Rules for Heiresses by Amalie Howard
Three
Courtland didn’t question her skill with the weapon—he knew it firsthand. And the truth was though he’d known the girl, he didn’t know this brazen woman who’d lived the life of a man for the past six months or who held the pistol with such unwavering confidence. By age eleven, she’d already been a crack shot. “Are you going to shoot me, Ravenna?”
At the sound of her given name, her fingers flexed on the handle but her eyes hardened. “I will if I have to.” A loud knock banged on the outer door to the office. “Or whoever comes through that door. Get rid of them.”
“Your Grace?” Rawley called out, making Courtland wince. He was sure his cousin was delighted to take the piss with the title. “Bingham won’t leave without seeing you.”
“Not a good time, Rawls.”
There was silence. Perhaps, he’d get the message. Perhaps not. Courtland wasn’t a man given to nicknames. “Very well, I’ll try again later,” Rawley said.
Rounding the desk to where he stood, Ravenna waved the pistol and set her eyes on the safe resting behind it. “Open that up and put the contents in that satchel.”
“Stealing is as bad as cheating, you know.” Squatting down, he obeyed her demands. She was close enough that he could probably tackle her and wrestle the gun away, but if the weapon discharged, she could get shot. He wasn’t willing to take that chance, no matter how much fury filled his blood.
“I’ve never cheated, and at this point, it’s survival.” Her voice sounded resigned. “It’s my mess, and I have to clean it up. I always knew it would come to this. I’ll pay you back someday, I promise.”
Huffing a breath, he stared up at her, the sack full of banknotes in hand. “It’s not a crime to ask for help, you know.”
Her smile was small. “How can you help me? You pretended to be dead to your own family for eleven years, hiding out here in Antigua of all places. And now that you’re a duke, you don’t even seem to want the title.” She blew out a sigh and reached for the bag. “It doesn’t matter. Honestly, I don’t think even an army of dukes could help me right now.” A dark laugh slipped from her lips. “I can see the headlines now: Lady Ravenna Huntley, plowed by a shipload of sailors, all hail the Hussy Heiress.”
“It has a certain ring to it.”
“Not funny, Ashvale.” She backed away toward the door, the pistol trained on him. “Grant me this one answer then for old times’ sake. Why don’t you want to go back to England? You’re a duke now. You’ll be celebrated.”
For the first time in his life, he didn’t shy away from the question though his gut churned with the usual ugly combination of shame and rage. He rose slowly and inched round the desk, propping his hips on it. “Who’d celebrate me as duke? Not my brother.” He lifted a hand. “I am of mixed blood. One single drop corrupts the whole, or so the dogmatists say.”
Confusion crossed her face. “I don’t understand.”
“My mother was a mixed-race woman. Granddaughter of a French silk merchant and his placée. She was a free Creole.”
“So?”
Surely she couldn’t be this obtuse. “So I’m not a blue blood.”
“I realize that you are of mixed origins,” she said slowly. “But you still bleed scarlet like the rest of us.”
“I’m glad you think so,” he said, not disguising his sarcasm.
Flushing, she paused as if considering her reply. “Clearly, I’m not one to judge or offer sage advice. I can’t claim to know what you’ve been through, but I saw my sister-in-law stand up to a ballroom full of bigots, and I witnessed my brother fall madly, hopelessly, irreversibly in love. And she’s of mixed heritage.” She exhaled a breath. “Eventually, you’ll have to go back to England and be the duke. I hope you do it on your terms, Courtland, not because someone with a dried-up excuse for a brain told you that you weren’t good enough or you didn’t deserve it.”
In an ideal world, perhaps such a thing would be possible, but this was reality, and his reality included a stepmother who wished him gone and a younger brother who would prefer he had never been born. Courtland didn’t want to ponder the soft earnestness behind Ravenna’s words, not right then as she moved away from him toward the door. At best, she might make it through the hotel, but would be stopped by his men. At worst, Rawley would be waiting to eliminate the threat. “Lady Ravenna, please stop before you get hurt.”
