Rules for Heiresses by Amalie Howard

Twelve

The coming-out ball for Lady Bronwyn Chase, the granddaughter of the late Duke of Ashvale and half sister of the current duke, had to be the most ostentatious event known to man. There wasn’t even royalty in attendance, though it was rumored that Bertie, Prince of Wales, might attend. Judging by the size of the crowd, everyone else of consequence had been invited, and naturally, given the mysterious island duke was finally in town, everyone had arrived en masse.

It was a crush and not a single expense had been spared.

Ravenna could hardly take it all in.

Towering potted ferns had been brought into the hall, while enormous sprays of flowers in every conceivable color and rhododendron-filled porcelain urns adorned the corners. The ballroom was richly decorated with floral motifs and brightly lit, with a small orchestra at one end. The tables in the supper and refreshment rooms at the opposite end creaked beneath the weight of all their dishes—from game, ham, and fowl to jellies, cakes, and trifles.

By all accounts, it was such a vulgar display of wealth that it nearly made Ravenna feel somewhat ill. Even by London standards, it was over the top. The obvious grandeur had a specific purpose. Either Lady Borne definitely had something to prove to the denizens of the ton, or she was hoping to marry off her daughter as soon as possible by attracting the best title money could buy.

Ravenna had only met Lady Bronwyn in the receiving line for the briefest of moments, and apart from the beautiful debutante gown, she wasn’t able to glean much about the younger girl’s personality. In truth, the poor thing looked pale and overwhelmed. She hadn’t seen Courtland’s sisters in years, but to her, Bronwyn looked the same, just slightly older. Chestnut-brown hair like Stinson’s and pale-blue eyes like her mother’s.

Lady Borne was a different story. Though she could not express public distaste for her stepson, now duke, who had arrived on the heels of the influential Dowager Duchess of Embry, her lip had curled into the slightest sneer when they’d greeted her. Ravenna had recoiled from the venom in the woman’s gaze as her eyes settled on Courtland. It was not something Ravenna had ever noticed before. Years before, she recalled the marchioness and her children mourning Courtland’s death, observed all traditions and sorrowfully accepted condolences from their peers.

This seething contempt was new. Or perhaps simply new to her.

“What is Lady Borne’s quarrel with you?” she whispered to Courtland as he escorted her down the marble stairs.

“Besides stealing her son’s coronet?”

She paused midstep. “It’s yours. You were always Ashvale’s heir. Even if they thought you were dead, you’re clearly not, and the title belongs to you.”

“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said, Ravenna?” he asked softly. “They claimed me dead when I was not, and my stepmother has always hated me for taking the position she desired for her own son. The only surprise here is why it was never formalized. Perhaps they were waiting for the old duke to die. Trust me, my being out of the way was no hardship for either of them. It was a windfall.”

Ravenna blinked. “That’s not true.”

“Is it so hard to believe? That she wanted me gone so her precious son could fashion himself as a marquess?”

“She mourned you.” Ravenna hadn’t been mistaken in her memory of the marchioness sobbing her eyes out, her face buried in her son’s shoulder as if her heart would break.

His smile was cold. “A pretense by a gifted actress, mark my words.”

Courtland drew her into the ballroom where the dancers were setting up for the next waltz. Ravenna was so shocked at her husband’s reply that she barely noticed all the stares and the whispers about the Duke and Duchess of Ashvale. Though they’d already had their own celebration, it hadn’t been in London. They would have one, with Lady Embry as avid hostess, but not for a few weeks. Invitations had already been sent out and most promptly accepted, but this was the first time they’d appeared in public together.

“People are staring,” she murmured.

He lifted her gloved hand to his lips. “Let them.”

And then Ravenna forgot everyone as her husband adeptly guided her into the first turn. She’d enjoyed his dancing skill before, and now she just gave herself over to the movements and his expert lead. She didn’t even have to count steps! For such a tall man, he moved with such effortless grace, every turn executed with flawless precision.

Despite the show of support with her mother, he’d made it clear that theirs was to be the most amicable and agreeable marriage known to man. While she fully intended to play along, her traitorous body had other ideas, flushing hot, then cold at every brush of his muscled frame against hers. His hand flexed at her waist, the searing imprint of his fingers cutting through gauze and tulle and making her blood simmer.

“You are blushing,” he murmured.

“It’s warm in here.”

