Rules for Heiresses by Amalie Howard
Four
The ceremony had been short and effective, unlike the interminable days before and the inexorable march toward her doom. Four swift weeks were all it had taken for her to become Her Grace, the reluctant and bitterly unenthusiastic Duchess of Ashvale.
Once the application for an ordinary marriage license had been made, arrangements had to be sorted out. Her family had to be contacted—which she’d left up to her competent fiancé because she was in no hurry to face Embry’s wrath. She did not require his consent to wed, being over twenty-one, but he was still her brother. And there was no telling how furious he’d be to learn of her whereabouts. Or her sudden marriage.
Besides, she’d had her hands full. Bridal clothes and a full wardrobe had to be ordered and fitted, considering she only had a fine but impractical array of gentleman’s clothing. Scandal had to be mitigated, including the planted rumors that Lady Ravenna’s unconventional dress choices at the Starlight had been on a lark from the local theater, and that she and Lord Ashvale had been betrothed in secret for months. Society ate it up—everyone relished a mawkish love story. All lies, of course, but people believed what they wanted to believe.
Especially when the title duke was thrown about.
Or said duke falling head over heels in love with his long-ago childhood sweetheart like some whimsical fairy-tale.
What a crock!
Given that she’d been practically bludgeoned over the head to reach the altar, Ravenna would much have preferred to marry an untitled suitor than a duke. She was all too familiar with the exacting pressures and responsibilities that came with a dukedom. After all, she was the daughter of a duke, sister to a duke, and now wife to one.
It was emphatically depressing.
Her mother, of course, had been mollified, despite how the wedding had come about. Titles mattered in England. The dowager did not have the constitution to travel for the nuptials, though she’d thrown an apoplectic fit that her only daughter would be married on an island without the proper fanfare befitting the Huntley name. She’d only been placated after being promised she would be allowed to host a formal wedding ball in London when they returned.
Thankfully, Ravenna had experienced that tantrum via correspondence and not in person. She’d kept the details of her reply spare—once more, the word duke had worked like the flick of a magic wand—with no need to let her mother know that she’d been the hare caught by a clever wolf. Not that the brainless hare didn’t go and throw itself like a desperate, passion-starved creature in front of said wolf and demand to be consumed.
Clearly, she had wool in her brain! Because the boy from her childhood was not the man—her husband—who now stood beside her, face in rigid lines, mouth hard and unyielding, as he surveyed the colorful crowd in the packed ballroom at the Starlight.
Courtland Chase was a devil she no longer knew.
If she’d ever known him.
After the lavish wedding breakfast, the evening ball was the event of the decade—a local gentleman, one of their own, becoming an exalted English duke and choosing to marry his duchess on the island instead of returning to England’s shores. Her husband, as she’d gleaned in the past few weeks leading up to the wedding, was hard-nosed in business, but admired and respected among locals and British nationals alike.
As such, his astonishing change in station was feted by everyone—from the shopkeepers to the governor—and the unbridled, joyful response of the islanders filled her to the brim. British aristocrats would never display such pure, unchecked emotion.
“I wish we didn’t have to leave.” To her surprise, the wistful sentiment had fallen from her mouth.
The duke inclined his head, eyes unreadable, as he peered down at her. “Oh?”
“I love it here,” she murmured. “It’s so real and…honest.”
A puff of humorless air escaped his lips. “Said by a woman who has never endured a moment of hardship in her entire life.”
His disdain could not be more obvious. “You don’t know a thing about me, and that’s not what I meant at all.”
“Tell me, then.”
The words were soft, unthreatening. She stared at him, wondering if he was merely humoring her or truly wanted to know her thoughts. Or perhaps he’d ridicule her for them. She was more than aware of what the word freedom meant to the people of the island, with the foul, unforgiveable shadows of the past ever looming.
While it’d been three decades since abolitionism in the British colonies, liberty was a hard-won human right that many of her privileged set took for granted. Ravenna knew that from her brother, who worked tirelessly in the House of Lords to fight against such injustices.
She blew out a slow exhale. “I meant their honesty of feeling. Joyful in this moment and not afraid to show it—that’s what I meant. The lack of artifice is refreshing. Even the English ladies seem to be enjoying themselves.”
