Rules for Heiresses by Amalie Howard

Nineteen

The note delivered to Courtland had only an address on it. There was no sender’s name, only a time and a place with instructions to go alone. It could be a trap, or it could be a response to the numerous requests he’d put out for paid information on ships that Sommers might hire or any dockyard men willing to risk dodgy employment for significant coin. Courtland had sent for Waterstone, but perhaps it would pay to be prudent. He stood, reaching for his brace of pistols. He’d instruct Rawley to inform Embry as a precaution.

On his way out, he caught sight of Ravenna in the salon, her fingers drifting over the keys of the pianoforte. Dressed in a lavender dress that complemented her coloring, she was so breathtakingly lovely that it made him falter. Courtland’s pulse caught as the sunlight from one of the paned windows turned her auburn hair to liquid fire.

Her maid, sitting quietly on a nearby chair, caught his eyes but he shook his head as he approached on silent feet. “I didn’t know you played,” he said.

“Well, you don’t know much about me, do you?”

“Touché.”

She didn’t sound surprised by his quiet approach, and he wondered if it was the same for her. Whenever she was in a room, he knew. It was the strangest thing, as if some deep part of him, some part of his soul, recognized its own counterpart in her. Scowling, he shook the whimsical thoughts from his head as her fingers glided over the keys in a somewhat familiar melody.

“Mozart?” he asked.

“Bach, actually.”

Courtland hesitated. “Ravenna.”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“This restriction is only temporary. I don’t want you to get hurt, and I can’t keep an eye on you every moment of the day. You’re safer here, at home.”

Her playing halted with an abrupt, harsh discordant note. “Will you keep me locked behind closed doors for the ball tonight, then?” Eyes the color of warm brandy lifted to his. “Or will you keep me glued to your side like some missish, helpless twit who hasn’t lifted a finger in all her life? I’m not made of glass, Courtland.”

“Still flesh and bone.”

She scowled up at him. “Before you came along, I was managing just fine, remember? And besides, if it’s Sommers you’re worried about, he wasn’t invited this evening.”

Courtland’s eyes narrowed as something flashed in her gaze that looked disturbingly like guilt before she tried to hide it. What was she up to now?

“I’m going out,” he said. “Stay put. Rawley will be here.”

“Wonderful,” she said, her fingers crashing down into an ominous sequence that sounded too much like an incensed Beethoven. “My favorite warden. I’m even starting to prefer your cousin’s company to yours.”

“It won’t be for much longer.”

But she didn’t respond, her talented fingers flying over the notes with a skill he hadn’t realized she possessed. Once more, his young wife astounded him. Then again, Courtland didn’t know why he should be so surprised. The woman was an enigma, full of secrets.

Outside, he met Waterstone, who was waiting atop a plain black coach, one that Courtland preferred to use whenever he was going incognito. Since the instructions had said for him to come alone, the earl was acting the double duty of coachman. Courtland gave him the address and climbed into the carriage. As they rolled away, he caught sight of Ravenna’s face peering down from the front window. Thankfully, he’d left Rawley behind. The man had strict instructions not to let her out of his sight.

No doubt she’d try to escape. Possibly follow him.

Because she was a menace to herself.

Courtland let out a breath, easing the growing tension in his lungs. Hell, he couldn’t understand how easily she threw herself into danger. Even as Mr. Hunt, she trod a perilous path. And it wasn’t that he didn’t think she could defend herself, if push came to shove. He knew she was capable. He just didn’t like what knowing she could be in danger did to him. His very being was consumed with her, and that wasn’t sound.

Courtland scrubbed his palm over his face. He needed to get this business with Sommers done so that he could return to Antigua and put this all behind him. For an instant, he felt a fleeting ache in the vicinity of his heart at the thought of leaving Ravenna behind, but he ignored it.

Waterstone’s hard tap on the roof reached him, letting him know they were nearing their destination in Covent Garden. He peered out the window. It was a seedy, narrow street that allowed little light from the crowded buildings, but he could see the crooked sign over the tavern indicated on the note—The Spotted Hog.

Courtland checked on his brace of loaded pistols and swung his greatcoat over his shoulders. He also had a pair of knives tucked into his boot, and if all else failed, his fists would be just fine. Hopping out of the carriage, he exchanged a silent look with the earl, who patted his own brace of pistols. The man gave a slight nod. If Courtland wasn’t out of the tavern in five minutes, he was to follow.

