Bronwyn’s eyes fluttered closed. Gracious, her mother was dreadful. The Duke of Ashvale still had to give his permission to any marriage discussions, but given recent developments, he would find no fault with the very safe, very lackluster, and very enthusiastic Lord Herbert. The young gentleman was exactly as expected when she’d met him earlier—a pretty, polite, and polished boy. The perfect match for a perfect debutante. Who wasn’t her. She was ruined goods. Willingly and deliciously ruined by the duke at her back.

The one her body craved still.

She did not want a boy. She wanted a man. This man. Carnal options for one last tryst raced through her head—an empty music room, the arbor, a scullery, the library—but if this was to be the last time between them, Bronwyn desired only one place.

“Your Grace,” she whispered. “I feel dizzy. Will you escort me home?”

***

Valentine frowned at the woman seated opposite him in his carriage. She did look rather flushed, her eyes glittery and bright, her cheekbones burning with color. That rosy stain distilled down her elegant throat to the deep vee of her embroidered décolletage. That bloody gown had nearly unmanned him when he’d seen her in it. Shimmering panels of scarlet satin and obsidian lace left little to the imagination, outlining curves and hollows and her exquisite limbs. She’d been a enchanting vision…a blood-stirring study in temptation.

Queen of the goddesses, indeed.

Even Ashvale had looked like he wanted to drag her to safety from everyone who couldn’t tear their eyes away from her lush form, but that would have caused a scene. The poor man had had to compose himself on the balcony before returning to the ballroom and not throttling his stepmother who had outfitted her daughter for one purpose.

Husband entrapment.

For one Lord Sodding Herbert.

The boy was perfect for her. Everything Valentine was not. He was old; Herbert was young. He was nothing but seething, swirling darkness, and the boy was a maiden’s golden dreams personified. Youthful, idealistic, and ready to settle down with a comely wife and spout out a handful of perfect, beautiful progeny. Herbert would give her everything a lady like her deserved. Valentine would only swallow Bronwyn up and twist her into something she wasn’t.

She craved danger, but she wasn’t like him.

He would only ruin her for the future she deserved.

Then why was he in a bloody carriage with her alone, driving her home like some knight in broken armor, when all he wanted to be was the villain in the story who stole the heroine to satisfy his own jaded desires? The knight didn’t have visions of dropping to his knees and plundering the treasures that lay under those teasing yards of crimson fabric with his tongue. Or commanding her to turn and hold the squabs while he fucked them both into oblivion.