Act natural, Bee.
Pasting a demure smile on her lips, she turned and took him in up close. Fitted bespoke clothing, tremendous height—he practically towered over her smaller form—those angular cheekbones, hooded golden eyes, and lush mouth all conspired to make her lungs squeeze. His pale skin took on the silvery gleam of the moonlight, making him appear more chimerical than he should be…some fantastical sultry specter from her imagination come to taunt her. She’d take that option if it meant she didn’t have to speak to him, but alas, he was indeed real.
“Your Grace, what a surprise.”
A thoroughly unwelcome one.
He leaned against the railing and perused her. “It is, isn’t it? Fancy seeing you here. I thought I had been mistaken in the dining salon, but here you are…in the flesh. Are you alone?”
“My chaperone retired with a headache,” she replied, thinking quickly. Her flighty lady’s maid, Cora, who was prone to the vapors and disappearing at the most inconvenient times was hardly a proper chaperone, but beggars could not be choosers. Particularly beggars turned international spies. Though Bronwyn wasn’t a spy, per se; she was more of a discreet informant. “Is your wife here as well?”
He cleared his throat. “The lady is, though we are no longer married.”
Goodness, her heart shouldn’t have raced so violently at that, but Bronwyn could feel it hammering like a bird about to take flight. His marital state had nothing to do with her. He was her brother’s friend! And a former British undercover agent. A man who would put her in handcuffs without blinking. A different scenario involving restraints—a much naughtier one with rather less clothing—crept into her mind, and she felt her face flame. Did he carry handcuffs?
Stop it, stop it, stop it.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she managed to say.
The duke nodded. “Where are you headed?” he asked. It was a casual inquiry, and yet, Bronwyn recognized that nothing was casual for this man. A seemingly basic question could lure out secrets, ferret out clues. He was a master at interrogation and artifice…while she was a mere novice.
She feigned a coy look and fluttered her eyelashes. “Did the Duke of Ashvale send you to follow me, Your Grace? Very well then, I am visiting an aunt in Philadelphia.”
Speculation gleamed in that shadowed gaze. “I didn’t realize that you had family in America.”
Gracious but he was quick. Bronwyn shook her head, smile pasted on firmly. “On my mother’s side, I fear. She is ill, and Mama thought I would be able to offer some comfort.”
Now, that was a mistake. She almost kicked herself when those heavy-lidded eyes narrowed.
“Lady Borne sent you to play nursemaid to an ailing relative,” he murmured slowly. “Unless she has changed in temperament, that is a rather surprising kindness.”
Bronwyn stopped herself from gritting her teeth in frustration. A man like Thornbury, an expert in body language and human behavior, would not miss it. Her mother was not known for being the most generous or kind of ladies. In fact, she was a terrible person to her core. It still astounded Bronwyn that her mother had attempted to oust Courtland—the legitimate heir to her dead husband’s estate—by sending him away from England in hopes of elevating her own son. Perhaps that was another reason why Bronwyn felt so compelled to do what she was doing…to make up for the grievous wrongs within her own family.
“Surprising or not, Your Grace, it is the reason for my journey. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must check on Cora.” She moved to walk past him, only to be stopped by a firm grip on her elbow. Heat spread across her skin at the contact, even though he wore gloves and she wore long sleeves. Bronwyn couldn’t help the gasp that passed her lips, nor the instant tightening of her belly. A wild gasp throttled in her throat, the sensation of his grasp almost too much for her wayward brain to handle. She glanced up, and the moment their eyes collided, something all too visceral shot between them.
“Does Ashvale know you are here?” he asked.
No, because her brother would hardly approve if he knew she’d name-dropped him to commandeer one of the owner’s suites onboard. Hiding out in a common stateroom would not have been ideal—what if she’d been recognized?—so she’d elected to travel in plain sight. A loud and obnoxious heiress was dismissible. She had no doubt that Courtland would hear about the incident, but she hoped to have delivered the packet and be on the return voyage by that point. As far as anyone was concerned, Lady Bronwyn Chase was a vapid nuisance, abusing her brother’s connections and wealth and visiting an ailing family member.
It was a thin camouflage at best, but the only one she could come up with.
“Ashvale doesn’t keep track of my every step, Your Grace,” she snipped, her stare dipping pointedly to the long fingers still pressed in the crook of her elbow. He did not take the hint, damn the man, one corner of that indecent bottom lip kicking up in a way that suggested he was well aware of what his touch was doing to her. Bronwyn pushed a haughty smirk to her lips. “And besides, it’s not as though everyone onboard doesn’t know who I am. My brother owns this vessel, after all.”
Distaste flickered across his face, and she winced. Better he think her a shallow, frivolous excuse for a chit who was using her brother’s title and property than the reality. Still, something inside of her rebelled. She wanted him to keep her in some esteem.
Duty won out over pride, of course, as she widened her coy smile. “Don’t tell anyone, but I cannot wait to see Philadelphia. Do you know how much they fawn over aristocrats? As if our blood is so blue, it’s gold. Perhaps I shall find myself an obscenely rich husband for my efforts. I suppose that’s why Mama agreed to let me go. Fatten the coffers and all that.”
“Indeed.” The word dripped with derision.
Heavens. She almost loathed herself in that moment, but the unguarded disgust blooming on the duke’s countenance was like a blow. She ignored it…his instant and unguarded contempt. Bronwyn felt her cheeks heat, but played into her performance. Her gaze canvassed him in an almost covetous way, lashes dropping bashfully. “I hope you don’t think me forward, Your Grace, but perhaps we should have dinner one night. For my brother’s sake.”
The hefty flirtation worked like a charm.
He released her like a hot coal and bowed, the slightest dip of his head as though he couldn’t muster much more than that, his face going studiously blank. Cold. Untouchable.
“Perhaps. Enjoy your trip, my lady.”
***
God but she was a spoiled, abominable brat.
Valentine couldn’t fathom how the girl who had so courageously helped the Duke of Ashvale and his duchess claim his birthright had turned into this…this avaricious nitwit who’d looked at him like a spider eyeing her next meal. The expression of greed on her face as she’d contemplated her marital prospects in Philadelphia had sickened him. Perhaps he’d become too jaded in life.