Rules for Heiresses by Amalie Howard
Six
Courtland’s pride and joy was his ocean liner, aptly named the SS Glory. Not only was it unrivaled in terms of building material, technological innovation, and luxury, but it surpassed the speed and utility of many of its competitors from other shipping companies.
He was especially proud that some of the innovation his engineers developed was to be used in the conversion work for the Great Eastern steamship, currently being refitted with machinery to lay the a new submarine transatlantic telegraph cable in the next year or so. It was gratifying to be part of modern advancement.
While the SS Glory occasionally ferried passengers across the Atlantic, for the most part, it remained docked, constantly being tinkered on and improved. However, today it would be used to transport them to England and serve a second function as a honeymoon location. While it wasn’t as extravagant as a trip to some far-off holiday destination, Courtland hoped it would impress his bride.
The carriage came to a stop at the private dock, and Courtland watched as his wife’s eyes went round. “That’s your ship?”
“One of them, yes,” he said, basking in her open awe. He knew the Glory was spectacular, but something about Ravenna’s reaction made him feel a deeply satisfying thrill. Given that Rhystan was her brother, she wasn’t unfamiliar with the shipping world. He wondered whether her knowledge was empirical or more superficial.
“Gracious, Ashvale, she’s magnificent!” She stalked to the edge of the wharf so quickly that he had to grab her to keep her from going over. “Is her hull iron? Do you use screw propellers? What kind of engine is it? What’s her top knot service speed?”
Empirical, then.
Courtland had the sudden urge to savage that erudite mouth.
Every nautical term falling from it made his body tighten with instant, excruciating lust. He focused on answering her questions instead of pandering to his suddenly raging libido. “Not iron, composite with experimental steel. Yes to propulsion, and it’s a combination of steam and sail, with multiple boilers powering a triple-expansion compound steam engine, and a service speed of nineteen point five knots.”
“Marvelous,” she murmured, her copper eyes shining with excitement. “So under a week to England.”
“Just about.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
Her admiration continued as they boarded the massive vessel. He employed over a hundred people on the liner, and it was designed with seventy first-class staterooms, but there were to be less than two dozen passengers on this voyage. Perhaps that was an extravagance for the journey, but Courtland did not care. He’d spared no expense on the design and construction of this ship, combining his investments in shipbuilding, engineering, and steel-forging to build a liner that surpassed any other.
While she was exceptional in performance, the Glory was equally impressive in indulgence. Nothing was spared in comfort. Furnishings were burnished mahogany and rich leather with gold accents. Ravenna exclaimed at the sheer size of the promenade decks, the huge glassed portholes that let in tremendous amounts of light in the first-class common rooms, the richness of the floors, and the unrivaled opulence of his private apartments.
When they arrived at his personal suite that boasted several rooms, including a library and reading room, a private dining area, and a full bath with running water, she shook her head in wonder. “It reminds me of your rooms at the Starlight,” she exclaimed.
They were much grander than those, but Courtland nodded because the design was nearly identical—reminiscent of a beautiful sixteenth-century French château. “Similar.”
“It’s incredible.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he said.
“Are you joking? It’s the most fantastic ship I’ve ever been on.” She twirled in a circle in the middle of the room in a flurry of navy-blue skirts, and grinned. “Don’t tell Rhystan I said that, though he’s more interested in sailing ships than passenger liners.” She peered out of the gleaming-paned glass porthole to the docks beyond. “Are we to be joined by others?”
Courtland nodded. “Some. Dignitaries and businessmen, mostly. A few peers wanting passage as well, I believe. Rawley arranged it.”
His efficient man of business had taken care of all the details of their guests. Courtland had intended the trip to be an extension of their wedding celebrations.
“Anyone I’m acquainted with?” she asked, pulling off her hat as the servants started putting baggage away. He’d employed a lady’s maid for her. She hadn’t had one for the months she’d spent in disguise. Thinking about it made him feel sick at the risks she’d taken, and yet, reluctant admiration for her sheer mettle.
“Perhaps. The Earl and Countess of Waterstone—I can’t recall if you met them or not. They’re acquaintances of mine. Mr. Bingham will accompany us back to London, of course. And our resident dragoness, Lady Holding, who has taken it upon herself to be your sentry.”
Ravenna pulled a face that made his lips twitch. “Lovely. I’ll be sure to be on my best behavior, and by that, I mean the most vulgar tart ever.”
“Not too vulgar,” he said. “You have a reputation to maintain, remember.”
She feigned a sulk. “Reputations are for the weak.”
“Not in London, they’re not.”
“Town is stuffy to a fault,” she went on with a theatrical moan, her antics making him smirk. “So many rules and regulations. I must always be of pleasant countenance and wear a smile, but not too large, just the perfect amount with no teeth.”
“God forbid,” he said with an exaggerated shudder. “No one wants to see teeth.”
“I must speak when spoken to, and only in appropriate situations. I must never have more than one glass of champagne. Never be seen in public without the finest of gloves. Oh, and don’t get me started on clothing. Corsets and petticoats are devilry in disguise! Crimes against women, I call them. Down with undergarments, I say!” She gathered her skirts in one hand and displayed a hint of a trim ankle. A shoeless trim ankle. Courtland blinked at the sight. When had his wife’s slippers gone missing? Ravenna grinned wickedly at him. “What would dear Lady Holding think about that, hmm?”
