. “We are going to destroy this rigidtonwith every weapon in our arsenal, never fear.”
“Mama is going to have conniptions,” Bronwyn groaned.
Tremblay waggled his brows. “And the tight-arsed Duke of Thornbury.”
The sound of his name made her core clench, not to mention causing an instant and unwelcome vision of that very tight, very firm pair of male buttocks that she had yet to see unclothed, and she almost cursed aloud when the marquis’s soft laughter filled the coach. “Don’t worry, dearest. I will make your arctic snow-beast positively melt with jealousy.”
“Leave her alone, Jacques dear,” Esther scolded. “If there’s any melting to be done, I’m sure my niece can handle it.”
Bronwyn glanced at her aunt whose own mischievous smile rivaled the marquis’s. It was incongruous to think that she and the rather expressionless and haughty Marchioness of Borne were twin sisters. They had the same features, but they could not be more different. Both brown-haired and blue-eyed, Aunt Esther embodied warmth and charm, while her mother had the personality of a weed and the friendliness of a jagged blade. Bronwyn knew she favored both her aunt and her mother in looks. Aunt Esther’s arrival was going to be a shock, considering the two women hadn’t seen each other in years.
“When was the last time you saw Mama?” Bronwyn asked.