“For many of the women here, it’s all they have,” Courtland said, his eyes casting over the crowd. “The balls, the dances, the diversions. Island life is not as it is in England, though many of them would wish it to be.”
“Do you?” she asked.
“No.”
Ravenna blinked. It wasn’t a happy no, but it wasn’t angry either.
“Why don’t you want to go back?” she asked.
Lean, tanned fingers tapped on the marble balustrade in that familiar little-finger-to-index-finger motion she’d intuitively recognized during their card game, and for a protracted moment, Ravenna thought he wasn’t going to answer. “I don’t belong there.”
“You’re an English duke.”
“On paper.” A cold smile pulled his lips. “And if Stinson had anything to say about it, he’d be duke, not me.”
“Primogeniture matters, trust me.” Ravenna gave a low laugh, drawing his gaze to hers. “I’ve heard Rhystan curse it enough. He never wanted to be duke, you know. His mistress, until he met the love of his life, had always been the sea. I suppose he and I share the same deeply rooted sense of adventure.”
Courtland’s brow shot high. “Or, in your case, one might call it absurdity.”
One might, but not her. “Why? Because I’m female? Because of my sex?” She tapped one ivory-gloved hand to her chest. “Women face impossible standards to uphold the virtue of an entire nation, and honestly, it’s infuriating. Not to mention illogical!”
Stormy eyes blazed at her provocative words—she knew exactly which provocative word—and an answering spark ignited inside of her. Ravenna sank her teeth into her bottom lip, and a muscle leaped to life in his cheek, his nostrils flaring wide like a predator scenting prey. The rawness of this…thing between them was madness.
Heat drizzled through her and she was suddenly reminded of their kiss in his office…his hot fingers at her throat, unloosening, untying, undressing… Gracious, she hadn’t even thought beyond the ball or what would happen later tonight when she would be stripped and bare before him. When he would claim his husbandly rights.
Her wedding night. Perish the thought.
“You’re a lady,” he said slowly, his voice a low, masculine rasp that did unconscionable things to her. “You can’t be gallivanting all over the world.”
“Why? Because my virtue, and perceived inherent value, will come into question? Because a man deemed it so?” She let out a tight breath, mingled with equal amounts of waning fury and sharp-edged desire. “I am not the sum of my physical parts, Your Grace.”
Silence descended between them and Ravenna feared she might have said too much. She was much too outspoken and free with her opinions. In England, even with the rise of the suffragettes, there was still the notion that aristocratic ladies should not entertain such controversial views of women having—gasp—rights over themselves. She sucked air through her teeth, desire cooling swiftly. Oh well, better he knew early on what kind of woman she was than be surprised later.
“No, you’re not,” he said eventually.
Her jaw almost fell open. “You agree with me?”
“I agree that you are your own person, physically and otherwise. However, rules and customs are in place for a reason. Even I, humble male that I am, must pay obeisance to the laws of society.”
“Humility is the last thing you should credit yourself with, Your Grace. You left and no one stopped you,” she said with a wave of her arm. “To live here. In this place of uncommon wonder.”
“You would be in the minority with such an opinion.”
“It would not be the first time.”
Courtland turned fully to her then, the first genuine smile she’d ever seen curving his mouth. It fascinated her—that rare glimpse into a different man. Warmth tempered the usual storm of his intense gaze as he lifted her right hand to his lips. “I am not surprised in the least. Shall we join our guests then, Duchess?”
As he led her down the grand staircase, Ravenna did not stop to acknowledge the rapid staccato of her heart, be it due to the inflection of his address, his commanding touch, or the appearance of that smile. She did not want to like any of those things. She did not wish to like him. Marriage brought with it its own traps, even when couched in pleasure or passion.
Or unexpected affinity.
Because according to English law, despite her earlier views of choice and rights, she now belonged to him. She was the Duke of Ashvale’s property, legally and entirely, and running away to chase a life of adventure as her brother had done was no longer an option.
The irony was painfully obvious—she’d come full circle.
Born and raised to be a peer’s bride.
