Rules for Heiresses by Amalie Howard

Sixteen

Courtland dragged his fingers through his hair, standing at the window in his study and staring mindlessly out to the moonlit gardens beyond. Hell! The bloody chit was going to drive him into an early grave. Notwithstanding his constant interest in his wife’s whereabouts, which had not diminished as he’d expected it would after their coupling, he was a mess. He’d fucked women out of his system before, but apparently she was there to stay, lodged beneath his skin like a prickly burr because he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Fantasizing about her.

Those long legs hitched over his hips.

Her gorgeous face in the throes of orgasm.

That beautiful body that fit his like a silk-lined glove.

Cursing his weakness, Courtland adjusted the instant swelling in his trousers. Every second sodding thought was of her. When he tried to do estate accounts, he was plagued with memories of her hands all over him at this very desk. A brisk walk in the small gardens was curtailed by erotic thoughts of what transpired in the conservatory. If he went for a ride in Hyde Park, all he could think of was her putting him through his paces…and riding him to grueling satisfaction.

It had been barely a fortnight, but the days had become interminable, even with his attempts to stay busy with the estate finances, investment meetings, and sessions in the House of Lords. He took his dinners at his club. Yet, whenever he set foot in the house, he pined for a glimpse of her. Yearned to hear the husky rasp of her voice. Longed for the musical notes of her laughter.

He’d become a besotted fool!

And then, his willful wife had left him without a word. If it wasn’t for Rawley, who he’d put on her tail, he wouldn’t have known that she was planning to visit Embry’s duchess in Hastings or that the foolhardy chit would attempt to travel by public transport on her own. Arranging for one of his private railcars was the least of what he wanted to do…besides dragging her home and locking her in her chamber for being so reckless. Thieves and flashmen were rife in that part of town.

But Courtland knew that attempting to cage her would only lead to chaos. His duchess was a free spirit who wasn’t meant to be confined. As such, he’d ordered Rawley to shadow her along with two men for protection whenever she left the residence. Courtland had many enemies, including one he was keeping close to his side in Sommers. Not to mention Stinson, who seemed to be nearing the end of his rapidly fraying rope. Ravenna was not safe, especially with those around who would have no compunction about hurting his new duchess to get to him.

Apart from a short telegram detailing her safe arrival at Hastings, there’d been no other communication from his cousin. It’d been a night and nearly two days. He didn’t doubt Rawley’s skill, but he also knew what his wife was capable of. And if she discovered she was being followed, who knew what the impetuous, contrary-minded hoyden would do?

A knock on the door made him swing around.

“The Earl of Waterstone, Your Grace,” his butler announced and then paused, clearing his throat. “As well as His Grace, the Duke of Embry, and Mr. Rawley.”

Rawley.Was his wife back, then? Ignoring the two large peers crowding the study, he met his man’s eyes and was rewarded with a small nod. Relief flooded Courtland’s bones in an instant, the heavy tension over his shoulders finally lifting.

“Ashvale,” the earl said. “How’s ducal life?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Valentine, it’s Courtland. And you’ll know soon enough when your uncle dies.”

Waterstone gave a mock scowl. “Only my mother called me Valentine, God rest her sweet soul. And Uncle Bucky has promised to live forever.” He shuddered. “Being a duke is too much work.”

Courtland would agree with that.

“You look like shit,” Embry told him grinning widely. “Anything to do with a little bird flying off to Hastings for a couple days?”

“Fuck off, Embry.” Courtland tugged on a sprig of hair, and catching the amused look from the duke, dropped his hand. He was sure he looked a mess. His hair was uncombed, his clothing mussed, and he probably stank like a distillery. He cleared his throat, wanting desperately to find out why she’d left without a word, especially now that she’d returned. “Was all well in Hastings?”

Hell, even that sounded needy.

Embry spared him with an arch glance, but nodded. “Sarani said that they had a wonderful time. She was grateful for the visit, given how long I’ve been away.” He poured himself a drink, his voice lowering slightly. “She said that my sister looked well, if not so elated with her change in situation.”

