Rules for Heiresses by Amalie Howard

Twenty

Once they were out on the small upper balcony tucked away above the main terrace, Ravenna thrust a tumbler of whisky that she’d grabbed on the way out of the ballroom into her husband’s trembling palms. She had no idea what had shaken him so badly. Had it been the dance with his sister? What on earth had she said? From her own covert glances, after studiously ignoring the warm twinge in her heart, their dance hadn’t seemed contentious, and Courtland had introduced his sister to Embry, which he wouldn’t have done if Lady Bronwyn had been horrid.

Something wasn’t adding up.

Ravenna watched as he took a bracing gulp of the whisky, leaning heavily onto his elbows atop the stone balustrade. The crisp night air was cool, but not uncomfortable. She missed the balmy breezes and the fragrant air of Antigua, though not the sweltering ballrooms. Every place had its appeal, she supposed. Even London with its tainted Thames and glittering charm.

Moving over to stand beside the duke, she stared down at the guests milling out onto the terrace, smiling as one of two shadows disappearing into the arbor caught her eyes.

“This was my secret place,” she said softly. “I used to come up here as a child to watch the parties. I always wondered why some of those people would leave the beautiful ballroom to go into the creepy old gardens.”

“Did you find out?”

The rasp was low, barely audible, but Ravenna felt encouraged. “Hardly.” She huffed a self-deprecating laugh. “I was much too busy thwarting suitors to be seduced by a midnight stroll. And besides, that would have been a sure way to ruination.” She swallowed, her memory tainted by the thought of another here in this very house. “Darkness, whether in arbors or in deserted rooms, tends to bring out the predators.”

“You speak of Dalwood.”

The name sent a shudder through her. “Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Did she? Ravenna had never told anyone, not counting the sardonic confession in Courtland’s office an eternity ago. Not even Rhystan. Perhaps it would help with the coiling nausea in her stomach. She reached for her husband’s half-full tumbler and took a sip. The whisky burned a blistering path down her throat. Blowing out a breath, she stared into the fathomless depths of the night sky.

“It happened here, the night before I ran away on Rhystan’s ship. Dalwood wanted my hand in marriage. I didn’t want to give it. He approached my brother and was refused. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Her voice softened. “No…it’s such a small word, so easy to ignore, isn’t it?”

“It should not be. It means no.”

“I’m glad you think so, but for a man like Dalwood, it was not. He saw it as a challenge. I suppose I made it so by being so adamant in my refusal to marry.”

Ravenna was shocked by the savage curse that flew from Courtland’s lips. “Don’t you ever think it was your fault, do you hear me? You did not do anything to make him so. Nothing you could have done would ever excuse his actions. Nothing. That’s on him, not you.”

Something loosened inside of her at his words—guilt, perhaps, that she had somehow incited Dalwood to behave as he had. On the ship to the West Indies, she had mulled it over in her head, wondering if she was to blame. Her husband’s stalwart defense washed over her.

“One evening, he followed me from the retiring room and ushered me into the music room, saying he wished to apologize. I was worried, but not really afraid. I mean, what could he do to me in the midst of a ball at my own home with my brother, the powerful Duke of Embry, in attendance?” A harsh laugh tore from her throat. “I was so naive. What could a man do? Anything he wants, apparently.” Ravenna took another sip of whisky. “He said his piece. I accepted the apology and made to move past him. I sensed the threat a heartbeat before his hand went over my mouth. To stop me from screaming for help, I suppose.”

“That craven bastard.”

She bit her lip hard. “When you’re powerful and privileged, you think nothing can touch you, but depravity doesn’t discriminate. I can still feel his hot breath in my ear and his sickening arousal against my back. ‘You think you’re such a prize,’ he whispered. ‘How dare you refuse me? A marquess?’”

Panting, Ravenna cut off, reliving the horrible moment. The tension in Courtland’s body rivaled hers, his fingers flexing on the stone as though they were wrapped around Dalwood’s neck.

