Rules for Heiresses by Amalie Howard

Five

The next afternoon, Courtland sat in the upper restaurant at the Starlight, sharing an amicable meal with his brother by marriage. The Duke of Embry, sitting across from him in the tastefully appointed dining room, finished his meal with a gratified sigh.

“Now, that was spectacular.”

“Thank you. Our chef is French Creole and has a decided flair for spices in his dishes.”

“I’ve never tasted anything so delicious.”

Courtland canted his head. “I’ll pass on your compliments.”

When all had been said and done—stories told, explanations given, and apologies made—his wife’s brother had been surprisingly reasonable. Instead of blaming Courtland, he’d seemed resigned to the caprices of his sister. Apparently, Courtland’s new duchess had a long history of going beyond the pale.

Not that that surprised him in the least.

Like a shooting star, she was…an unstoppable flare. She’d either be the death of him, or somehow bring him back to life. It was as though he was of two minds. One moment, he wanted her with every desperate beat of his heart, and the next, reason warred with lust, thrashing it into submission. He’d desired women before, but this kind of driving, primal need to claim and consume alarmed him. This woman would shatter him into a thousand pieces if he let her.

They’d spent their wedding night apart, though they’d been in his private apartments at this very hotel. Ravenna had been distressed after spending a fair amount of time with her brother explaining her whereabouts over the past few months and had returned to his chambers with red-rimmed eyes. While she desired comfort, Courtland knew touching her while she was in such a state would derail all his thoughtful plans, and he simply didn’t trust himself not to give in. And so, he’d put her to bed. Alone.

Cold, yes, but necessary.

“You’ve built quite the life here, Ashvale,” Embry said. The duke stared at the decor of the lavish room that rested adjacent to the equally extravagant gaming rooms. “The restoration you’ve done is remarkable.”

“Thank you. It’s my home,” Courtland replied, one shoulder lifting in a noncommittal shrug, though bone-deep pride sluiced through him.

The hotel was one of the first properties he’d acquired, and it meant something to him. When he’d first moved to the island, it had been in disrepair, but the crumbling relic with its sprawling porches and elegant gables had struck something within him. He’d named it for his mother—the star that he fancied watched over him from the heavens, a sentimental and perhaps foolish way to form a connection with her. His father had met her here, perhaps in this very dining room. Fallen in love with a woman far beneath his station.

“My grandmère said I was born in this building,” he murmured. “In one of the upper chambers.”

“You have relatives here?” Embry asked.

Courtland canted his head. “Some cousins. My man, Rawley, is my second cousin. My grandmère passed on three years ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

His chest ached at the thought of the woman who had welcomed him with open arms. Courtland had come to Antigua with one flimsy hope—to find his mother’s family. Armed with a last name of Roche and not much else, he’d managed to locate his maternal grandmother and a handful of rambunctious cousins who now worked in one capacity or another for the family business he’d built.

The old woman had taken one look at him and enveloped him in her arms with a keening cry. “Oh, mon petit chou, que tu es beau!”

Either his French had been rustier than expected, or she’d called him a handsome little cabbage, but being held in that warm embrace had felt like coming home. Like the piece of him that had been missing had suddenly been found.

He’d blinked his surprise at the welcome. “You know who I am?”

“Mais, oui! You have the look of my Annelise…les yeux, in the eyes, you see, and the hair, too.” Tearing up a little, she’d yanked him inside her well-kept house and proceeded to heap a mountain of food in front of him. “Eat. You’re a growing boy and you need your strength.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Roche.”

She’d given him an affectionate swat. “Grandmère Lucille will do. Now eat before you waste away.”

She’d always been fond of feeding him, no matter when he came to visit. In truth, he missed her cooking, her unconditional love, and her stories. Grandmère Lucille had died not long after he’d found her, but he’d had a few wonderful years at her table, learning about his mother as a girl as well as the day she’d been swept off her feet by a dashing young British captain whose ship had docked in port for emergency repairs. She’d been a hotel clerk.

His grandmère had even shown him the small chapel where they’d said their vows and written their signatures in the vicar’s record book.

“Did you know me as a baby?” he’d asked her.

Her smile had been sad and full of loss. “I was the first to hold you. After your mama’s funeral, your papa felt it was best to take you with him to England. I wanted to beg him to let you stay, but your place was with him.”