She’d nearly reached the door. “Have a nice life. Don’t look for me.” She smiled at him. “And for posterity, I’ve always loved the color of your skin, even when we were children. Me, the color of paste, and you, so beautifully golden-brown as if you were lit from the inside with pure sunlight.”
The sweetness of the sentiment moved him, but Courtland couldn’t savor it. He would later, if they got through the next few seconds. She twisted to turn the doorknob, her attention slipping from him for one heartbeat, and he dove, launching himself across the room. His attention was on the pistol in her hand and making sure neither of them accidentally got shot if Rawley did come through that door as Courtland suspected he would.
Sure enough, the door shoved open at the same time that she unlocked it, the force propelling her body in his direction as his cousin attempted to barrel his way inside. By pure luck, Courtland managed to shield her with his frame and knock the gun upward in the moments it took for the two of them to tumble onto the plush Persian carpet.
The pistol discharged into the wall with a boom, making his ears ring. The scent of spent gunpowder singed his nostrils as he wrestled the weapon out of her grip when they collided with the floor. He absorbed most of the impact, the breath whooshing from his body, and he grunted, but he didn’t release his hold on her even as they rolled to an ungainly halt in a lewd tangle of limbs.
Chest to chest, hip to hip, her heart galloping wildly against his, they’d landed in an obscene heap, his thighs wedged indecently between her trouser-clad legs, his body sprawled over hers in mimicry of an act he was beginning to crave with every rapid beat of his pulse. All of Courtland’s hard edges cradled into her softer curves…perfectly as if they’d been crafted for each other. In that moment as he collected his absent breath, even though she’d very nearly put a bullet in him, all he wanted to do was kiss her.
The fall had damaged his brain, clearly.
A breathless moan breached those tempting, parted lips, the sultry sound daggering through him. It wasn’t a sound of pain, but one of unguarded pleasure, and all of his marauding senses distilled to one thing—her.
Courtland was already at half-mast; now his lower body leaped to painful, rock-hard attention. She felt him. He could see it in her widened pupils and hear it in the tiny hitch in her breathing. Heated copper eyes peered up into his, and a pink tongue darted out to swipe at her plump lower lip. That hot gaze slid to his mouth. Did she want him to kiss her? Her hips shifted infinitesimally as if in silent answer. He narrowed the distance, hovering over her mouth and leaving the last millimeter up to her.
Hell, he’d die if she didn’t want it as much as he did.
But the daring hoyden didn’t hesitate, her lips surging to meet his.
The feel of her was sublime, the demanding pressure nearly making his eyes roll back in his head as she fused their lips together. She smelled of lemon balm, but beneath the citrus, he detected the slightest hint of plumeria. Courtland breathed in, curving his arm up behind her shoulder to cup her nape, parting his lips and coaxing her to do the same with an urgent flick of his tongue. Moaning into his mouth, Ravenna opened instantly for him.
Not wasting a single second, his tongue delved in and found hers, seeking her warm, pliant depths, another sound of pleasure escaping her. A hint of wine from earlier at the tables clung to her lips and tongue, but beyond that was a taste all hers. Like dessert and decadence. Honey with a hint of hot island peppers. Intoxicating.
Craving more, he thirsted for every silky inch of her skin. Dragging his lips away, he dropped heated kisses down her jawline to the poorly tied cravat that hid the length of her elegant neck. Her pulse fluttered madly, echoing the equally frantic thud of his.
“May I?” he muttered insensibly, fingers hooking into the knot.
She sighed yes, eyes dilated with need, and he wasted no time in removing the offending fabric gathered at her throat. He’d barely tugged it off before his lips descended again in nips and brushes and desperate licks against her fragrant skin. His busy fingers anticipated his wants and moved to the opening of her shirt. Courtland was a hairsbreadth away from ripping the damned thing in half when the clearing of a throat halted him midmotion.
Ravenna froze beneath him, and they wrenched apart to stare at the gaping door, where half the hotel stood, including a grinning Rawley and one red-faced, utterly aghast Mr. Bingham.
* * *
“There’s no hope for it. They’ll have to marry at once.”
