“No.” Valentine ran a hand through the damp tendrils of hair curling onto her cheeks, the touch so tender, so unlike him that she blinked. “I don’t want you to think my confession was in haste or in the throes of passion,” he said softly. “I meant it. I love you, Bronwyn. When I realized you’d been taken and that I might lose you tonight, I’ve never felt a fear so deep. And worse, I never told you how I really felt.”

“Oh.”

Everything inside of her started to tremble. Her lover, the very handsome, very virile Duke of Thornbury, had just declared his love in the most incongruous place in London. While in the middle of sexual congress. In the tack room of a public mews. With two vigilantes tied up in the next chamber.

Bronwyn could not help it. She burst into soft laughter and ran her nose down his jaw, inhaling him. “Hardly the place for a romantic declaration, Your Grace,” she whispered with a smile.

“It’s the perfect place and time for a declaration. Whenever I am inside you is the perfect time and place.”

She bit his jaw. “You’re not inside me anymore.”

His arms tightened around her back as he gathered her close. “Not until I’ve said it all. I’ve never truly had anything to lose, until you came along, crashing into my well-ordered life with your charm and your cleverness, and I was spellbound. The truth is, Bronwyn, I don’t know when you stole my heart, ragged, undeserving thing that it is, from right beneath my nose, but you have. It’s yours, even if you decide you don’t want it.”

She wanted it. She wanted him more than anything. But perhaps it was time for a little retribution. “I shall require convincing, sir. In fact, I shall require you to beg for my favor.”

Valentine met her eyes, and Bronwyn lifted a brow. “Dukes don’t beg.”

“Since when do you ever do anything society expects of you?”

“That is true.” He snorted. “I am admittedly an abysmal duke. I expect most of my tenants will scatter at the sight of me when I eventually go to Scotland.”

“Why would they?” she asked.

“I’m a harsh man, Bronwyn. I’m not likeable or young or perfect high society fodder. I’ve done and seen things that have changed me. I don’t know how to be a duke. How to be…the perfect gentleman.” Bronwyn’s breath hissed out. He wasn’t talking about Scotland at all.

“Be yourself. That is enough.”

“Is it?” When she nodded, he kissed her nose, eyes glinting with so much warmth—and love—that her breath fizzled in her throat.