* * *
Leading his bride into the first waltz should not have felt as natural as it did. As if he’d done it his entire life. As if she belonged there. Courtland did not want to dwell on what that meant. Even if she’d taken his name and said her marital vows, Ravenna didn’t want to be his. Not truly.
She wanted to live a life on her own terms, and he found that he didn’t have it in him to deny her those dreams, despite the tangle in which they found themselves. Even when they were young, he’d admired her stalwart insistence on carving her own path. She’d scoffed at the rules that said girls shouldn’t race in the woods, cavort with boys, or build tree houses. She’d muddied her dresses without a care in the world, and thrown the hardest punch he’d ever felt. Everything her brothers did, she’d wanted to do better.
And she had.
He bit back a smile. The unconventional little imp had even followed in Embry’s footsteps on the high seas. It made him see red whenever he thought of the dangers she could have faced. But she’d survived…and one could argue thrived. It was patently obvious she hadn’t planned to find a husband. Courtland swallowed. When appearances had been made and the ton was on to the next scandal, he would offer her the choice: live in England as a duchess while he returned to Antigua, or if she chose to be alone, he’d find a way to dissolve their union somehow.
“You waltz well,” he murmured, aware of all the eyes upon them.
“I suppose I should thank my mother for all the years of torture, I mean, dance instruction.”
His lips twitched. “You must have been quite the hellion during your come-out.”
“You have no idea how many toes I demolished. In fact, in secret, I believe the gentlemen nicknamed me Lady Toe Crusher.” She grinned up at him, and it was like a bolt of lightning crashing through his body. “I’m surprised yours are yet intact, but that’s more to your credit as a partner than because of my tragic lack of skill.”
“Years of practice,” he said, turning her expertly in his arms. “If you are so poor a dancer, how do you acquit yourself so well then?”
“Counting.” Her smile was cheeky. “Steps, much like cards, are easy to keep track of, Your Grace.”
This time he did laugh, twice in the space of minutes. “Not for everyone, I assure you. That is an uncommon gift.”
Once more, a pair of narrowed copper eyes met his as if she mistrusted his compliment. But Courtland meant it. The more he discovered about her, the more she intrigued him. She’d always been clever as a child, but now, that sharpness of mind had evolved with maturity. He was starting to see why she’d be bored sitting in a drawing room with nothing but an embroidery hoop for entertainment. A woman of her fiery spirit and fierce temperament would be better suited to leading a revolution than practicing dull needlepoint. It was no wonder she’d run.
Ravenna Huntley—no, Chase now—was a rare breed of woman.
Despite her claims to the contrary, she was light on her feet, her slender form deftly mirroring his every step with each beat. When the distance closed between them and her soft skirts brushed the fabric of his trousers, he could feel the heat of her body beneath, and his own was quick to react. After six or so turns, Courtland was barely holding the guise of civility together. He settled for conversation that would lessen his growing arousal.
“Tell me, Duchess, why did you run from London? You were surely a sought-after prize.”
She let out a puff of air, eyes narrowing. “A prize?”
“A beautiful heiress bred to be wed,” he said, holding back his smirk.
“That’s rather insulting.”
“No less true.”
The look she speared him with should have left him bleeding. He had no idea why he enjoyed poking at her and provoking a response. “It was suffocating, if you must know.”
“And look what being so fussy got you—trapped in marriage with a duke.”
“I am not fussy.”
He twirled her around. “I don’t think you quite know what you signed on for, Lady Ravenna, with me as your husband instead. A plebeian island duke is hardly a catch.”
“There’s no so thing as a common duke, Your Grace. I think you undervalue your own significance.”
“A duke of disagreeable origins, then,” he tossed back.
“To whom?” She sent him an arch glance as they spun in a well-executed twirl. “You would be surprised at what some women would overlook for the title of duchess. Old, stunted, pox-marked, gout-ridden. Your heritage would hardly signify.”
“I forgot how bloody naive highborn ladies are,” he said. “You live in a bubble of rainbows and ribbons with no sodding concept of reality.”
“Do you have to be so vulgar?” she shot back, cheeks reddening. “It’s our wedding dance. And besides, it’s no wonder no one has taken you for a husband if that’s your dreadful opinion of women.”