Courtland had often wondered whether his life would have been different had he been left behind. Rawley treated him more as a brother than Stinson ever had, and once Rawley had made it clear that Courtland was his cousin by blood, other locals had become less wary. He would undoubtedly have been surrounded by love and the joyful chaos he’d come to esteem.

He was profoundly grateful for the time he’d had with his grandmother, however. After Grandmère Lucille’s death, he came to realize that perhaps his happiness didn’t lie in the past. It lay in the future. And so, he’d begun to build.

He took the money earned from engineering in railways and shipping, and he started procuring real estate and property. Acreage in the Americas, railroads, mining, hotels across continents, and ocean liners. He invested in anything that turned a significant profit and then reinvested his returns in the island. As his wealth grew, Courtland hired his cousins and anyone who was willing to work for fair wages. It wasn’t by chance that his business connections called him Midas because everything he touched turned to gold. A small, gratifying irony for a boy whose stepmother had told him that anything he touched would turn to shit.

Embry cleared his throat after the efficient footmen cleared their plates and refilled their wineglasses. “So about my sister.”

“As my wife, she will be afforded every luxury, Embry, that I can promise you.”

The duke let out a sigh. “That’s not what I’m concerned about. Even with her dowry, I’ve looked into your finances and know that you’re more than capable of providing for her.” Courtland arched a brow at that, but he should not be surprised. The Duke of Embry was not rumored to be a fool or dismissive where his family was concerned. “Ravenna is…headstrong.”

“Is that what you’re calling it these days?” Courtland smothered a laugh. “Not much has changed from the vales of Kettering then. She was muleheaded to a fault, if I recall correctly.”

Embry gave a rueful shrug. “I suppose growing up with three older brothers didn’t help.” He took a sip of his drink. “After the accident, when I became duke, I should have returned home. I blame myself for not being there when she needed me the most. She sentimentalized my absence and convinced herself that she also belonged out on the seas. Needless to say, she approached every London season like a hardened general marching to make war upon her enemies.”

A laugh burst from him. Courtland could see just see her, glaring down every suitor, mutiny in her gaze. Her hair would have been longer then, looped and coiled in whatever the popular women’s fashion was. In truth, he rather liked the short, velvety-soft curls that sprang and entwined around his fingers.

“She refused every single offer,” Embry went on. “It drove me mad, that stubbornness. But my wife insisted that some flowers bloom in their own time, and that she would wed when she was ready. Until I received your letter, I’d thought she was in Scotland with Lady Clara. I was shaken to learn that she was here. Alone.” His voice tightened, and for the first time, Courtland realized that the self-possessed duke was overwrought. “Thank you, Ashvale, for what you’ve done. My sister alluded to some actions on her part that were…reckless, and I am well aware of what could have transpired without your intervention. You have my everlasting gratitude. Anything you should ever need, please ask.”

Discomfort filled Courtland. He was not the hero in this story. He’d been willing to toss Ravenna into jail, and then he’d been the one to maul her in his office like a sex-starved cad. A marriage between them was the least of what he should have offered. He kept his mouth shut on the subject, however, not knowing exactly what Ravenna had shared with her brother.

“It might have been better for your father to honor the childhood betrothal agreement after all,” he murmured, the barest hint of bitterness in his tone. Not that he’d ever wanted to marry in his youth—his younger self had viewed the engagement as a fate worse than death. Much as his young nemesis Ravenna had.

Marriage? I’d rather be coated in honey and left on an anthill.

Her insults had always been cleverer than his.

The duke leaned forward. “I wish he had. My father believed you dead. We all did.”

“The marchioness knew why I’d left. I suspect she hoped her son would take my place. You see, in her highborn opinion, my bloodlines weren’t of ducal caliber.”

Embry’s eyes narrowed. “While the ton might agree with her limited views, your grandfather didn’t think so and his opinion, even posthumously, carries weight.”

“My grandfather was addled because of the advanced state of his illness. I expect he wasn’t in his right mind for many years.” Courtland sighed. “And no doubt Stinson will use that to discredit me, dispute the terms of the will, and take what he believes to be his. The only reason I’m going to England is for the sake of your sister and the future matches of my half sisters. The gossip surrounding our union was enough for my late father’s solicitor to insist on me showing my face as duke and putting to rest any questions that I am well and alive.”