But he’d barely gotten to the entrance before there was a shout and he was rushed by half a dozen men. “Footpads!” Waterstone shouted, leaping down into the fray.

Courtland took a fist to the gut and another to the jaw. He couldn’t get a hand to his pistols, so he struck out, letting his training take over. Punch, jab, hook. Weave. And repeat. After a moment, he managed to clear space enough to take account of his assailants. There were more than six, he realized. Three of them lay groaning on the ground around him, one out cold. Waterstone had thrown another into the wall, while pummeling a fifth and sixth bloody.

Two others faced him, knives in hand. Courtland reached for his own knives and wiped the back of his mouth with one hand. They rushed him as one, but he ducked and lashed out, catching one of them across the ribs. The man’s howl was loud, drawing more men from the shack of a tavern.

“Fight!” one of them shouted.

Fuck.He had to end this and get out of here before it turned into a free-for-all. He jammed the hilt of the knife into the last man’s chin and swung around to shout for Waterstone. The man was already running for the coach and climbing up.

“Get in!” the earl growled.

Courtland reached for his pistol and shot it into the air, the sound crashing through the filthy alleyway. Screams abounded, but he didn’t wait to see whether they would recover and rush him. He ran, jumping for the rail of the coach as Waterstone drove by. They made it out by the skin of their teeth, gaining speed as the crowd faded behind them. Only when they were nearing a safer part of town, did the earl stop, jump down, and slam open the door.

“Did you get hurt?” he demanded.

Courtland shook his head, patting himself down for injury. “Nothing lethal.”

“That was an ambush,” a grim-faced Waterstone said. “But by who? Sommers?”

“Not likely. He needs my connections. Could have been a coincidence. It was a dodgy part of town.”

But he knew it’d been no coincidence. Courtland had an inkling that it might be his brother—he’d solicited bully ruffians at Harrow—but this felt different. These men had been paid to maim or even kill. Besides Stinson and Sommers, who else was he missing? He had many other enemies across the sea, but not here in London.

He stepped from the coach with a wince. His ribs ached and he’d taken a full fist to the jaw. His lip felt as though it was swelling to twice its size. That would go over well with his mother-in-law—getting into fisticuffs the day of his wedding ball. Perhaps he could come up with some excuse. Maybe he could blame his duchess. Courtland grinned. She had a mean right hook.

“Why are you smiling?” Waterstone growled. “You were nearly drawn and quartered.”

“Stop being a milksop. I was smiling because I will look a sight tonight for the ball. Lady Embry will have conniptions.”

The earl stared at him. “You’re worried about a dowager at a ball after you just got set upon by footpads?”

“You’ll understand when you get the chance to meet my mother-in-law tonight.” He sighed, touching his fat lip and flinching. “Come, let’s get back so I can figure out what to do with this and get some ice or a poultice on it before my wife sees.”

* * *

“What in the world happened to your lip?” Ravenna demanded.

It was the first thing she noticed, descending the staircase to meet the duke before they left for her mother’s residence. Well, the second thing at least. The first was how distressingly handsome her husband looked in his elegant formal wear—from his raven-black jacket and trousers to a dark-green waistcoat and pristine white shirt and cravat. If there was one thing that could be said for him, even when she was frothingly angry, it was that he wore a suit of clothing exceptionally well.

He looks fantastic naked, too.

Ignoring that salacious inner voice, she focused on what was an obvious and recent injury. Ravenna narrowed her eyes on the cut at the corner of his mouth. His lips were full, but the lower lip had a plumpness to its curve that was out of the ordinary. The more she looked, the more she saw the purplish hue of a bruise beneath the brownish-bronze glow of his complexion.

“Sparring with Rawley earlier,” the duke said, eyes widening in appreciation as he took in her diaphanous lavender gown with its silver trim and overlay of spangled star-colored tulle. “You look ravishing.”

She preened at the compliment and the melting look in his eyes, but she kept her expression composed. No need for him to see any weakness from her. She had to stay strong. “Don’t try to change the subject. Since when does Rawley ever get the drop on you?”

“Since my minx of a wife became a distraction.”