“He asked whether I would accept him then. It was that or suffocate. I could only nod. Yes was my path to survival. Then he unclipped my earbobs and necklace, and said they were to be a token of my esteem. You see, he could ruin me, compromise me, but I’d already refused him publicly. The jewelry was his insurance. He told me I had to announce my change of heart and our engagement later that evening, or he would expose what happened in the music room with my jewels as proof. I agreed, only to save my own skin, and then I ran.”

She swallowed. “I went upstairs, emptied my jewel case, changed, packed, and headed for the docks. Dalwood must have suspected I would run because he almost caught me, but I stabbed him in the ballocks with a hairpin. The rest you know.”

“I’m going to fucking dismember him,” Courtland swore and then gawked at her as her words registered. “You stabbed him? I thought you kneed him.”

“Credit me with some compassion, Duke. I didn’t want poor Lady Holding to have a fit of the vapors.” She sighed. “He put his hands on me. He intended to force me. It was the least of what he deserved. Who knew that a lady’s hairpin held between one’s fingers in a fist is more lethal than brass knuckles?”

“Remind me never to cross you.” He glanced at her short-coiffed hair. “And maybe to give thanks that you’ve no need of hairpins.”

Ravenna laughed softly. They stood in silence, leaning on the cool stone, the faint notes of the music in the ballroom reaching them. She peered up at him through her lashes. Some color had returned to his sallow cheeks, but his jaw still remained tight with strain.

“Your turn,” she said. “What happened down there?”

At first, she thought he wasn’t going to speak after she’d bared her deepest, darkest secret, but then he cleared his throat. “I did not expect to esteem my sister…or be esteemed in return. She said my stepmother did attempt to poison her against me, but she wanted to make up her own mind.” He paused. “She was close to my grandfather before he passed. She said he…spoke of me. With affection.”

“And that scared you?”

Courtland’s anguished gaze slammed into hers, so many emotions there that she could barely sort through them. The most potent of them was regret. Raw, aching regret. “I didn’t know. He sent letters that I never read. And until Bingham arrived with the news of his death, I’d kept him out of my affairs.”

“Why didn’t you read them?” she asked quietly. “The letters?”

He scraped a hand through his hair. “I suppose I was afraid. A part of me assumed he felt as Lady Borne and my brother had—like I was the bad son to be ignored and shunned. I couldn’t bear knowing that he might be ashamed of me. I had Rawley destroy them.”

“But why would you think that?”

“It was something Stinson said, that I would never belong.” He sighed. “I should have known that it was a lie. And now, because of my own stubbornness, I lost the chance of knowing someone in my family who gave a shit about me.”

“You still have a chance,” Ravenna said. “With Bronwyn and Florence. You have people who…care about you, Courtland. You have to let them in sometime.” She let out an uncertain breath. “I know you’re worried about rejection. We all have insecurities. You don’t want to need anyone, and I refuse to conform. We’re sharp square-cut pegs trying to fit into smooth, round holes. That doesn’t make us unworthy, it just makes us different.”

“How did you get so wise?”

“I am often accused of being a woman with radical views.”

“That you are,” he said softly. “It’s one of the things that drew me to you.”

Something snapped tight inside of her then…a feeling of acceptance, of rightness. Courtland saw her for who she was. For all his faults, he had never tried to change her.

The duke pushed off the balustrade. “We should be getting back or we will be missed. As much as I esteem my mother-in-law, I do not wish to be on the receiving end of her wrath.” Courtland took her palm in his, and though his usual shutters had now descended into place, a rueful smile curled the corner of his lip. They made their way back to the ballroom, where he paused at the entrance. “Ravenna, I know things haven’t been great between us. I just…I want to thank you for what you did.”

Her chest tightened, but she squeezed the fingers still twined in hers. She could not have ignored the pain on his face any more than she could have ignored a bleeding wound on her own body. She was still reeling that he’d trusted her with what had happened with Bronwyn. A man as fortified as he was didn’t share or trust easily. “You’re welcome.”

Courtland led her inside, whereupon they were instantly met by her mother. “Where have you two been?” she scolded. “Good gracious, I’ve had the footmen searching for you everywhere. It’s time for your dance.”