His lips curled in a familiar way that had her dropping her gaze, her cheeks burning even more. “You look exquisite tonight.”

“Thank you.” Pleasure at the soft-spoken compliment drizzled through her. The gown itself was new, nothing different from the extravagant ball gowns she’d worn in the past, but tonight, she felt beautiful in the layers of emerald satin and blond lace. His eyes were glowing, she noticed. Whether that was out of appreciation or something else, Ravenna didn’t care. She wanted that light to remain. “So do you.”

And he did. Courtland Chase stood out. Notwithstanding his height, he simply commanded attention. His finely milled clothing followed the lines of his broad shoulders, tapering to his narrow waist, and the raven-black color and snowy-white cravat only served to set off his masculine beauty. It wasn’t just curiosity that drove so many glances his way. It was also desire and envy. Courtland wore wealth and power like a second skin. Ravenna frowned at a nearby lady who gazed up at him with a coy smile.

“You’re glowering now,” he remarked. “Do I have to call anyone out?”

She sniffed, cheeks on fire. “If anyone’s calling someone out, it will be me.”

“So fierce.”

“You still don’t trust that I can take care of myself, do you?” she asked, grasping his arm for the next turn.

Midnight eyes bored into hers, a smile softening those stern male lips. “I have no doubt, Duchess,” he said, her pulse leaping at the address. When others addressed her thus, the title chafed, but when he did it with that underlying hint of possessiveness, it thrilled. Not that she would ever admit it. “I am aware that you are quite accomplished in many things.”

He led her off the dance floor when the strains of music ended, much to her enduring disappointment. In the past, she’d always been more than ready to move on to the next partner. Dances were a way of passing the interminable time. She enjoyed the movement far more than she liked the tiresome conversation that always descended into some form of empty flattery. They wanted her dowry or her name or her connections.

“Embry’s duchess taught me how to fence,” she explained, when he handed her a glass of champagne with a quirk of one dark eyebrow. “She could acquit herself with the best of Embry’s most lethal men and fended off an attacker in my own home. I insisted on lessons and practiced diligently.”

“And your skill with a pistol,” he asked. “Has that sharpened?”

She grinned. “Care to test me?”

“No, I quite value my life.” The reply was gentle and fell over her like a soft cloud of approval. Ravenna basked in it. How she loved seeing him like this…almost human, a grin flirting over that indecent mouth, eyes lit with esteem…all those hard, roughened edges tempered by something she hadn’t expected from him. Playfulness. Affection.

Or maybe she was imagining things.

Stop being ridiculous. He doesn’t actually mean to seduce you.

A low rumble of laughter caught her attention. Mortified, she shot her husband a glance, hoping he hadn’t noticed her distraction, but of course she wasn’t that fortunate.

“What I would give to be privy to your thoughts just then,” he said. “You seemed to be having quite the internal debate.”

Her cheeks heated anew and she snapped open her fan to cool herself. “Was it so obvious?”

“It wouldn’t be if your lips hadn’t been moving. I think I caught the words ‘ridiculous’ and ‘seduce.’ I admit I am rather intrigued.” Courtland grinned, propping one shoulder on a nearby marble pillar. Despite the relaxed stance of his body, the light in his eyes smoldered, leaving her in little doubt of what such intrigue meant. To her consternation, she felt her body respond, liquid heat gathering in her belly and coiling down between her thighs.

Surely he couldn’t mean…?

No, of course not. He’d made it clear that nothing could happen between them. This was merely an act for everyone else, and she was the ninny misreading every little thing because she couldn’t think straight around him. Ravenna slowed her erratic fanning, even though the puffs of air felt good against her scorching face in the stuffy ballroom. Her skin felt as though it was on fire and he was the tall glass of water that could put it out.

Gracious, her thoughts were as ungovernable as her body.

She could handle an angry, fractious Courtland. It was the flirty, devilish side of him she had to be wary of. That man was of particular danger to her, as was evidenced by her current state.

“I assure you it’s not all that interesting,” she replied, snapping her fan closed and suddenly remembering all the coquettish movements she and Clara had practiced. If only there was a fan movement for I am curious and wish desperately to learn more of whatever wickedness you have to teach, sir.