“Not all women, just ladies of quality, though quality is a matter of interpretation, isn’t it?” His stare was deliberately condescending. “Your privilege allows you to make such an erroneous statement. You see, Duchess, the same heritage you speak of is the very reductive and despised thing that dehumanizes. According to aristocratic sensibilities, that is what make me common in society’s eyes. While well intentioned, your estimation is irrelevant.” Ruining the dance or not, the unpleasant turn of the conversation was certainly helping to cool his remaining ardor. “It’s the truth, ugly and spare, but true nonetheless.”
“You’re an arse, Ashvale. I am not like them.”
“Now who’s being vulgar?” he asked silkily. Ravenna’s face went beet-red, and she moved to wrench out of his arms, but his fingers tightened about her, bringing her dangerously close to his chest. Her eyes went wide with alarm, even as chortles and loutish whistles reached them. “Finish the dance, Ravenna,” he said.
“Why?” she snapped. “So you can insult my intelligence some more?”
“I wouldn’t have to if your views were.”
“Were what?”
He smirked. “Intelligent.”
“Oh, you, you unspeakable—”
She was gloriously indignant. He had no idea why he loved riling her up so. Her coppery eyes fairly shone with rage, cheeks blooming and full lips parting. He wanted so badly to kiss her, to swallow the furious tirade trembling over that lush pout, modesty and decorum be damned. His arousal returned in full force.
Well, he was Duke, wasn’t he?
An island duke…and island dukes did whatever they pleased when they pleased, especially in their own domains. And besides, they weren’t in London yet, and most of the guests in attendance were his acquaintances. As the last of their waltz drew to a close, Courtland grinned and yanked her close…scandalously close, enough so she could feel the unyielding evidence of his lust. Her gasp was gratifying, even as answering fires lit those expressive eyes.
“What are you doing?” she blurted out.
“I am unspeakable,” he said. “Ruthless. Hard. Selfish. Not like those senseless fops in London you can control with a crook of a finger and the flutter of an eyelash. But I will always be honest with you, even if it stings.”
Then he dipped his bride, cupped her nape, and set his mouth to hers in full view of everyone. That should give his contrary little vixen something to ponder.
* * *
Thank heavens his big hands were holding her upright because if Ravenna had to depend on the strength of her own body, she’d be sinking into a very fashionable pool of ivory skirts on the ballroom floor. As it was, she could barely hold a coherent thought in her head. All she could focus on was the persuasive heat of her duke’s kiss.
Courtland’s mouth sealed to hers, his tongue darting out in a wicked flick against her upper lip, the sinful and utterly masculine taste of him invading her senses. Everything and everyone fell away—their guests, the musicians, the ballroom—until it was just the two of them suspended in a universe of their own making. As far as kisses went, it was mostly chaste for the sake of their chaotic hooting and hollering audience, but there was nothing decent about the lewd images currently hatching in her brain.
Or the fact that she wanted more.
Grinning, he broke from her, but still held her cradled in his strong arms. Her husband’s eyes gleamed, their fathomless depths fraught with fervid promises of what he intended to do to her later, and every bone inside of her went liquid. His desires matched hers, it seemed, not that she wouldn’t know it from the hard male organ grinding into her hip. A needy whimper escaped her lips, and Courtland’s smile was positively corrupt.
“Ravenna.”
“Yes?” she said, breathless.
“I will always value your opinion.”
On that shockingly solemn pronouncement, he hauled her gracefully upright amid deafening cheers, and Ravenna let out a shuddering breath. Not even Lady Holding’s enormous scowl could detract from her daze. While the duke’s earlier words had pricked her pride and made her bristle, she felt a curious sense of wonder. He hadn’t dismissed her, nor had he humiliated her. Instead, he’d explained how her words had caused injury instead of ease. It was rather…illuminating.
With an uncharacteristic smile to their audience, the duke took her palm in hers and kissed it. “To my beautiful and utterly singular bride,” he said aloud to everyone. “The Duchess of Ashvale.”
When the fresh round of cheering subsided, they moved toward the refreshment room. The man was mercurial at best. One moment he was taking great pleasure in schooling her during their dance, and the next he was kissing her senseless and parading her around on his arm like the greatest treasure known to man. Her head was spinning. Even now, she could feel the coiled tension in his body, while he smiled and greeted guests with unfailing civility. He was a conundrum, her husband.
