“All this person has is conjecture. There’s no actual proof that I am anything other than a lady of the ton. Slander is also a crime, is it not?”

Valentine lifted a shoulder. “Trust me, the gossips won’t care if it’s the truth or not. They want to sell their news rags, and this story will be hot for the presses. Anything touching a duke, particularly the already questionable Duke of Ashvale, will be bound to sell newssheets. In our incestuously petty circles, scandal is currency.”

Bronwyn’s face paled as she shot a horrified glance to her brother. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to touch you.”

Valentine let out a scoffing noise. “What exactly did you expect, Lady Bronwyn? Duty isn’t limited to the men of the ton. Women are just as constrained by the rules of society and decorum. The barest hint of impropriety can ruin the finest of families. Did you think your little adventures would go unnoticed?” Her face went mutinous, and a muscle had started to tick in Ashvale’s jaw at his hard, vicious words, but Valentine didn’t stop. “I’ve said all along you were a little girl playing at adult games.”

“I’m not a girl, Your Grace,” she snapped. “And no one asked you to be here.”

“I asked him,” Ashvale said, scrubbing a palm over his face. “We will contain this situation by whatever means necessary,” her brother added before leveling a quelling glare at the two of them, his dark eyes particularly flinty toward Valentine. “And you two will wed to contain any further scandal as to your whereabouts over the past few weeks.”

They both turned to stare at him.

“I’m not marrying him!” Bronwyn screeched.

Ashvale’s mouth went flat with anger. “Why not?”

“He’s an arrogant, self-serving, cold, fractious-to-a-fault, bothersome, controlling, and muttonheaded, taciturn, unfeeling cad. Need I go on?”

God, she was stunning when she was angry, like an avenging angel sent to earth to smite the unworthy. And he was very, very unworthy. Valentine lifted an amused brow. “Your command of the language is masterful. I applaud you.”

“You can take your sodding applause right to hell.” She ground her jaw and approached her brother, whose eyes had narrowed at his sister’s vocabulary, which was saying something considering his own duchess was fluent in the vulgar tongue. “I cannot marry him, Courtland. Please do not do this.”

Ashvale sighed. “I’m afraid there’s little choice left in the matter, my dear. You were seen together without a chaperone.”

“By whom?” she demanded. “There were dozens of people on that ship.”

“Precisely, and likely more than a few accounts of Lady Bronwyn Chase leaving an alcove on the stern of my ship with her clothing mussed and looking thoroughly ruined.”