Such a thing would likely entail dragging the tip of the fan down one’s neck and across one’s décolletage. Maybe even lower for the right emphasis. She wasn’t daring enough for any of those, not with him. It was curious. A year ago, she would have flirted unconscionably…dared to be so bold and more. She’d lived for provoking the sensibilities of the ton. Perhaps then it was because she hadn’t cared what any man thought of her.

But now things felt different, and not just because she was married. She did care what Courtland thought of her. She always had, even when he was dressed in short pants, his knobby knees covered in dirt as he built a fort between their estates because she’d suggested it. As a boy, he’d been her only confidant, and despite their volatile relationship, the only boy she’d ever trusted besides her brothers. And then he’d vanished.

“Why did you leave Kettering without a word?” The question burst out of her before she could stop it. This was neither the time nor the place.

He stared down at her. “Not of my own accord, I can tell you that.”

“Why didn’t you come to me if you were in trouble? I could have helped you.”

The light in his eyes dimmed, though his smile remained fixed. “You were all of fourteen. My only living parent sent me away. What could you have done?”

She bit her lip. Nothing. She could have done nothing. Even now, despite the illusion of independence she’d pretended to have, she’d always been impeded by the boundaries of her sex, of her station. She owned no property and wielded no power beyond what society had deemed appropriate.

Ravenna huffed a breath, horror filling her. “Wait, she sent you away?”

“Yes, with a purse full of money and a retinue of servants I fired the moment I gained my majority. I wanted no one telling her what had become of me. I was always a burden to her.”

“That’s not your fault. It’s hers for being a hateful person without a heart.”

He shrugged. “She was only doing what others in her place might have done, Ravenna.”

“Why are you defending her?” she asked with a scowl.

“I’m not. She’s dreadful, but I was the son of the marquess’s first wife and she wanted me gone. In hindsight, I was probably lucky. She could have had me thrown on a boat heading to the penal colonies if she wanted.”

She shook her head. “No, you’re wrong. Not everyone thinks like that. Not me, or my brother, or even my mother, and you know how set in her ways she is. Your stepmother must account for what she did to you.”

His throat working, he opened his mouth to reply, but then drew himself upright, eyes shuttering, and Ravenna wondered at the swift change. She didn’t have long to ponder it when his brother staggered into view, accompanied by none other than Mr. Sommers. Her immediate dislike of the second man intensified the minute his gaze fell on her. She did not realize the two men were acquainted.

“Good evening, Your Graces,” the rotund man drawled. “Did I get that right?”

Courtland canted his head. “Sommers. Stinson.”

“What are you doing here?” Stinson demanded, his face flushed, the pungent waft of whiskey surrounding him like a shroud. “You weren’t invited.”

“Do I need an invitation to my own house?” Courtland said, eyes narrowing. “The property is entailed, if you want to check with your solicitors.”

“You cunning bastard,” Stinson wheezed, going puce.

The insult wasn’t as quiet as he’d intended, if the nearby gasps were any signal. Sommers grinned a sly smile as though he were enjoying the spectacle. Curious eyes darted toward them, guests shuffling nearer in anticipation. Even Lady Borne’s blue gaze narrowed on them from where she stood near the refreshments room, but that could have been because she’d been keeping an eye on the whereabouts of the uninvited.

Ravenna scowled—she and her mother had received an invitation—so the slight was intended. Again, she stared at Stinson. She had never seen this disagreeable, ugly side of him. The Stinson she knew was charming and courteous to a fault…ever the perfect, if slightly ingratiating, gentleman. But perhaps that had all been some kind of act.

“You’re foxed, Stinson,” she said, sensing the tension in her husband double. She placed a hand on Courtland’s arm, the hard muscle flexing beneath her fingertips. “I advise you to stop and walk away before you say something you truly regret.”

Stinson’s blue gaze—so much like his mother’s, though at the moment red and watery—fell to her hand, scorn swimming in his look. “You advise me? Forgive me if I refuse, Your Grace. Even as a child you were oblivious.”

“That is enough, Stinson,” Courtland bit out.

The music in the ballroom hadn’t stopped, but necks were craning to see what was causing the commotion. Nearby guests had abandoned even pretending not to eavesdrop. Everyone was salivating at the latest on-dit between the two brothers. Despite Stinson’s unkind jab, Ravenna had to nip this in the bud before it escalated any more. Already, she could feel Courtland’s fury mounting, if his bunched muscles and tight expression were any indication.

“I thought we were friends,” she said quietly. “I valued our friendship.”