The solicitor’s solemn proclamation broke the spell that was holding her body in place, pinned like a rag doll beneath the Duke of Ashvale’s very muscled, very hard bulk. Ravenna could feel every last inch of him, including the straining ones pressing lewdly—deliciously—between her thighs.
Despite being untouched, Ravenna wasn’t that innocent. A girl didn’t pretend to be a man and live on a ship without hearing about more than a few filthy things. But for the first time in her life, she wanted to experience all the erotic stories she’d overheard. Why had no one told her what kissing a man could feel like? That a tongue could be so sleek and persuasive? That teeth could scrape and nibble and tease into a frenzy. That the world could end and she wouldn’t even notice.
She’d felt that kiss in her breasts, in her belly, and between her legs…taking over her every nerve like a tidal surge. Suddenly, she wanted him to kiss her again, their uninvited audience be damned.
Deuce it, there was an audience!
Her cheeks flamed anew.
“Get off me,” she muttered, shoving fruitlessly at the duke’s hard chest, but attempting to move him was like trying to move a boulder. Mortification spread like a tide through her body at the sight of the somber solicitor. The late duke’s man of business, and from his appalled expression, a very proper, stick-in-the-mud, all-for-propriety-and-blue-blooded-decorum Englishman. Blast her dratted luck.
“I won’t marry him,” she blurted out, finally wiggling away and scrambling to her feet.
“I don’t intend to wed,” Courtland said at the same time, rising and moving to his desk.
Good, then the matter was settled.
Mr. Bingham stepped into the room, nodding to one of the prune-faced ladies at his back to accompany him. He closed the door to the office behind them. Ravenna blinked. The woman was older and clearly nobility, given her gown and stance. It was obvious Bingham intended for her to be a chaperone, though Ravenna didn’t know what dregs of modesty she’d be expected to protect. The ruined cat was well and truly out of the bag.
A resigned expression passed over Courtland’s face, a suffocated noise leaving his lips as if he was realizing the same. “Lady Holding,” he greeted. “Good to see you.”
Ravenna’s heart sank. Good Lord, could her luck get any worse? Lady Holding was a denizen of local society. In addition, she was a passing acquaintance of her mother’s from when they were in finishing school and they still kept in touch. It was the reason Ravenna had chosen Antigua in the first place. She had read her mother’s correspondence with Lady Holding and the island had felt familiar. Any remaining dregs of hope she’d had to get out of this unscathed died a sad, swift death.
“Not so nice on your end, I’d wager, Your Grace,” Lady Holding replied with a toss of her well-coiffed head. “The tongues will be wagging after today.”
Her eyes moved to Ravenna, who met the lady’s stare evenly, though the weight of judgment made her skin prickle and itch. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Lady Ravenna, and your wild, unseemly exploits, so much so that your poor mother has despaired of ever finding a proper match for you.”
“I’m not ready for marriage,” she said calmly. “Embry knows this.”
“Then the fault lies with your brother, the duke, for not taking you firmly in hand.”
Ravenna almost snorted. The day when any man felt he could take her in hand would be the day that hell became a wintry wonderland. The irony wasn’t lost on her that Rhystan’s wife was also an unrepentant hellion who did not live by any man’s rules, least of all her brother’s. Ravenna nearly giggled at the long-suffering expression on Courtland’s face, a look she recognized. He’d thought her unchecked and out of hand for years.
“Your mama writes that Dalwood approached Embry with an offer for you,” Lady Holding went on.
A wave of pure disgust buried Ravenna’s amusement. “Dalwood is a revolting pig I wouldn’t let near my worst enemy.”
Lady Holding huffed, face going purple. “Well, I never. The marquess is well connected and an acceptable match for a girl of your station.” She peered down the length of her hooked nose at her. “Though at this point, you’d be lucky to receive any offer from anyone worth his salt, and the fortune-hunting scoundrels will come out in droves.” She tossed her head and stared down her long nose at the solicitor. “Mr. Bingham, I cannot help the chit if she refuses to be helped.”