It felt like he’d taken a blow to his midsection. Courtland didn’t know why, but the fact that she was open about her unhappiness gutted him. Not that he’d expected her to pretend to be a content, radiant bride, but they were in this together. At least for the moment. He was to blame, however. He’d been an insensitive bastard and more, but the truth was that confronting his own feelings had terrified him.

“She’s not happy to be a duchess?” Waterstone interjected. “Or to be married?”

Embry sighed. “My sister is…unconventional in her views. I suppose she’s always had a bit too much independence for a young woman of her station. She gave me a devil of a time with suitors, refusing every single one. Dalwood was adamant in his suit, and I thought she’d have chosen him until she pretended to visit her friend Clara in Scotland. When I received word that she was wedding Ashvale, though I’ve yet to get to the real truth of that tale, I was at my wit’s end.”

Courtland forgot the ache in his belly, his rioting emotions finding a new, worthier target. “The Marquess of Dalwood?” Both men turned at the leashed violence in his tone.

“You’re acquainted with him?” Embry asked.

“No,” Courtland bit out.

Rage settled within him, replacing his frustration with himself, but rage he could handle. Anger had been his constant companion for years, and he knew how to throttle it into better use. His grandmère had taught him to fine-tune its edges and direct it toward a purpose. He’d let anger drive the accumulation of his fortune, let it shape him into the man he’d become.

Until Ravenna, he’d embraced no other emotion, needed no other emotion. Pleasure took a distant second, and affection didn’t factor in his life whatsoever. However, he would take pleasure in destroying Dalwood, and not just for Ravenna’s sake.

“What do you know of him?” he asked. “The marquess.”

“He used to be leader in the younger set, but rumor has it that he’s rusticating at his country estate recovering from a severe groin injury.” Courtland fought back a slow and gratified smile. Ravenna would be delighted. “As far as his character, he’s smug, arrogant, rich. Much like half the gentlemen in the ton.” Embry sipped his drink. “As a matter of fact, he’s good mates with your half brother.”

Courtland scowled. Of course he was. Like attracted like. With friends like Stinson and Dalwood, who needed enemies? No wonder Ravenna had gone running as far away as she could get, only to tumble right into his arms. She isn’t happy to be married. The reminder gutted him. When this debacle with Sommers was all said and done, he’d put the offer of separation to her again.

“What’s the news on Sommers?” he asked.

The earl pursed his lips. “Still trying to get funds for his cause from various Englishmen. Palmerson hasn’t been so stealthy in his support of the American South, but the truth is, no one wants to get entangled in an expensive overseas conflict. Sommers has many private business relationships with those who do support him, however, particularly in Liverpool.”

Courtland eyed the government operative. “Any closer to catching him?”

“Close.”

That was the best he’d get out of the closemouthed British operative. The truth was that Courtland wanted Sommers gone from London and away from Ravenna. He’d seen the way the man leered at her. Not that she couldn’t handle herself, but Sommers was here because of him…because of a favor he’d owed Waterstone. He did not want Ravenna anywhere near that man’s crosshairs.

He glanced at Rawley. “Any news from our contacts at the port in Liverpool? What of John Laird and his shipbuilding yard?”

“My men report that Sommers has been in communication with them by telegram.”

That did not surprise Courtland. “What about associates in Hong Kong?”

“Russell and Company is alleged to have some illicit business in Canton, and Sommers is supposedly paying for a ship to put into port at Liverpool, whereupon its cargo will be arranged to go to his lands in the Carolinas for distribution.”

Waterstone’s eyes narrowed. “The shipment needs to be on your liner with him on it for us to have any chance of catching and detaining him.”

Courtland nodded to Rawley. “Find out whose ship it is and pay whomever you need to get that rerouted. Make sure he has no other options but me.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Rawley said.

“Are you sure you don’t want to work for Her Majesty as a spymaster?” Embry asked him with a grin. “You’d make an excellent addition to Waterstone’s ranks.”