She frowned. “I wasn’t even there…if what you say is true.”

He lifted her palm and drew his lips over her gloved knuckles. “You don’t have to be far from me to have dominion over my thoughts, Duchess.”

Ravenna drew in a clipped breath, filling her tight lungs. While his comment sounded like a compliment, she knew it wasn’t. A part of him resented that she was in any way, shape, or form on his mind. Courtland was single-minded, and he was the kind of man who hated distractions. It was the reason behind his draconian demand that she stay locked up like a naughty child. Her hurt returned in full force. She yanked her hand away and eyed him coldly.

“We will be late if we don’t leave. Let’s get this evening over with.”

She did not wait to be offered his arm, but swept past him to the waiting ducal carriage. A pair of matching horses pawed the ground restlessly, and she took a beat to admire them as well as the gleaming coach with the Duke of Ashvale’s coat of arms. For all her husband’s faults, he had style. Ravenna rolled her eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing she was impressed. She’d been raised the daughter of a duke and was well accustomed to pomp, circumstance, and luxury.

“Thank you, Rawley,” she said to her husband’s man who helped her into the carriage. “Is it true what my husband said about you being responsible for that bruise on his face?”

Rawley froze, and the momentary dilation of his pupils before he nodded told her all she needed to know. The injury wasn’t Rawley’s fault, which meant her husband had lied through his teeth. How had he come by it? And why did he need to hide the truth from her?

Across from her in the coach, the duke glanced at her, his dark eyes conflicted as if he had something to say but couldn’t find the words, and they stared at each other in interminable silence. Something inside clawed at her heart, and for one stupid moment, she wanted to throw herself into his arms and beg him to hold her. Thankfully, her bottom remained firmly planted on the seat. She arched a quizzical eyebrow. “Is something on your mind? You seem agitated.”

He opened his mouth and closed it. “I don’t like this distance between us.”

“You put it there, Your Grace, when you forbade me to leave the house like a misbehaving brat.”

Courtland flinched at the icy reply. “Ravenna, please, try to understand. I don’t want this evening to be awful for you. I’d like for us…to be friends.”

“Friends,” she echoed and then glared at him. “We are not friends, you thick lummox! We are two strangers playacting at being husband and wife. At best, we are enemies with a common goal of hoodwinking the ton. So right now, all I am focused on is putting on a good show so that you can marry off your sisters, claim respectability, and placate God-knows-who before you divorce me and fuck off back to wherever it is you intend. Did I get that right?”

She sucked in a breath, her eyes inexplicably smarting. She would not cry!

“Ravenna.”

She lifted a palm. “Just don’t, Ashvale. There’s nothing you can say that can fix this. You don’t trust me. You lie about your injuries—”

“And you haven’t lied?” he shot back.

“I wouldn’t have to if you trusted me at all! But the cold Courtland Chase trusts no one, does he?” The duke glowered, his handsome face tight in the flickering gas lamps of the coach. Ravenna throttled her emotion, knowing this wasn’t the time or the place to quarrel, but she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to hurt him the way she’d been hurt. “The great Duke of Ashvale is an island unto himself, and God save the soul of anyone who gets close to those rocky shores. It’s a wonder you have any friends at all.”

Tension unspooled between them, ugly and thick.

She wanted to take back her harsh words, but couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“Now you see,” he said gently. “The real me.”

Ravenna wanted to scream that that wasn’t the real him at all. It was a mask he wore to keep himself apart from the world and everyone. He held people at arm’s length so that they couldn’t ever hurt him, and she’d just gone and proven that with her thoughtless, angry words. Why did he have to make things so difficult? Two absurdly stubborn people should not be in the same room, much less confined in a coach as they were.

“I wish to call a truce for tonight,” she said as they pulled up in the line of carriages in front of her mother’s residence. “We have a job to do. I made you a promise and I shall deliver on it.” She let out a breath. “And in the interests of transparency, I have a feeling that your friend Sommers will be here tonight.”

A dark gaze slammed into hers, but she was already up and stepping down from the coach into the crush that crowded the marble steps.

* * *

After Ravenna’s bombshell, Courtland kept a close eye on the guests, but there was no sign of Sommers, not that anyone was easily visible in this crush of the beau monde. Except for one, that was. He watched as his wife danced a rousing polka with her brother, her face alight and her mouth pulled into a joyous smile. She was radiant. There was something about her that outshone every other lady in the room. And it wasn’t that stunning lavender and silver dress that made her look like a shooting star, flaring across the heavens.