A ripple of excitement rumbled through the room, and Ravenna turned just as the majordomo revealed the source of the interest. “His Grace, the Duke of Embry!”
Oh, damn and blast, no!Her stomach rose and dipped with a curious combination of alarm and happiness. She loved her brother dearly, but Ravenna knew Rhystan would not take to her recent escapades with any kind of calm. Hopefully, he wouldn’t take her to task her in public; he was much too well bred for that.
Wasn’t he?
She held her breath as he cut a path directly to where they stood. Her brother and her new husband were of a height and somewhat similar in build, but where Rhystan was all broad-shouldered bulk from living and working as a ship’s captain for years, Courtland was narrower and rapier-strong. The two men acknowledged each other with polite if wary nods. Both of them stood rigid. Ravenna hoped they wouldn’t come to fisticuffs, but with her brother’s hardened sailor’s background, one never knew.
“Embry, I’m glad you could make it,” Courtland said.
“I must say it’s good to see you alive and kicking with my own eyes, Ashvale,” Rhystan said, eyes narrowing. “I could scarcely believe the letter I received, fearing that my poor sister had wed a ghost or an impostor, considering you’re supposed to be dead.”
The corner of Courtland’s lip curled. “Life has yet to do away with me, I fear, despite conjecture.”
“I am glad of it. Congratulations, I’m pleased I could be here,” Rhystan said as Ravenna let out a slow, relieved breath that no blood would be spilled, at least for the moment, and then her brother scrutinized her from head to toe. “Hullo, sister, you look better than expected.”
She bit her lip at his droll expression and gave a tiny eye roll. “Did you expect me to be trussed, bound, and dragged to the altar?”
“Something like that, though my wife firmly insisted that if you had indeed agreed to marry any man, it wouldn’t have been that bad. I’m glad to see it’s so.”
Ravenna felt a stroke of emotion at her sister-in-law’s steady support, though couldn’t help remarking how wrong she was. Sarani would be horrified to know that Ravenna had simply gotten caught in a trap of her own making rather than her choosing. “Did Sarani not come with you? And my niece, how is she? Is she well?”
Rhystan laughed. “Everyone is well. My duchess sends her love. She was unable to travel—still recovering from the birth, you see. Nothing serious, just exhaustion so the doctor prescribed her lots of rest and fresh air. Our little arrival, Lady Anu, is healthy and hale, and just as beautiful as her mother.”
“What a lovely name,” Ravenna crooned, a rush of warmth filling the gaping hole in her chest. She hadn’t let herself feel how much she missed her family, until this very moment. She fought back a sniff. “I can’t wait to meet her, and I miss Sarani terribly.”
“She misses you.”
Ravenna drew in a breath, her eyes smarting. “You must be tired. Have you only just arrived?”
“Yes, but I refreshed on the ship, marvelous contraption that she is.”
Courtland inclined his head at the praise. “I trust everything onboard was to your satisfaction.”
“She was swifter than expected. I must admit some of the innovation in steam travel is fascinating. I’ll have to have Gideon, my former quartermaster, speak to your engineering men about some of the developments on your ocean liner. The speed was astounding. Six days from port to port across the Atlantic. Astonishing!”
“Ocean liner?” Ravenna blurted, her gaze panning between them and then settling on her husband. “You own a ship?”
Courtland nodded. “Several actually, though not a shipping fleet for goods, more designed for passenger travel. I offered to bring your family across, though only the duke took me up on my offer.” Ravenna blinked her surprise. She had known he was wealthy, but this kind of fortune bordered on the realm of the absurd. He misread her expression. “Don’t worry, Duchess, you’ll experience it for yourself on the way back to London. It won’t be like being on Embry’s clipper at all.”
“I beg your pardon.” The voice was low and full of menace. “Embry’s what?”
Ravenna didn’t have to turn around to know that her brother was glaring at her with the fire of a thousand suns. And it was all Courtland’s fault, the loose-lipped, no-good, devilish-as-sin traitor.