“One down,” Wentworth said. “Guess she doesn’t really have the stomach for this business after all. Or did you tup the strength right out of her?” Valentine knew the vile rotter was trying to get a rise out of him. He might have a few screws loose, but he was still the same man who was drunk on his own power. “There, you wanted me to let her go, and she has handled the matter nicely for both of us. Where’s the list?”

“At my residence,” Valentine said.

“Then that is where we shall go,” Wentworth said, his tone becoming firmer as he nodded to himself. He pointed a gun at Bronwyn’s prone form. “Pick her up, and don’t trying anything clever. I have no problems shooting you both and letting the chips fall where they may. Jealous lovers, cutpurses, any story will do. Now, move.”

Valentine nodded, turned, and crouched down slowly. Bronwyn was pale and listless, her chest rising with barely any motion. He frowned. Was she pretending or had the faint been real? But as he gathered her limp form into his arms, he realized with some relief that it was the former when he felt her fingertips ease into his boot and then quickly tuck against her stomach. Carefully, he half rose with her in his arms bridal style when she pretended to awaken, eyelids fluttering, her lower half sliding down the front of his. The pistol was concealed between them.

“Are you well?” he asked.

His beautiful, clever future duchess smiled, her blue eyes clear and bright. “Never better, my love.”

Then she stepped to the side and fired.

Epilogue

The Duchess of Thornbury stared at her husband, who was in the process of fixing a broken window in their bedroom that had fallen off its hinges after his herculean attempt to pry it open. Did she mention that he was shirtless? He was, mouthwateringly so. She let her eyes drift over his wonderful musculature and felt her breath quicken. Even though she was well and truly sated. Moving any muscle of her own required intense concentration. Except for her eye muscles… Those could move quite well apparently.

Heavens, he had such clever hands. Fixing a broken hinge…stroking her body to indecent heights. Her lower half warmed.

“Enjoying the show?” her husband asked, watching her over his shoulder as he reattached the hinge.

“I like watching you do menial things,” she said from her indolent position on their marriage bed, her bottom half covered only by a loose silk sheet. Her duke tired her out thoroughly, and they’d steamed up the bedchamber so deliciously that they had to open a window to let in some cool evening air. Until it practically fell off one hinge, that was. She peered at him from a hooded gaze, knowing the picture she presented.