“That is sound advice.” Embry blinked, frowning as if something had just occurred to him. “I admit I’ve been away from town for some time, and more recently in the past handful of years, my wife and I have spent most of our time in Hastings, apart from the demands of Parliament.” The frown deepened. “Stinson has been calling himself the Marquess of Borne for some time. Which is your rightful seat, not his.”

“I did not care, to be honest.”

Embry scowled. “It wasn’t lawful!”

“Men will do whatever they want when they feel they are owed something, and the law cannot be trusted to be upheld when those very men are the ones who wield it,” Courtland said. “When our father died, Stinson was raised by the marchioness to believe that he was the rightful heir. I was simply an inconvenient obstacle that needed to be removed, and the only way for her to do that is by questioning my legitimacy.” He shrugged as they stood and walked to the foyer. “My parents were wed here on this very island. I saw the register myself. My birth had to have been recorded by my father, though I’m sure mistakes could have been made.”

“If your parents were legally married, then you are Ashvale’s legitimate heir.”

“So it would seem.”

Embry smirked. “Welcome to the club, my friend. I assure you being a peer is not as bad as it’s made out to be…as long as you stick to what you believe in and ignore all the noise.”

“It’s the noise that worries me. Not that I care what people think. I worry for Ravenna’s sake. I wouldn’t want her to be hurt by ugly gossip because of me. The marchioness is uncommonly driven.”

“Ravenna is stronger than you think.” The duke shot him an inscrutable look. “Remember, call on me when you get to London. We should be there for at least a part of the season while Parliament is in session.”

“I will.”

“And take care of my sister. While strong, she’s also not as hard-edged as she pretends to be.” He grinned, his blue eyes sparking. “Hurt her and this time your death will be more than a rumor.”

Courtland lifted a brow. “Safe travels, Duke.”

He watched as his new brother-in-law climbed into the waiting carriage and headed toward the local port. Anxious to return to his wife and infant daughter, Embry would not wait to go back to England with him and Ravenna in a few days, but would leave today. Courtland envied the easy way he spoke of his family with such love and adoration. He could never hope the same for himself. He did not intend to have children. He hadn’t even intended to get married, but here he was.

He’d been honest with Embry. Ravenna would want for nothing, and he would protect her as best as he was able, for as long as he was able. If she wanted a separation in time, he would offer her a divorce on any grounds—cruelty, desertion, or adultery—no matter his own public indignity. It was only fair. He would do what was required of him and stay the course.

London and his marriage were necessary evils, simply a restitution for breaching the rules. Because no matter how well suited he and Ravenna seemed to be on every single level, no matter the intense physical attraction between them, and no matter how easily she’d reached inside and found forgotten tenderness in his granite heart, there was no real future for them. There would never be any true future for them.

She didn’t want it—and neither did he.

* * *

Escaping the packed and stifling ballroom, Ravenna slipped outside. The evening was overwarm, not offering much relief as sweat trickled down her nape. She fanned herself with some type of broad palm frond she’d broken off from a nearby pot, gulping in the fresh air on the wraparound balcony, desperate for a huge glass of the thirst-quenching lime juice and water the local ladies here favored.

While the gentlemen preferred their liquor, the ladies were rather more sedate than she’d expected…especially after reading Charlotte Brontë’s account of Bertha Mason in Jane Eyre. Not that a fictional account of an island Creole woman had any bearing on reality, but it had created quite a stir some seventeen years before when it was first published.

The peerage, particularly, had always looked down on their counterparts living here, seeing them as somehow lesser. The hot climate, apparently, was at fault. It apparently made people violent, per the account in the book. Lady Holding’s letters to Ravenna’s mother had conveyed a similar tone and judgment, bemoaning the absence of proper civility among the local gentry as well as the dreadful climate.

The old harridan was categorically wrong on both accounts.

For her part, Ravenna loved the heat and found most of the white Creoles, as they were called, to be quite fine in temperament, though a few of them had looked down their noses when she’d befriended a few of the island women. Ravenna did not care about anyone’s narrow-minded opinions—she would make friends wherever and with whomever she pleased.