“Lady Holding, with all due respect, I would rather marry a disease-ridden, money-loving cur than that man,” Ravenna bit through her teeth.
The incensed lady started to reply, but Courtland lifted a palm with narrowed eyes. “Did he say or do something untoward?”
“Planning to defend my honor, Your Grace?” Ravenna asked.
“Stop it. Answer the question.”
Ravenna’s jaw clenched. Fine. He wanted to know? Then she’d tell him. She’d tell all of them. “Said and did. Lord Dalwood’s singular obsession led him to corner me in a locked room at a banquet. It was only by a miracle that I managed to escape unscathed and in possession of my cherished virtue.” Even as Lady Holding gasped with outrage at her plain-speaking, Ravenna saw Courtland’s eyes go wide in understanding and then darken with fury, a muscle beating wildly in his cheek. “Don’t worry, I left a mark on him that he won’t soon forget,” she added with a shark’s grin. “Right in his cursed, tiny ballocks.”
Dalwood had gone down like a sorry sack of shit. Her sister-in-law, Sarani, had imparted that valuable instruction: a knee was always best, but when severely limited by skirts and petticoats, a swinging fist released with as much force as possible could do as much damage to those tender parts. But with the manhandling marquess, Ravenna had gone one step further, not that she’d admit to exactly what she’d done. Suffice it to say that Dalwood got what he deserved.
“Well, I never!” Lady Holding screeched. “Such lies. You are a disgr—”
A low growl erupted from the man beside her. “Not another word, Lady Holding, or you will find yourself removed from my presence.”
Heart hammering, Ravenna wanted to stare at him, but she kept her gaze averted. She’d anticipated no one would credit her for speaking the truth, but Courtland’s rebuke sounded like the opposite. Unexpected warmth slid through her veins. He believed her.
Mr. Bingham gave a discreet cough into the tense silence. “Let me be clear here, Duke and ladies, and state the obvious. You were witnessed on the floor in an extremely compromising embrace. Lady Ravenna, you are the daughter of a duke and sister to one, and are yet unmarried. As such, the damage to your reputation will be unsalvageable.” He took a measured breath, letting the impact sink in. “Your Grace, it is your duty as a gentleman to make reparations. In the most placid way I can say it, you have compromised the young lady.”
“No, he categorically did not—” Ravenna began.
“He’s right,” Courtland interrupted. “We might not be in England, but the rules of society and civility still apply.”
“Well, I disagree,” she fumed, all earlier warm thoughts of him slipping away. She glared at Bingham. “I kissed him as well. If anything, I compromised him, yet you don’t see me flinging marital platitudes at his head. We were both at fault and now we can each go our own separate ways like reasonable adults.”
But they were angry and utterly useless words. A gentleman of honor—even one with scruples as skewed as the hard-nosed Courtland Chase—would never let a lady face the consequences of ruination alone. She saw it written all over him…the silent and martyred acceptance of his fate. Of her fate.
Devil take him.
Wasn’t he rumored to be hard-hearted and cold-blooded?
“I won’t,” she said again, louder this time.
He lifted a brow. “Such protestations. Afraid you’ll fall head over heels in love with me?”
“As if that would ever happen, you arrogant clod. I don’t enjoy being entrapped.”
“Imagine how I feel.”
Bingham cleared his throat again, and they both stared at him, she in impotent wrath, Courtland with amused restraint. “Even with a marriage to a man well respected in local society here, the gossip will not be curbed. Lady Ravenna will still be spurned.”
“I don’t care about any of those blockheads in the ton!” she bit out.
Lady Holding sniffed. “You mightn’t, but what about your mother, the dowager duchess? What about Lord Ashvale’s younger stepsisters, the elder only months away from making a suitable match herself? Your actions have much broader consequences than you can imagine, you selfish girl.”
Helpless tears stung at Ravenna’s eyes, even as her lips tingled at the memory of their kisses. She should never have entered this stupid club! She should never have played cards with him. None of this would have happened.
“Why couldn’t you just have let me go?” she whispered.
