““I’m the first man you saw today,” he pointed out, “so I’m officially your valentine.” She let out a harsh laugh. “Because of a silly superstition? I think not.” “Because I want to be,” he said in a low voice. “And because you want me to be, too.” Her gaze would have skewered a stone. “Want a drunken debaucher fresh from some whore’s bed as my valentine? Not if you were the last man on earth.” She slammed the door in his face. His brothers laughed, but he ignored them. He couldn’t blame her for being angry; he’d given her good reason to be so. But it didn’t change a thing. He’d be damned if he let her go now. One way or the other, Maria Butterfield was going to be his. One way or the other, she would share his bed.””