“Friendship,” Stinson spat out, a cold spiteful little sneer brewing on his lips. “Do you know who you’ve tied yourself to? He might have fooled you”—he waved an arm, nearly toppling himself in the process—“and everyone here. And Grandfather too. What a goddamned joke.”

“Stinson, control yourself!” The warning came from a feminine voice so icy a chill seemed to blow through the room, but either Stinson was too drunk to notice, or he was too far gone in his rage to take heed of his mother’s command. Lady Borne bore down upon them with two hefty footmen in her wake.

Stinson sneered. “Well, hear me, the jest will be on you. You and the frigid prize you married. Everyone knows about her. Even Dalwood says she’s as cold as any stone.”

A hard buzzing hummed in Ravenna’s ears, her breath coming inconceivably fast as a dozen stares converged upon her. She barely felt the duke move nor saw the fast snap of his fist before Stinson’s head was flying back. A spot of red marred the spotless white of Courtland’s glove and Stinson’s nose started to gush blood as he stumbled back into Mr. Sommers, Lady Borne’s footmen arriving in time to keep him upright. Shrieks permeated the ballroom and the music screeched to an ungraceful halt. The altercation had been so swift that even for those watching, it’d been a blink of an eye.

“Escort my son outside for some air,” Lady Borne ordered the footmen, and the stunned Stinson went, as meek as a lamb. Mr. Sommers followed with a circumspect look over his shoulder to the duke as though he hadn’t expected the vicious strike. Neither had Ravenna, for that matter, but that chary look from the American troubled her. “Carry on,” Lady Borne said to everyone else and clapped her hands. “Music!”

The band was quick to comply, music filling the hall. The dancing resumed and most people pretended to carry on their conversations, though they were still shamelessly eavesdropping. Lady Borne turned to her stepson, her cold gaze giving nothing away.

“Courtland,” she said with a practiced smile that stayed a far step from her eyes, considering her refusal to use his title. “I had hoped you would call upon me before today.”

His mouth tightened, but he canted his head. “Apologies, my lady. I was detained by urgent estate business.”

Though he did not correct her, Ravenna bristled on the inside and pasted a syrupy smile on her lips. “It’s His Grace, Duke of Ashvale, now, Lady Borne, but I am sure you knew that.”

That cold stare met hers, fury sparking before it was hidden behind a charming smile that made Ravenna want to scowl. The nerve of this woman. The utter cruelty of any mother worth her salt turning out her stepson to the mercy of the streets because of her own ugly biases. What mother could ever do such a thing?

One who wanted her own son to be duke, instead of the rightful heir.

Could Lady Borne truly hate Courtland simply because of who his mother had been? British lords married commoners more often than expected, and while society screeched its dislike, eventually the scandals died down. But those commoners would not have hailed from a place portrayed by British novelists as a one of savage inclinations and dissipation. Brontë’s words, as Ravenna had discovered herself, were especially misleading.

“Of course,” Lady Borne said to her. “It was with some surprise I found out the news of your nuptials from my son.”

Though her tone was as sweet as spun sugar, there was an underlying judgment in there that Ravenna did not take kindly to, as if she herself had made an unpardonable mistake. The underhanded slight that Ashvale wasn’t her son also didn’t go unnoticed. “Thank you, Lady Borne. We are rather happy.”

Her gaze fell to her husband who had peeled off his bloodied glove and was in the process of removing the other. It was considered uncouth to be ungloved at a formal event, but evidently, he did not care. Lady Borne looked horrified, and Ravenna took great satisfaction in that fact.

“Please, excuse me, Duchess, I need a moment,” the duke murmured in her ear, a steely dark stare flicking down to her, a dozen emotions brimming in them for the briefest moment before they were throttled to one. Anger. Not directed at her, she knew, but it affected her just the same.

Her heart shouldn’t have felt that statement—or his dismissal—as hard as it did, but the organ felt like it was splitting in half when she watched her husband walk away, cutting a wide swath through the guests as though he were a king.

Or a pariah.

Not for the first time, Ravenna realized she had no hold over him. Not as a wife, not as a lover, not even as a friend. Courtland Chase was an island onto himself. Circumstance and fate had decreed it so. Lady Borne had had a hand in that as well. Ravenna couldn’t conceive that his own family had conspired to chase him away from what was rightfully his, but she supposed intrigues like that occurred more often than not in the ton.