“No, thank you.” Courtland lifted a brow. He wasn’t cut out to be a spy. “Sommers is personal.”

“Then I pray I never get on your bad side.”

“As if neither of you would do the same,” Courtland remarked. Notwithstanding that Waterstone was one of the queen’s most cold-blooded infiltrators, the Duke of Embry also had a reputation for ruthlessness. Both men were honorable to a fault, however, and he admired them for what they had achieved.

Embry was a couple years older than he was, and he’d gone to Eton, not Harrow. Waterstone was a transplanted New York–born peer who’d come back to England because his uncle was dying. Rumor had it that he was a double agent working for the Americans as well as the British Crown, but with the earl, one could never be sure. Even his wife was fake—a necessary deception that made most people look the other way. After all, who would look twice at a dandified earl with a coquette of a countess on his arm? It was the perfect disguise. The perfect diversion. Even Ravenna had fallen for the ruse, believing them madly in love when they were little more than colleagues.

“Where’s your better half?” Courtland asked.

“Working another angle for information.” Waterstone arched a brow. “Where’s yours?”

“My duchess is not a spy.”

The earl’s grin was so wide, it nearly split his face in half. He waggled his blond eyebrows. “As far as you know.”

Courtland shook his head, dismissing the man’s absurd ramblings, and then froze. He swiveled, frowning at the knowing look on his friend’s face and shifted his gaze toward the closed study door. No, his wife would not be so bold as to eavesdrop, would she? As quickly as the idea came to him, he discarded it before laughing at his own idiocy.

Of courseshe’d be listening.

She was Ravenna, a rebel through and through. Now that he thought about it, he’d bet his entire fortune that she was standing just beyond those doors, ear pressed to the wood. For how long was anyone’s guess, though he imagined it would have been from the moment Embry and Waterstone arrived. If his duchess was one thing, it was inquisitive. The appearance of her brother and the earl would have been lure enough.

“Care to make a wager?” Waterstone asked snidely, catching the direction of his glance. “On what’s beyond that door?”

The ever ascetic Duke of Embry covered his laugh with a cough. “I can’t take that bet because of…reasons.”

“Reasons that have red hair and brown eyes?” Waterstone joked.

Courtland blinked. His wife’s beguiling image appeared in head. Her hair was not merely red, it was auburn with streaks of russet and cinnamon. And her eyes were the color of rich, potent sherry until she was caught in the throes of passion…and then they became molten gold-dusted copper. Fuck, even knowing she might on the other side of that door flooded him with lust. Tamping down his desires, he strode to the door and opened it.

There was no one there.

With a small, satisfied grin, he turned to set the mistaken Waterstone in his place, and watched as his smug friend burst into cackles better suited to a witch than a grown man. Courtland froze, thought for a moment, and then a huff of self-deprecating laughter tore from his chest. He shook his head in defeat and closed the study door.

The clever little minx wasn’t outside the study because she was already inside.

* * *

Ravenna had forgotten how much energy it took to stay perfectly still…to barely breathe, while keeping her entire body from cramping in misery. That Earl of Waterstone was distressingly sharp. She could tell by the way his hawkish eyes took in every detail, cataloged every move and every change, even something so small as a whisper of air on the other side of a room.

Perhaps that was a bit of a stretch, but suffice it to say that he was more observant than most. Rawley, she knew from experience, was also alert. Her brother was no slouch either; he very rarely missed anything. If she’d had to guess, at least two of the men in that room had been spies, were currently still spies, or were planning a future in spying.

Her husband, however, had seemed distracted for reasons unknown. Courtland was a mess, his hair rumpled, clothing askew, and he looked like he hadn’t had a shave in days. She’d gotten an eyeful of that strong, bristled jaw when he’d walked past to the study door. Ravenna wondered what it would feel like to kiss his face…to feel those unshaved whiskers abrading the sensitive skin of her bare thighs.