Ravenna frowned. “Dance?”

“Your wedding waltz.” Her mother shot her a caustic look. “I didn’t plan all this to celebrate someone else’s nuptials, wretched child. The least you could do is humor me.”

“Of course, Mama.”

She bit her lip at Courtland’s muffled grunt of amusement, though she felt a chuckle bubbling up in her own chest. They took their places, and then the music started. The minute Courtland started to move, Ravenna felt everything inside of her relax and settle. Everything about this waltz felt perfect. He felt perfect. Other couples joined them, but Ravenna barely noticed. All she could see was him.

Two square-cut pegs. And yet they fit perfectly together.

She smiled. Even though he could be an imperious toad at times, it wasn’t because he was overbearing. It was because he was protective. He’d tried to keep her at a distance, but she’d gotten close anyway, and that scared the daylights out of him. His little confession about his grandfather had opened her eyes. Despite his aloofness, Courtland wanted to belong. Everyone wanted to feel like they had a place somewhere.

Cast out at so young an age, he’d carved out a space elsewhere that was his alone, but knowing that his grandfather had held him in esteem—had loved him—was gutting. He’d never admit it—at least not in so many words—but, like her, he was desperate for acceptance. Perhaps that was why they were so alike…both searching for their places in the world.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” her duke asked.

She flushed. “Like what?”

“Like I’m a lost puppy you intend rescue.”

“You’re absurd.”

Courtland spun her into a turn and brought her close. “I don’t need saving, Ravenna.”

Despite the fond smile on his lips, his eyes were as impenetrable as cold flint. If she didn’t know better, she would have heeded the clear warning in their stony depths, but she wasn’t much good at doing what was expected or what one should do. “But maybe I do.”

“You’ve never struck me as a girl who needed any man to save her,” he said.

“I’m not, but I’ve decided that ‘saving’ is a flexible word.”

His lips twitched. “It is?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s whatever one needs it to be—liberating, redeeming, extricating, protecting, defending.”

“Extricating?”

Ravenna laughed. “From the webs of your own folly.”

“Are you insulting my considerable and cosmic intelligence, Duchess?” he asked in mock affront, the shine of those midnight eyes doing unconscionable things to her insides. A bubble of laughter built in her chest. She loved him like this—uncaring of rules and expectations. Just him. The sightings of the boy she’d known were rare, but she treasured them ferociously.

“Cosmic? Your ego is enormous.”

He arched a brow, yanking her scandalously close. Her brain nearly melted as his hardness grazed her belly. She gasped and he grinned. It was wicked and delightful, and she loved it. “See for yourself.”

Ravenna stopped and threw her arms around him, ignoring the gasps that went up to the rafters. She’d never been one for convention and she wasn’t about to start now. Her mother would be appalled, but she would get over it. They swayed together in the middle of all the dancers, not even remotely counting the steps for the waltz, but letting the music flow through them all the same.

“You are dreadful,” she whispered. “We’re in public, you awful man!”

“You like it.”

He was right. She did. She loved it. Loved him.

Oh my God.

Her entire body stiffened in horror. Of all the things she could have gone and done, this was probably—categorically—the stupidest. Because deep down, despite their occasional camaraderie and their deepening rapport, it was clear that Courtland would never be able to love her back. He was too scarred. Too fractured.

She couldn’t tell him. He could never know.

They’d always been friends though. Maybe friendship could be enough.

* * *

Courtland’s mind wandered for the dozenth time since he’d propped up a pillar in an unobtrusive corner of the ballroom. He’d been ready to leave two hours ago, but knew he could not. He watched his wife dancing with Stinson of all people, and though his fists clenched at his sides at the sight, he forced himself to be calm. Stinson was family. As long as he did not overstep, Courtland would tolerate it. This once.

His thoughts weren’t on his brother though. They were on his wife.

