Courtland glanced over his shoulder. “Besides, ask Thornbury about his past. Always running for his life. So wrapped up in deception, he doesn’t even know the truth of who he is, or what he wants.” A dark gaze filled with fondness peered down at her. “I want to hear what you have to say, Bronwyn, and I need you alive to help me amplify as many voices as we can in Parliament.”

Of course he did. Because that was who he was—a brother, a husband, a fair and just man who wouldn’t placate her with empty words.

Bronwyn choked up. “I love you, Courtland.”

“Love you too, Sister.”

***

Valentine fought the envy rising inside him as he watched the siblings. He didn’t begrudge his friend for hearing those words from his sister, but deep down, he coveted them for himself. Valentine wanted her affection…and the fervent avowals of love. Two things he would never have. Things he didn’t deserve. And clearly she thought so as well because the idea of being married to him was a fate worse than death.

Bloody hell! He needed to do something to rid himself of these sodding useless feelings that had no business being inside his mind. They were digging under his skin, burrowing into the marrow of his bones, and messing with his head in a way that was not healthy. That was the thing with emotions…once a person let them in, they spawned and swarmed until they took over. He needed to take back his shaky control.

You don’t want control. You want her.

Valentine firmed his lips. Want was a useless thing that set terrible expectations. Sure, he wanted a dozen Arabian thoroughbreds, but that didn’t mean such a thing was good for him. He scowled at himself. Bronwyn wasn’t a mare in his stable. Admittedly, the analogy was poor. He cleared his throat, watching with forced dispassion as Ashvale and Bronwyn broke apart.

“This letter you received,” Valentine said. “Any clues as to who sent it? Where it was postmarked from?”

“No idea to the first, and it was sent from England, not here,” Ashvale said, taking the correspondence out of his pocket and handing it to Bronwyn. Valentine suppressed a burst of irritation. It was her mail, after all. “Do you recognize the handwriting?” the duke asked.

“No,” she said, brows furrowing over the folded parchment. A shocked gust of breath whistled through her lips. “They want one thousand pounds or I will be exposed.”

“Extortion,” Thornbury said with a frown. “Who else knows about you?”

“Besides you two? And Rawley? No one beyond the man I work with, and I’ve been extremely careful, considering how long I went undiscovered.”

Thornbury prowled forward. “And who would that be?”