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“Valentine, kiss me,” she said breathlessly and he did. He kissed her with everything he held in his heart…all the warmth and the budding trepidation, the joys and the heightening worry that he might have been a hair too late in his avowals. That she might have set her sights on someone else. That she might never love him back. Why did people ever give in to love? It wrecked and it took, and left devastation in its wake.
Her fingers cupped his jaw as those heavy-lidded blue eyes bored into his. He let her see it all. He had nothing left to hide, not from her.
“I love you,” she whispered.
He blinked, sure that he’d imagined the soft declaration. “What did you say?”
“I’ve always loved you.” She blushed and ducked her face as if to hide, but he wasn’t having any of that. Valentine wanted to see every emotion, relish everything that crossed her expressive face. He tipped her chin up, the sight of those blues a benediction he would never tire of, not in his lifetime. “I wouldn’t have given myself to you so easily if I hadn’t.”
Sighing softly, he pressed his mouth to hers. “I’m sorry I’m such a buffoon and it took me so long to realize it. I didn’t know what I had until I nearly lost you.” He kissed her again, unable to help himself, and gently withdrew from her body, before tending to her and then to himself with his handkerchief. Smoothing the skirts of her gown into place and fastening his trousers, he suddenly felt unsure of where they went from here. All his cards were on the table. Would she refuse him now? He supposed he could take the coward’s way out and wait.
Or he could…
“Be my duchess,” he blurted out. “Please, Bronwyn.”
She laughed, the light sound filling him like nothing ever would. “A proposal in a tack room?”
“Suits our story, don’t you think? We’ve never done anything the proper way. Our courtship has been arse-backwards from the start.”
Still chuckling, she leaned forward to brush his lips with her own before her eyes met his. They were full of mirth, love, and wonder. “Yes, Your Grace, I’d say it suits us rather well. And yes, nothing would make me happier than to be your duchess.”
A thumping noise from the next room had them leaping apart, giving Valentine no chance to celebrate her answer before the door crashed open and a wild-eyed Wentworth advanced on them, a gun in each hand—the ones Bronwyn had dropped when he’d barreled into her. A bruise had formed on his temple, and a thin trickle of blood meandered down his cheek and jaw.
Valentine let out a bitter curse—he should have found some rope. Leather was good in a pinch to restrain someone, but it loosened too quickly, and he hadn’t actually planned to take Bronwyn into this room and have his way with her. He grunted, putting his body in front of her and blocking her from view.
“She has nothing to do with this,” he said. “Let her go and we can sort through this like men.”
“She has everything to do with this! If it wasn’t for her running off in Philadelphia, none of this would be necessary,” Wentworth seethed, his eyes crazed. “This report. That stupid boy. No, no. I won’t go down like this and I won’t go to prison.” He shook his head as if to clear it, as if he couldn’t think.
Valentine felt a beat of real fear. The man was unhinged. People tended to get like that when they felt cornered. He held out his hands in a placating gesture. “What do you want? The list? I can get you the list. I can get rid of it. But you have to let her go.”
“I can just kill both of you.”
Valentine nodded, keeping his voice modulated. He could feel Bronwyn pushing against him, but at least she was smart enough to stay behind him for the moment. He had a pistol tucked into his boot, but with the way that Wentworth was flailing around with the guns, he didn’t want to take any chances. The best way, for now, until he could figure something out, was to keep the man talking. “You could, but then there would be two bodies and an investigation. You know how it is. Someone might have seen you or your man outside.”
“You always were smart, weren’t you? I told my brother to stay away, but he wouldn’t listen. His own arrogance cost him. But you, you, Thornbury, always a step ahead.” He scowled. “Even with her.”
Wentworth twitched again, and Valentine wondered if Bronwyn’s hit hadn’t knocked something loose in his head. He seemed deranged, tapping his head with the handle of one of the guns, and mixing insensible words with coherent ones. He glanced around, eyes widening on them, his head lolling from side to side.
“You were swiving in here, weren’t you? I can see the lust written all over you.” He leered. “Was she good? I always wondered if she was loose in morals. Perhaps I should kill you and avail myself of her sweet body. Then I’ll shoot her. It will be like a scandalous lovers’ quarrel.”
Valentine felt Bronwyn stiffen behind him and turned his palm at his side slowly to where she could see it. He had no idea if she was looking down or not, but he pointed toward his right boot. There was very little chance that someone wouldn’t get shot, but with two guns in play, he wanted to even the odds that it would only be him in danger. A few short taps with her fingers on the middle of his back let him know that she understood. It would take some coordination and finesse, but first they needed an opening.
“No one would believe you,” Valentine said evenly. “I proposed to Lady Bronwyn just this evening before your man abducted her. Ashvale would never believe it. There would still be an investigation.”
Wentworth shrugged. “I could say that the lady and I were seeing each other in secret for months, and you were a jealous lover.”
“People, like her mother, would ask questions.”
Wentworth stared at him and let out a frustrated roar that went to the rafters, making the horses in the nearby stalls whinny and stamp. “I need to think. I can’t bloody think!”
“Let Lady Bronwyn go, and then you and I can talk.”
Wentworth shook his head, pacing back and forth. “You’re trying to trick me. Let her go so she can call for help? I’m not a fool, sir.”
The seconds ticked by with their options dwindling. Perhaps he could make a dive for the guns and hope to take Wentworth down before he got a shot off. He seemed distracted, which could bode well or ill. Either way, there was no guarantee Valentine wouldn’t get killed by being rash. Or Bronwyn.
“Your Grace,” he heard her say from behind him. “I don’t feel well. It’s too hot in here. Oh, dear me, I’m going to swoon.”