Courtland’s jaw clenched at the accusation in her tone, but he addressed his words to his late father’s solicitor, no amusement in his tone now. “I gather that a duke will have greater success than a mere mister at silencing the chinwaggers and the tide of gossip.”
Bingham nodded gravely. “I fear it is so.”
“Then, fine, a ducal wedding, it is,” he said with a martyred sigh that made Ravenna want to scream. Because there was nothing she could do besides watch the trap of wedlock snap taut.
Not a deuced thing.
* * *
A grand wedding was the least of Courtland’s problems. At the top of the list were his family and the storm he knew would be coming from his stepmother and Stinson in particular. After all, he was well aware that Stinson had been falsely pretending to be the Marquess of Borne for a number of years, while everyone—except their grandfather—presumed the elder brother dead. Even in his bedridden illness, the late duke had kept regular tabs on Courtland’s life.
The steady arrival of the letters had been baffling. Why write? Why keep track of his grandson’s whereabouts? Why the interest? Courtland had been gone for eleven years. Surely Stinson would have done his due diligence to secure his position as their grandfather’s heir. Make it legal and binding. His brother would have stepped up to the role in a heartbeat. Hell, he’d already adopted the title of marquess.
Even from a young age, his half brother had sought to discredit or beat him at everything. If Courtland did well in lessons, Stinson would insist that he had cheated. If Courtland won an archery tournament, Stinson would demand lessons from a private instructor. Courtland’s stepmother had always indulged her precious son. The only time Stinson hadn’t dogged his footsteps was when Courtland had left England.
Jerking at his collar, Courtland barked a dry laugh. Engaging in a public war with his family by returning to London to claim his ducal birthright wasn’t something he wished to do. Because now the venom-filled Marchioness of Borne and her rotten son would crawl back into his life…all because of one willful chit he hadn’t been able to resist. If he could turn back time and do as Ravenna had asked—let her walk out of the Starlight—he would have done so in a heartbeat.
None of this was ideal.
Hissing softly, Courtland raked his palm through his hair. The little brat had always been more trouble than she was worth.
Cordy, let’s climb this tree.He’d broken his wrist from the fall.
Cordy, I dare you to steal the pudding from supper.He’d been thoroughly caned.
Cordy, kiss me.And now, wedlock.
To be fair, she hadn’t asked him to kiss her, but she might as well have. The touch of her lips beneath his had been explosive. In a handful of breathless seconds, he’d wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any woman. In the heat of the moment, he’d have given up every penny of his fortune just to finish what they’d started.
Courtland scowled. No woman in his life had ever been able to get to his marrow and burrow under his skin the way she had…the way Ravenna always had. His scowl deepened.
Like an aggravating, flesh-mongering beetle.
As if summoned by some divine or darker force, the door to the chapel opened and there she was: Lady Ravenna Huntley in the flesh. Nothing at all like a beetle, of course. In fitted men’s clothing, Ravenna had teased his senses, but in a frothy, feminine wedding gown, she struck him senseless. The dress clung to her in filmy ivory layers, fitting snugly to her breasts—now that he could see them—and cinching down to a narrow waist before flaring out in pearl-trimmed, embroidered panels to the hem.
Courtland’s stunned gaze drifted back up. A cap of glossy auburn curls, pinned away from her brow by a pearl-encrusted tiara, framed a face of such unexpected beauty that he couldn’t stop gaping. His bride looked like a magical creature from some other realm.
But the closer she stepped, the mirage of a beautiful, happy bride fell away. Huge eyes of burnished copper sparked with vexation, and her naturally plump lips were flattened to translucency. Gloved fingers strangled the bouquet of local lilies and hibiscus gathered between her palms. Perhaps she imagined it was his neck.
She doesn’t want this.
Well, neither did he.
Regardless of what he had to do now for honor’s sake, keeping his distance would be necessary, lest he let his guard down and have his heart skewered. This was to be a marriage of convenience, a marriage in name only for his bride’s sake and his sisters’ sakes. But for him to prevail, it had to be a marriage of less than convenience.
And if Ravenna wanted the future she desired, it had to be a marriage of abstinence.