During the last part of their dance when she’d scandalized all in attendance by doing the unthinkable and embracing him, he’d felt the change in her like the first scent of a storm wind on the horizon. That glorious smile had remained fixed in place, but something in her eyes had shifted. She’d seemed…unsure and careful, as though she’d run headlong into a rose garden and was suddenly reminded of the thorns.

Usually, she was easy to read, but now, she had not been. It unsettled him. He tapped the side of his tumbler with a thoughtful frown.

“Looks like Lord Ethelrod is the new contender,” Waterstone said.

Courtland frowned at his friend. “What?”

“Ethelrod with your sister,” he said, jerking his chin to where Bronwyn was being escorted off the ballroom floor on the arm of a well-dressed young gentleman. “She’s had an unending stream of fops lining up. I’ll say that part one of your plan to see her wed is well and truly accomplished.”

Courtland didn’t know why that knowledge didn’t bring him the satisfaction he’d hoped. His sister had been launched as beautifully as a ship taking her maiden voyage. He should be happy. The suitors would be lining up at Ashvale House, requesting permission to court her. Then why did he feel slightly panicked as though his lungs had seized and he couldn’t draw in a single breath?

Waterstone leaned in, his voice low. “Sommers is here.”

Courtland froze. “Where?”

“Leading your duchess into a dance.”

He lurched forward instinctively, only to be held in place by Waterstone’s firm grip. Everything inside of him froze as he watched the man he despised more than anything put his hands on the woman he…

Grunting, Courtland drew a ragged breath and yanked his shoulder. “Let me the fuck go.”

“Don’t make a scene. We’re too close to endanger the operation now.”

Courtland swore savagely. “I don’t give a shit. That’s my wife.”

“It’s one dance.”

It was one dance, but the thought of Sommers touching her made him see red. He gritted his teeth, his rage simmering beneath his skin. Why would Ravenna agree to such a thing? She loathed the man. But the answer came to him as quickly as he’d asked the question. His wife’s face was tight, indicating her discomfort, but her smile was all single-minded politesse. Purposeful. Damn her infuriating, stubborn ways!

“What is she doing?” he ground out.

“What you told her not to, I imagine,” Waterstone said, relaxing his grip as though he was no longer worried about Courtland dashing off to play the hero. “Your duchess is…tenacious at the best of times.”

“Reckless,” he hissed. “Sommers is not someone to be toyed with.”

“Nor is she,” Waterstone said. “She’s bloody dauntless. I swear, if you hadn’t married her, I would have fallen head over heels in love with her myself. In fact, I might well be.”

“Just do your job. Watch her.”

“What are you going to do?”

But Courtland was already slipping around the periphery, keeping to the shadows of the ballroom like a shadow himself. He didn’t stop until he was a stone’s throw away from the dancing couple. His rage bloomed anew at the sight of the blackguard’s grasping hand on his wife’s waist. One day, when this was all over, he’d break those fingers that dared to touch what wasn’t his to touch. But not now.

Ravenna’s laughter rang out, and Courtland strained to listen to their conversation.

“You should visit my estate in South Carolina.”

“Should I?” Ravenna asked. For a moment, it felt like her eyes swept over where he stood hidden in the shadows of a statue and a fern. “I find myself…bored of late. Perhaps a change in…situation might help. Are you planning to head back soon, then?”

Courtland’s fists flexed as his wife gave the man a coy smile and Sommers licked his fleshy lips. Courtland’s blood boiled. What the hell was she doing? The American’s face twisted into a faint scowl, and Courtland’s foolhardy little wife was quick to pounce on it.

“Is something amiss, Mr. Sommers?”

“A minor inconvenience. Nothing to worry that pretty little head about.”

“Perhaps I can help,” she said.

He gave her a patronizing smile. “Not unless you own a ship.”

Courtland froze in shock. Could it truly be that easy? He felt his wife’s satisfaction from where he hid, rolling through her like a cat discovering the biggest bowl of cream known to man.

“But I do, Mr. Sommers. After all, what is my husband’s is mine to command.”