No! Not the kind of thoughts to be having when she was seconds from discovery, peeping on a private conversation with two dukes, an earl slash spy, and her husband’s man of business whom Ravenna was nearly certain might also be an active agent of the Crown. But she couldn’t help it as her body flushed with heat and the faintest of exhalations left her lips. Her husband faltered midstep, though he did not look in her direction.

Damnation.

If Waterstone hadn’t heard the tiny gasp, she might get off scot-free. From what she could discern, the earl was currently half collapsed in his chair from mirth over a joke she’d missed, and her brother just seemed amused. But Ravenna should have been paying attention to her husband because the duke had halted in place, face thoughtful. For a horrible moment, she feared imminent discovery, and then, a bark of laughter broke from him.

Shaking his head, he strode past her hiding place, the alcove where what looked like a broken decorative bust used to be, not even sparing a glance in her direction. Ravenna fought back a silent sigh of relief. It was tight, but provided just enough space for her to wedge into without being noticed. The duke went over to the mantel and poured two glasses of brandy. Since her brother already had a drink, she assumed it was for the earl.

“You might as well come out, Duchess,” Courtland drawled.

Goodness, was he referring to her? Ravenna stilled, not even daring to breathe.

“If you stop breathing, you’ll swoon, and that alcove won’t hold you.”

Well, shit.

Ravenna considered her options. She wasn’t ashamed of sneaking in behind Rawley, the footmen, and the butler. She’d only just returned from Hastings and had donned a loose shirt and a pair of her male alter ego’s trousers, much to the horror of her lady’s maid. But truly, she’d been sick to death of petticoats and crinolines—and becoming Raven Hunt if only for a moment had made her feel less trapped. The dark clothing had been a boon, allowing her to slip unseen into the dimly lit study.

And then she’d listened in on the most enlightening conversation known to man. She might as well own being brazen. Giving her chin a determined toss, she stepped from her shadowy hiding place to meet the expression of her irate if resigned brother, a beaming Waterstone, an exasperated Rawley, and lastly, her blank-faced husband.

“Gentlemen, my wife,” Courtland said, lifting one of the glasses and holding it out to her. “The extraordinarily crafty Duchess of Ashvale.”

At the veiled sarcasm, Ravenna opened her mouth and closed it. She had no excuse and would not apologize for her choices. It was the only way she’d learn anything, after all. At the very least, she’d expected a few secrets, maybe about the closed-off man she’d married, though not the veritable treasure trove of information she’d been privy to.

Ravenna was still reeling from what she’d discovered.

One, Waterstone was, in fact, a British spy. Neither was he truly married. She could have sworn he and his countess were a couple from their passionate display on the Glory, but what did she know of love and marriage? Perhaps, Lord and Lady Waterstone were simply brilliant actors. However, if the kiss she’d witnessed had been a fraction of what kissing Courtland had felt like, there was no way it could be false. Perhaps they were lovers in addition to being covert associates.

Two, the Marquess of Dalwood was likely going to meet a dreadful end, given the deadly look on her husband’s face, unless she could convince her husband to leave well enough alone. Though a tiny, furious part of her wanted the marquess to suffer and never again try to compromise a young lady.

And three, the least surprising news was that Sommers was a rat and smuggler. She’d known there was something off about the man, and the fact that he still supported such an evil, vile system, made her ill. She felt no pity if he got caught by Waterstone.

What, however, was perhaps the most astonishing revelation of all was that Courtland appeared to have missed her while she’d been gone. If his question to her brother hadn’t been a dead giveaway, the expression he’d tried to hide from the men by turning around in her direction gave her a first-row view of it. He’d looked devastated and desperate, and for an unguarded moment, his entire heart had been on his sleeve.

Ravenna risked a glance at her husband, taking in his now stoic but drawn features as he held out the glass of brandy. Light flickered in the unreadable depths of his eyes as he took her in. Up close, that dark unshaven jaw made her want to graze her fingertips against it. She wanted to muss his clothes even more and, most of all, growl at everyone to leave.