Life beyond England was a plethora of vibrant culture. Peoples from Africa, India, Asia, and the Americas. She’d never seen anything like it. Several of the island women she’d met, and who were currently in attendance at the dinner and dance, were wealthy shop owners or businesspeople in their own right, married to powerful men in the local government.

Her husband welcomed them all at the Starlight. In that, Courtland was much the same as other English lords of her acquaintance who owned exclusive clubs in London—if one had the means, one was allowed entry, regardless of station or circumstance of birth. It was not a novel concept. Wealth opened doors everywhere. Ravenna wondered if that was why Courtland had so much of it. Had he felt a need to insulate himself because of his background?

In the few weeks she’d been on the island, she had learned much about him, though always from other people. He was fair. He was shrewd. He valued loyalty and honesty, and he was not a man to be crossed. Ravenna formed a wry smile. That, she’d learned firsthand. But Courtland rarely spoke about himself. What had caused the estrangement in his family? As far as she knew, Stinson had adored his brother and had mourned him when he thought he had died. Yet, the moment she brought up Stinson or Lady Borne, Courtland grew stony and cold.

The night before, she’d asked her husband if he intended to see his family in Kettering and said she hoped his brother might be in London for the season.

“Are you well acquainted with Stinson?” he’d demanded with diamond-hard eyes.

She’d stared at him. “We live on neighboring estates. You know this. Of course we are well acquainted.”

“You won’t see him or seek him out when we get to London.” It was a stark command, expressed through his teeth as though the very thought of his brother angered him, and the ferocity in his tone had surprised her.

“Ashvale, be reasonable. He’s your brother. I don’t know what happened between you, but he has always—”

“You will heed me on this, Ravenna.”

Bristling, she’d opened her mouth to snap back, but the brief flash in his eyes had stopped her. It was a deep-seated, aching pain, visible but for a single instant that had made something inside of her fissure. It was a look that spoke of considerable hurt, of tremendous injury. So she’d clamped her lips shut and nodded.

Stinson had always been quite amiable and pleasant to her. Perhaps what had happened between the brothers was born of a misunderstanding. Siblings quarreled all the time. Her own brother had been estranged from their family for years because he’d felt disparaged by their father, when that hadn’t been the case at all. Perhaps she could find some other way to help bridge the rift between them, but she’d have to tread carefully with any attempts at reconciliation.

Ravenna fanned herself harder, hoping for some relief from the heat. Normally there was a lovely evening breeze, but tonight the tropical air was dead still. Usually, that meant a storm was brewing on the horizon, not that anyone in attendance would care. The revelry hadn’t stopped since their wedding night, continuing on into the wee hours when she and Courtland had retired. At breakfast the next morning, she’d blushed at some of the knowing, sidelong glances. Little did they know that nothing had happened.

Courtland’s care had surprised her, but after Rhystan’s awful reaction to her grand tour, which he’d called grand codswallop among other things, she hadn’t been in the mood for company, much less a husbandly deflowering. Not that she hadn’t obsessed about the act more than a dozen times. Her own mother had been vague about relations between husbands and wives, and while Ravenna had been exposed to enough bawdy talk from the sailors that would shock a seasoned harlot, she couldn’t countenance that some of their lewd stories were true.

People weren’t animals in the bedroom.

At least, Ravenna hoped they weren’t.

She recalled one boatswain’s account of mounting a jade from behind like a stallion with a mare, and blushed hot when the image of her husband in such a lewd position stole through her thoughts. Biting back an indelicate gasp, Ravenna fanned herself harder. Ribbons of heat that had nothing to do with the weather crawled up her damp neck, and she forced the wicked and thoroughly wanton vision away. Shame bit at her cheeks. She was a fool. Fantasizing about the man was useless and served no purpose other than frustration.

Because she was certain her husband wasn’t remotely interested in bedding her.

Two nights had passed since Rhystan had left, and they’d maintained separate rooms. The rejection chafed. She was well aware that their marriage had been one of convenience, if not necessity, to save her reputation, and matrimonial vows didn’t mean their spoken vows had to be consummated. Sex was not a requisite in a marriage like theirs, though clearly, some deeply desirous part of her wished it was.

She couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Another heated shiver lanced through her to land right between her thighs.

Maybe Brontë had the right of it after all—the heat was turning her into a trollop.