“She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

Courtland tore his gaze away and glanced down to the woman at his side who was gowned in a heavily embroidered jade dress with intricate trim. He’d been introduced to her earlier, Embry’s striking duchess with the insightful stare that had cut right through him. She speared him now with a similar shrewd regard.

“Quite, Your Grace. Or should I say Princess?”

“Please, it’s Sarani. I’m not big on formality as you will undoubtedly learn.” She sipped on a glass of champagne. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Not all of it dreadful, I hope.”

“Not in the least.” Her smile was quick. “Ravenna tells me you’re a bit of an entrepreneur in the West Indies, that you invest in land and property and shipping among other things?”

Courtland canted his head. “Liners mostly, for passenger travel. Engines have always fascinated me.”

“She did mention your fabulous ship, the Glory,” Sarani said. “I hope to travel on it one day and experience it for myself.”

“You are welcome aboard any time.”

They watched their spouses in companionable silence. Oddly, Courtland felt completely comfortable in the duchess’s presence and without the pressing need to converse that he often felt with other aristocratic ladies. Although he remained aware of her occasional curious glances at him, particularly when Ravenna let out a peal of laughter at a twirl in the dance or when her eyes caught his and he felt his entire body twitch in visceral reaction.

“You care for her, don’t you?” Sarani’s voice was soft, and when he turned to her, she tilted her head, erasing the denial on his lips. “It’s obvious, if one knows what to look for.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“The way you follow her with your eyes. Even when you’re looking elsewhere, they always come back for that reassurance that she’s still there, as if you need to ascertain it. It’s in the way it feels like your very beings are connected via some invisible tether. When she enters a room, you brighten, and when she leaves it, the world dims.”

“That sounds quite poetic.” He kept his expression composed. “If rather fanciful.”

Her smile was soft. “No less true.” She finished her champagne and pursed her lips in thought. “I haven’t known Ravenna very long, but she’s loyal to a fault. And she loves with her whole heart once she’s decided that someone is deserving of it.”

“I assure you she does not feel that way about me.”

But as Courtland looked back toward where his wife was dancing, he felt the lie deep in his bones. They meant something to each other, that was for certain. Otherwise, the thought of ending things wouldn’t hurt so damned much.

Sarani’s gaze tipped up to his, a smile making her eyes sparkle with merriment. “Watching the two of you realize how perfect you are for each other is going to be fun.”

On that amused note, the princess-turned-duchess wandered away in a flurry of brilliant skirts. Courtland didn’t have the chance to disprove the absurd claim that he and Ravenna were perfect for each other.

Except in bed.

It was the only space of concord between them. What would it feel like to be loved wholly and unreservedly by someone like Ravenna? One would never be in any doubt. She loved wholly. Fiercely.

The arrival of Bronwyn on the arm of Stinson thankfully claimed his attention. Lady Borne was conspicuously absent, but that was no surprise. She would make a statement any way she was able. It surprised Courtland to see Stinson, however, though his mouth was pinched disagreeably as if the ball was the last place he wanted to be. Then again, given his mother’s aspirations to secure a good match for her daughter, she wouldn’t want to make too much of a statement by not having Bronwyn attend. He suppressed a chuckle. The marchioness’s ambitions were all too transparent.

He made his way over to the other side of the ballroom where Bronwyn had been unceremoniously dumped by Stinson. Courtland couldn’t help noting how lovely she was. The real question, however, was whether that loveliness matched what was on the inside. His first inkling came when her face lit up as he approached.

“Brother!” An instant blush filled her cheeks as she dropped into a curtsy. “Goodness, I do apologize. I meant ‘Your Grace.’”

A stunned Courtland faltered. That she would address him as an esteemed relation spoke volumes. The cynic in him warned that it could be a ruse, but the earnestness in the girl’s face was too genuine to be false. Or perhaps he simply wished it to be so. He smiled warmly. “I much prefer the first. How are you this evening, Lady Bronwyn?”

“Quite well, thank you. I’ve only just arrived, abandoned by Stinson who claims he has business to attend to.”