Instead, she took the glass and sketched a jaunty bow.

“Mr. Hunt, I presume?” her husband asked.

Her cheeks heated as she remembered her change in clothing. Rhystan had seen her in breeches before, especially in Kettering, but she was certain Waterstone hadn’t.

Her brother scowled. “Hunt?”

“Mr. Hunt. Captain Hunt. I knew there was a connection.”

“You dreadful liar,” Ravenna blurted out. “I told you who I was to save my own skin from the bloody stocks.”

The confession was out before she realized her mistake. She didn’t dare look at her brother.

“What stocks?” Rhystan asked.

Courtland gave a sly grin and propped his body against his desk. The action pulled his fawn-colored trousers tight across his lean hips. Ravenna had to forcibly avert her eyes and then expunge the salacious thoughts that crowded her mind…of those very same hips driving her to obscene heights of pleasure. She should be angry with him for goading her into giving up what should have remained a secret to eternity, instead of the lascivious direction her thoughts were taking.

Avoiding her brother’s gaze, she sipped from her glass, nearly choking as the brandy went down the wrong way. Once the liquid courage kicked in, she put her attention on her brother instead of the man who made her want to tear her hair out and her clothes off in the same breath. “A misunderstanding, nothing more.”

Rhystan scowled. “That dismissive attitude might work on everybody else, but not me, sister dear. Explain what you meant.”

“I was playing vingt-et-un at his tables, if you must know!” she burst out. “And he tricked me after I won fair and square. When he accused me of cheating and threatened to throw me into the stocks, I had to confess my identity.”

Waterstone guffawed, clapping his knee. “Bloody capital!”

“Have a care, Waterstone,” her brother growled before spearing her with a flinty blue gaze. “Did you cheat?”

“No!” Ravenna went hot; she’d only thought about it for half a second, but that wasn’t cheating.

Courtland tapped his fingers against his glass. “She held nine cards totaling twenty. Those odds are suspect so what was I to think? And besides, other gentlemen had been complaining about her emptying their pockets for weeks.”

That part was true. She’d made a killing, but she hadn’t cheated.

She’d counted…then lost count…then bluffed.

“I didn’t cheat, for the love of God, but I needed the funds to live and those men were easy pickings,” she grumbled and glared at her husband. “But then, you had to show up and ruin it all, didn’t you? I could have been done and gone in a day.”

“Gone where, Ravenna?” Courtland asked silkily.

“Another island, damn it. Somewhere far from you!” She peeked at her brother when she felt the spike in temperature, the room brimming with two very displeased males. “Can we drop my paltry transgressions and focus on what you’ve all been hiding? That you’re gentlemen vigilantes trying to entrap a criminal?”

Waterstone sniffed. “I take offense at the term ‘vigilante,’ madam! I’ll have you know that I have every confidence of Her Majesty, the Queen.”

“Noted, and while I’m certain I don’t know everything there is to know about my husband, I would know if he were a spy. Rawley, I would bet, used to be a spy or in the military. And Rhystan has always had his fingers in as many troughs as he could manage though he is not currently employed as a spymaster, or his duchess would have his hide.”

“How would you know that I wasn’t?” Courtland asked.

“You wouldn’t serve the monarchy of a place you feel betrayed by,” she replied quietly, watching when her husband’s body went tense, though she’d kept her voice low. “You value your financial worth above all else, and you much prefer to remain king of your island of isolation instead of answering to anyone. No, the only master you serve is yourself unless it suits you, as it does because you have a personal vendetta against Sommers.”

“He killed some laborers who left Antigua to work on his lands. When they refused to work without fair compensation, he beat them to death. Word got back to their families in Antigua and that’s how I learned about it.” Courtland tightened his lips. “Add that to possibly smuggling people under the guise of merchant goods. Sommers is a poor excuse for humanity.”

“I agree, which is why you need my help.” Ravenna gave a grim smile. “As bait.”