Fanning with futile force, Ravenna caught sight of her husband through the massive balcony doors, speaking in earnest to the governor. Likely, it was about some amendment or local bill he wanted passed. He was very passionate about working conditions for the local laborers as well the influx of people migrating from nearby American cities in the turmoil of the country’s civil war.

Giving herself one last swat with her makeshift fan and depositing the palm frond back into its pot, she made her way over to where the duke stood in animated discussion with a small group. Conversation slowed as she approached, but her husband did not ignore her—something else that set him apart from other men of her acquaintance.

Instead, he took her arm, drawing her against him. “Gents, may I present my wife, Her Grace, the Duchess of Ashvale. This is Sir Stephen John Hill, governor as you know, and Mr. Brent Sommers.”

Both men greeted her with smiles and pleasantries, though the second man stared more at her breasts than her face and his lascivious expression made her feel mildly uncomfortable.

“A pleasure, Governor,” she murmured and then turned to the other, detecting his accented drawl. “Mr. Sommers, are you American?”

“You guessed it, little lady.”

“The correct form of address to a duchess is Your Grace, Sommers.” The quiet assertion came from her husband even as Ravenna bristled. “Though I might not care how you address me, she is as aristocratic as they come.”

“Marrying up, eh?” Sommers said with a loud laugh, slapping Courtland about the shoulders. Ravenna decided she instantly disliked the man. How dare he?

“Still a duke, Mr. Sommers,” Ravenna chided softly.

Pale-green eyes met hers, then insolently ran the length of her body. “Forgive me, Your Grace. The aristocracy is English, not American. We make our own way, regardless of what we’re born to.” The last was said with no small amount of derision. “Money talks, everything else walks.”

Seeing that Courtland and the governor had resumed their debate, she pasted a polite expression on her face. “What do you do, Mr. Sommers?”

“I own land in the Carolinas.”

Ravenna blinked. The American Civil War was at its zenith, and tensions were high, particularly in the South. Though Britain had not publicly supported the American war as they did not want to become caught in a costly conflict, she’d seen accounts, mostly from private correspondence sent to her brother, that some British officials had secretly supported the South in their efforts and were still doing so.

“The past few years must have been instructive for you.”

His smile was indulgent as though he didn’t expect her to possess a brain or any ability to form an articulate sentence. “How so, darlin’?”

“‘Your Grace’ will suffice,” she said crisply. “The reason for your civil war. We made sure to end that vile practice thirty years ago.”

Sommers looked like he’d sucked on a lemon. His sour expression said it all: he was not in agreement. It made her dislike him even more and she opened her mouth, though at the same moment she felt a gentle pressure on her arm, drawing her away from her impending outburst.

“Excuse me, sirs, while I interest my new bride in a dance.”

“What are you doing?” she asked Courtland as he steered her in the opposite direction, away from the men and away from the dancing.

“Sommers is a dangerous man.”

“I’m a dangerous woman.”

Her husband smiled at her furious answer. “I am well aware, but I’d rather not shed blood on my imported Italian marble because my fierce wife gutted one of my guests for his intolerant views.”

“Why is he even here?”

“There are many men like him, not just in the United States, my dauntless little vixen, and I have my reasons,” he murmured, running a soothing hand along her back and then up through her damp hairline. She resisted the urge to curl into the caress like a cat. “We must choose our battles.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing? Choosing your battles?”

He stared at her, his gaze immediately shuttering. The question was not related to Sommers, but to the dynamics of his family, and he knew it. “You don’t understand. It’s complicated.”

She flinched at the short snap of his reply, and Courtland blew out a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Her heart ached at the strain she could see on his handsome face. He could have a discussion on all manner of principles and policy, but the mere mention of his own family turned him mute. Why? Perhaps he might trust her, but she knew he would not when he shook his head and his eyes went cold.

She reached out for him, but dropped her hand at the last second. “You can talk to me.”

“Leave it, Ravenna,” he replied tiredly. “Trust me, the saga of my tragic adolescence is not worth a single moment of your time or anyone’s. I’ve put the past behind me and that’s where it will stay.”

“Burying the past is not the same as moving on.”

“It is for me. Hurt me once, shame on you. Hurt me twice, and I am the fool.” He stared at her, those eyes that had been so warm now as cold as ice. “I will never be any man’s fool.”

Or woman’s.

He didn’t say it aloud, but his meaning was painfully clear.