Bronwyn’s jaw fell open and snapped shut as a bright blush seeped over her cheekbones. “That could have been the hearty sea air.”

“I sincerely doubt the sea air has teeth, Bronwyn,” her brother remarked drily.

Valentine didn’t remember anyone being about, but that didn’t mean someone might not have seen her returning to her stateroom with her hair tousled and marks of passion on her creamy skin. Deep masculine satisfaction rode him until he locked eyes with an incensed Ashvale, who looked like he wanted to pummel him into the wall.

The man fairly seethed with rage. “You and I will settle this properly when we get back to London. For now, I need you in good form, without any broken bones, because I have a plan to break quite a few in your body, starting with your legs.”

Valentine wanted to point out that it wasn’t his legs that had seduced the duke’s sister, but very wisely kept his mouth shut. Bronwyn, however, wasn’t of the same mind.

“No. I refuse.”

Ashvale’s icy countenance when he took in his aggravated sister was resigned. “I know this isn’t want you want, Bronwyn.” He sighed and walked to the door. “Do you think I wish to see my younger sister forced into a union? Don’t you think I want you to wed a man who will make you happy?”

Valentine ignored the taste of bitterness in his mouth and didn’t point out the irony that Ashvale had been wed to his duchess in much the same way—through a forced trip to the altar—though their…scandal had been viewed by actual witnesses and not based on assumptions and hearsay.

Though, he knew what he’d taken.

She’d been a virgin when they’d coupled. Guilt boiled through his veins like acid. The right thing to do was to marry her, but if Bronwyn was truly opposed to wedding him, he would never force her. Gossip would eventually peter out for something juicier. They would both survive that, at least.

Assassins and bullets were a different story.

But she was right that he didn’t have to marry her to protect her. He’d do it anyway.

“Bronwyn, you claim to want to help, to make a difference, and yet, how do you intend to do that as a disgraced woman?” Ashvale went on in a gentler tone. “You will be shunned from ballrooms and ousted from polite society, not because there is any truth in the scandal, but because there will be those who will delight in your misfortune. Think about it and let me know your answer. For now, I am tired, in need of a bath, and we need to get you back home.”

“What about the boy who shot at me?” she ground out. “We can’t just leave him here alone in Paris. What if he wakes and knows something?”