“Sarani, you are not safe there,” he interjected before she chose rashly and he had to resort to less pleasant measures to get his way. “I will protect you in London. You will have the safeguard of my family and my name. Once I conclude my business in London, we can end the engagement however you please. A public scene? A quiet send-off? It’s up to you.”

“You could have any woman you choose.”

He nodded. “But with you, I would have an understanding. With you, this is a trade. An eye for an eye—we both get something out of it.” He let out a measured breath. “It’s your choice.”

She was much too intelligent not to know it was merely the illusion of choice. St. Helena would be dangerous, not only for her but for her servants…whom she considered family. Rhystan could see the war waging in her mind. She’d always been fiercely independent, and that trait had not been tempered. It would gall her to accept his help, especially when her every instinct warned against trusting him. And she had every right to mistrust him.

“I don’t rate as a wife for the son of a duke, much less an actual duke,” she said eventually. “Your letter stated as much, so why the change of heart?”

He frowned, recalling the harsh lines of the letter he’d written five years ago. “I thought you didn’t think I was high-ranking enough for you. You were a princess and I was a lowly, third-born son with little to recommend me. I was jealous and angry when I wrote that.”

“That was obvious.” She shook her head. “Your sentiments were more than clear.”

He tilted his chin. “I was furious at what I thought you’d done—that you’d married another—though now I can hardly blame you for obeying your father’s wishes, seeing as I’m to be put through the same paces for the sake of duty. Forgive me for being an angry, jilted man.”

It still pulled, the old injury of losing her, like a scab that hadn’t quite healed. Early on and believing her love false, he had yearned for vengeance, when every single memory of her had brought pain and fury in equal measure. But now he needed her—the one woman who had ever broken him. The whole thing stung of irony. And folly.

“I propose a peace,” he said and then pushed a conciliatory grin to his lips. “No more barnacles in my bed, and no more mucking out stalls. I’ll prove to you that I can be quite civil.”

“We don’t suit,” she whispered, something like desolation flickering in her gaze. “You said it yourself. No one will believe that we are to be wed.”