Sommers stared at her, eyes narrowed, but then he smiled as the last strains of the dance ended. He lifted her hand up to press a kiss to the back of it. Ravenna lowered her gaze, quick to hide the flash of revulsion, but Courtland still saw it.

“Perhaps I will take you up on that offer. Thank you for the dance.”

Once Sommers was out of sight, Courtland lost no time in dragging his rebellious wife off into a deserted room down the hall. He slammed the door shut and opened his mouth to give her the blistering she deserved when she rose up on tiptoes, crashing her lips to his. Her sweet tongue invaded his mouth as she clutched at him in frantic urgency. Ravenna arched her spine, gluing herself to him as much as their cumbersome clothing would allow. She demanded his participation and he gave it, matching her ferocity as his mouth claimed hers, tongues dueling for dominance and then gentling to something less like war.

“I need you, Courtland,” she rasped, breathless and breaking away to fumble at the fly of his trousers. “Erase the memory of his hands on me with yours.”

Panting, he stared down at her, reason returning with fury fresh on its heels. “Why would you do that? Engage him?”

“He needs a ship. I offered him one.”

Courtland blinked. “I think he’s expecting a lot more to come with that offer.”

“I don’t want to talk about Sommers.” He groaned as her hand found him, hot and hard and pulsating. “In fact, I don’t wish to talk at all.” She shoved him back onto a nearby settee, the backs of his legs hitting the frame. With a yank of his buttons, his trousers slid over his hips, baring his obscenely jutting length to his wife’s hot gaze. A bead of arousal gathered over his aching tip. To his utter shock, his wife bent, gathered it with a heated swipe of her tongue over the head, and then shoved him backward.

She moaned, as if savoring the taste of him. “More of that later, I promise.”

His cock jerked at the hunger in her eyes.

“Someone could come in,” he rasped, falling back onto the cushions. He hadn’t locked the door. Anyone could discover them. It wasn’t in him to care about scandal, but for some reason, he did.

“They could.”

But then he forgot all protest as his wife lifted those shimmering lavender skirts and climbed onto the sofa to straddle him. Her hands disappeared under those yards of fabric, and the sound of ripping drawers filled the room. It was the only warning he had before she sank down onto his cock. Courtland’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head at the silken sensation of her blanketing him, owning him.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You feel so good.”

He stared into Ravenna’s molten copper eyes, her pupils blown with lust and need and something else that she tried valiantly to hide. Her lashes dropped as she increased her pace, her movements jerky and frantic. Courtland felt the tension building in the base of his spine as his duchess chased her pleasure and teased him with his own. A wild sob fell from her lips, her pelvis grinding into his as she used him ruthlessly. She was close to breaking, and so was he. With a cry, she convulsed around him, the clenching of her sex fueling his own release.

Courtland stroked a lock of hair from her face as their breathing slowed and calmed. There was something decidedly erotic about the fact that they were both still fully clothed, and yet connected so intimately beneath her skirts. He felt himself softening inside of her, but he did not move, not wanting to relinquish the soft clasp of her body.

Ravenna worried her bruised lip. “You must think me such a wanton. I don’t know what came over me.”

“An orgasm?”

Her face flamed. “You’re quite good at delivering those.”

“I’m not sure I had much to do with that last one,” he said, teasing her and loving the flush that spread over her glowing skin.

“Part of you did,” she said gesturing down to where they were still intimately joined.

Courtland nodded. “A very happy part.”

But as the haze of pleasure faded, neither of them could ignore what had brought them there in the first place. Ravenna stood, accepting the handkerchief he offered her with a blush, as he tucked himself away and put his own clothing to rights. When the last of her skirts fell into place, she gripped the square of damp cloth in her hand.

“That’s mine,” he said, reaching for it.

She frowned. “But it’s soiled.”

“Still mine.” There was no way he was going to leave such an intimate thing lying around for anyone to find. He pocketed it and glowered at her as she made to leave the room without any explanation or apology. “Do you honestly have nothing to say for yourself about Sommers?”

His brazen wife opened the door and shot him a saucy wink.

“Yes, Your Grace. You’re welcome.”