Prejudice and greed could turn people into monsters.

Case in point was the woman still standing at her side.

A deep sense of righteous indignation rose in her like a storm tide. Ravenna knew it wasn’t the time or the place, but she simply did not care. Before she could stop herself and before the other woman could leave, she stepped into Lady Borne’s space, lowering her voice. “How could you?”

“How could I what?” she replied.

“Destroy his life. Send him away. Break an engagement that wasn’t yours to break.”

Those hard eyes glittered with malice. “He was not fit.”

Ravenna bristled at the dowager’s disparaging tone, glad that Courtland wasn’t here to take in any of her spite. “And yet I find myself quite content to be married to the man to whom I had been promised so very long ago, regardless of your judgment that he was lacking in some way.”

“Stinson is Ashvale’s real heir, and perhaps he should have been your husband.” She sneered, thin nostrils flaring. “Not that he would ever take you now, tarnished thing that you are.”

“I am not a thing to be taken, Lady Borne.” Ravenna’s fingers itched to slap away that smug smile, but she kept them firmly at her sides. “You and I seem to have different understandings of the laws of primogeniture. Courtland is duke, not Stinson.” She exhaled, dissipating some of the rage that coiled within. “Why did you do it? Why did you tell my father he was dead?”

“You wished to be married to a bastard?”

“His father was married to his mother before she died and then he married you,” Ravenna replied, keeping her voice low. “His grandfather knew he was legitimate.”

“My father-in-law was not in his right mind, you silly girl.”

Ravenna kept her mounting fury in check. “I am not a girl, Lady Borne, and I’d much rather be called silly than a bigot. The truth is I feel sorry for you. That hate in your heart is a rot, one that has been left to fester, and it will be the thing to eat you alive.”

“How dare you speak to me so in my own home?” the marchioness snarled, gripping Ravenna’s elbow. “I’ll have you thrown out on your ear.”

Ravenna lifted a cool brow. “This residence belongs to the Duke of Ashvale, the man you cast out as a child because of your own selfishness, because you felt he did not deserve his birthright. Let’s not mince words, Lady Borne. You and your children live here only at my husband’s whim. Now please release me. I doubt the duke will be pleased with your threats to my person.”

The marchioness’s hand fell away, mouth opening and closing on an irate huff, and then her lips thinned with rancor. “You two deserve each other.”

“Thank you, I think so, too.” Ravenna frowned thoughtfully, tapping a gloved fingertip to her lip. “My sister-in-law—you know the Duchess of Embry, don’t you?—well, she has a saying about the things we put out into the universe coming back around, an intriguing phenomenon she calls karma, and I’d be very afraid, if I were you, Lady Borne.”

“Are you threatening me?”

Ravenna clapped a hand to her breast in mock surprise. “Of course not, my lady, it’s just some friendly advice.” Her smile grew fangs and she leaned in close. “However, in case such advice is unwelcome, then you should also know that Courtland is not a child and he is no longer alone. He has family and powerful friends, and we won’t stand by and watch him be maligned by the likes of you.”

“Dear me, you’ve become as savage as he is.”

“If being savage means fighting for what’s right and being a decent human being, then you are correct. Now, please do excuse me, Lady Borne, I have better things to do than sit here and try to enlighten the equivalent of a rock.”

Swallowing an unruly snort at Lady Borne’s affronted expression, Ravenna turned on her heel and left, the tension draining from her stiff limbs with each step she took. She recalled how things like prejudice worked—why Lady Borne thought she was better than the previous marchioness. She’d seen it for herself with her sister-in-law.

Most of the ton had sneered down their noses at her because her father had been an Indian maharaja, regardless of the fact that she had outranked them. Queen Victoria had welcomed her to court, where she entertained royalty from around the world all the time. Despite those things, Sarani’s heritage had still rendered her lesser in the eyes of many.

Ravenna couldn’t deny the similarities between Courtland and her sister-in-law.

But he was also a man, which meant he wielded more power than Sarani ever had as a woman. And he was an English duke, the highest rank of nobility. Ravenna understood that neither of those external things were of much consequence, however. Fear and insecurity ate away at a person from the inside. Courtland might be male and a duke, but he was still vulnerable.

And the truth was, no island, no matter how well barricaded, was unassailable for long.

With a determined breath, Ravenna went after her husband.