Bronwyn eased out a breath. There was no saving her now. Her future was a foregone conclusion, even with her heart pledged firmly elsewhere. She had known exactly what she was getting into by offering her body to Valentine Medford. This was her own fault. He hadn’t wooed her and then lied, like other men in the aristocracy, or pretended to be someone he wasn’t to impress her. In fact, he’d loathed her on cue, and she could have easily kept him at arm’s length. And even after they’d run for their lives and given in to their mutual lust, she could have made different choices.

Could she have? Could she have resisted him? Resisted her own need?

Would it have made any difference?

No, not likely. Bronwyn did not regret her choices. She’d lain with him and she’d caught an inconvenient fistful of feelings, not that they hadn’t been there before, simmering under the surface. She had been foolish, however, to believe she could keep her heart separate from her body. Truth was, she’d been half in love with the Duke of Thornbury ever since she’d met him at Courtland’s home. It’d had started out as distant hero worship, and then evolved into something more. In her head, he was the perfect choice.

In real life, he’d been the only choice.

Even if his participation had been driven by lust or the barest measure of fondness, Bronwyn had let herself believe it could be enough. Regrettably, she’d only succeeded in letting herself fall deeper and deeper into his quicksand.

“More like prick-sand,” she muttered drily to herself and then giggled into her glass of champagne.

She lifted it, toasting his manhood silently. He did have a magnificent prick, and he certainly knew how to use it. Bronwyn chuckled again. Gracious, she was silly!

“What are you toasting?” an amused voice asked, and she turned to see her sister-in-law. Bronwyn choked on her sip. She could hardly admit the subject of her scandalous toast to her brother’s duchess, of all people. One, Ravenna would laugh to the rooftops and draw too much attention, and two, the subject of the duke’s rather excellent man parts was something Bronwyn wanted to keep to herself.

“Nothing, something about Thornbury.” She wrinkled her nose. “Aren’t you supposed to be in your confinement?”

“I’m with child, not infirm.”

“Some people make it out to be the same thing,” Bronwyn replied.

“Why are you avoiding everyone, loitering on this balcony like a lonely pariah?”