Courtland frowned, and immediately tried to find his brother in the crowd. The man had disappeared from view.

Bronwyn gave a small shrug. “Don’t worry about me. I’m used to it, and I’m well aware that my purpose is to acquit myself to my best advantage and ensnare a suitable husband with my overflowing beauty and charm.” He gave a startled grin at her couched cynicism, and her already red cheeks flamed. “Do forgive me, Your Grace, er, I mean, Brother. I’m not usually so…outspoken.”

“Don’t worry, I’m rather attached to the trait myself,” he said and offered her his arm. Little Bronwyn was turning out to be quite refreshing, much more like him than he’d expected. “Shall we dance then? Display you in the manner fit for a duke’s sister?”

“I would be delighted, but you don’t have to. I’m sure Stinson will return shortly.”

“I insist. It’s my duty as your elder brother.”

Her smile was bright. “Then I accept.”

As he led Bronwyn to the ballroom floor, it didn’t miss his notice how much attention they were gathering from others, especially from the unattached gentlemen in the room tracking Bronwyn with interest. Good. Courtland caught the glance of his wife who was now dancing with Waterstone. Approval shone in her eyes. Approval and something else. Tenderness? When she saw him looking, she tore her eyes away. Whatever it had been, it did not explain the sudden surge of tightness in his chest as if she’d reached in and grabbed hold of his heart.

“Why didn’t you come back sooner?” his sister asked when he led her into the first turn.

Courtland almost stumbled. “What do you mean?”

“Why haven’t you visited us before?”

He frowned and cleared his suddenly thick throat. “I didn’t think I would be welcomed. In fact, I’m surprised you’re dancing with me. I’d expect your mother would have warned you away from me on pain of death.”

“Oh, she has,” Bronwyn said. “But I want to make up my own mind. I’ve heard such stories of you, you see.”

Courtland blinked. “Stories?”

“From Grandpapa before he died. I visited him nearly every day, and we became quite close. Mama encouraged it, thinking it would set us into his good graces, which it did, but not in the way she hoped.” Warm blue eyes met his. “People thought he was addled because of the illness, but it varied by the day. Some days, he was as sharp as a tack. Others, he didn’t know me. On the days he was lucid, he spoke of you a lot.”

The lump in his throat widened once more for his grandfather, who had never given up on him. The notion that not everyone had reviled him was like a fist squeezing around his lungs. “What did he say?”

“How smart you were. How much you reminded him of Papa. How tenacious you were.” She laughed. “That, he said, reminded him of himself. He told me about your accomplishments in Spain, and then in the West Indies, and most of all, he spoke of how proud he was of the man you had become. At first, I was shocked because of course Mama and Stinson had told us all you were dead, and we were very young, but still the house went into mourning. But Grandpapa said you were very much alive and it was to be our secret. I hoped to see you for myself someday, and here we are. He was right. You are everything he claimed.”

He did stagger then. “He didn’t know me after I left England.”

“I think he knew you better than you think.”

He stared at her. How was his sister only eighteen? She spoke with the wisdom of someone much older than that. His mind was spinning in confusion and shock, underscored by a bone-deep yearning for acceptance he hadn’t felt since he was a boy. It unsettled him.

They finished the dance, and he escorted Bronwyn over to where the Duke of Embry stood with Ravenna watching with mirth as Waterstone attempted to convince Sarani to join him in a rousing polka.

“Gents, ladies, may I present my sister, Lady Bronwyn. It’s her first season.”

“Embry,” Ravenna said to her brother brightly. “You must ask the lady to dance. I’m sure Sarani wouldn’t mind, if she’s to dance with the earl.”

“Certainly,” the duke said with a gallant bow. “My lady?”

As they joined the other dancers, the attention of two dukes in Lady Bronwyn’s favor would not go unnoticed, Courtland knew. Now that that was done, he had to get some air. He let out a shallow breath and tugged on his shrinking cravat.

His sister’s revelations battered him. His grandfather—the late Duke of Ashvale—had been proud. For the first time since boyhood, Courtland’s eyes stung.

“Your Grace? Courtland? Are you well?”

His gaze found Ravenna’s concerned one. “I need—” His voice trailed off in a strangled gasp.

“Come with me.” A slender hand grasped his, and all he could do was follow.