Courtland’s gaze rose to hers, noting her flushed cheeks before it fell back to the hitched skirts of the lovely walking dress she wore. The sight of that delicately arched foot made him salivate, and the thought of what else lay under those yards of striped fabric blanketed his brain. In that moment, everything—all his careful plans to avoid temptation and stay away—evaporated.
He glanced at the lady’s maid—Colleen or some such—who hovered in the corner. “Out.”
“Was that necessary?” Ravenna asked as the young maid scurried away with a squeak, shutting the door to the sitting room behind them.
Every one of his reservations, his qualms, and his warnings went out the door with the maid. All he could think of was getting under those skirts. “For what I have in mind, yes.”
He prowled toward her, watching her coppery eyes go wide with alarm and then brighten with desire in the same instant as his intent became clear.
“What are you doing, Your Grace?” she asked, breathless.
“Conversing in private with my wife.”
“Conversing?” She licked her lips, and he felt the stroke echo in his groin. “Then why does it feel like I’m being stalked by a hungry wolf?”
“Is that what it feels like?”
He reveled in the full-body shiver that rolled through her. “Quite.”
“I am rather famished. I haven’t hunted in some time.”
“Haven’t you?”
No—he’d starved himself of female company, so much so that he was ravenous. Lust bled through him, more powerful than any hunger. Her eyes widened, and his smile was indeed all wolf. Courtland shook his head. “Will you run, little hare?”
She met his stare head-on. “Does it look like I’m running?”
God above she enflamed his blood. Even as he closed the distance between them, his wife was no meek prey, no damsel in distress. Chin high and eyes bright, she held his gaze. She was bold and fierce, and by some random twist of fate, she was now his.
As two consenting adults, why shouldn’t they indulge in a bit of harmless fun?
Not harmless if it clouds your judgment or purpose.
Courtland ignored that. He wasn’t clouded, he was distracted. Deliciously so, and distractions were best handled quickly.
For every step he took forward, she took one back, until her legs bumped up against the sideboard propped beneath the glass porthole. Her chest rose and fell in shallow pants, but she made no move to escape as he bracketed her in with his arms. Breathing deeply, Courtland inhaled her scent. She smelled delicious, like lemon and sugar drizzled over hot buttered scones. His mouth watered. He’d barely gotten a taste of her, and now he craved more, plans be damned. It was a dangerous game, but she did not seem to care either.
“What were you saying about undergarments?” he rasped.
Molten eyes met his. “I dislike them?”
“Don’t you know answering a question with a question is quite rude, Duchess?” His nose trailed along the column of her neck, above the very modest neckline of her dress. Her pulse hummed like a bird’s wings beneath her flushed skin. “We shall have to work on reminding you of the rules, shan’t we?”
“I might require a refresher, Your Grace.”
Smiling, his lips feathered over the impossibly soft skin of her jaw to land at the corner of her saucy, smart mouth. Just recalling her questions about his ship made him as hard as stone. The fact that she was intelligent and shared similar interests only made her more attractive to him. In truth, he despised the edicts that governed their society. He’d always enjoyed a woman who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind.
“Rule number one: you will always say what you think in my presence.”
“Even if it’s not the done thing?”
He nipped at her earlobe. “Especially then.”
Ravenna let out a moan when he took the lobe into his mouth and then traced the pale-pink shell of her ear with his tongue. Moving back south, he lapped at the corner of her lip, the barest hint of the sweetness within making him groan. Hands rose up to clutch at his lapels.
“What’s rule number two?” she asked.
Courtland couldn’t answer. The pouted lips beneath his were far too much temptation. He crushed his mouth to hers with a groan, palms moving from the sideboard to her hips, fisting handfuls of her skirts. Without taking his lips from hers, he lifted her easily to sit on the piece of furniture. He licked into her mouth—sipping, tasting, devouring—her own sleek tongue hungrily tangling with his. A hint of mint tea greeted him along with that ambrosial taste that was naturally hers.
“Two,” he rasped, eying her swollen mouth and passion-blown stare. “As my duchess, you will act as you please. You answer to no one.”
“Except you.”
“Only behind bedroom doors.” Ravenna blushed as if the very idea enflamed her, much as it did him. He wondered how biddable she would be. Not very, he was guessing, given her proclivity to challenge everything and anything. But perhaps in bed she would be different. Perhaps in his arms she would yield to the pleasure he would give her. “Does the thought excite you? Answering to me?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her slender throat working, her heated sherry eyes never leaving his.
“Will you?”
Insolence and fire erupted in that liquid gaze. “With the proper incentive, Duke. Surely you wouldn’t wish me to give in so easily? It’s not worth the chase if I toss my skirts over my head at the slightest provocation, is it?”
Courtland chuckled, his fingers flexing on her curved hips. Her spirit was a breath of fresh air, and he could never imagine robbing her of it. She was not a creature meant to be tamed, and he never wanted to. In that moment, he swore he would never do anything to diminish that fight in her eyes. He loved the bold way she stared at him, as if he was already hers, with not a drop of bashfulness in her gaze. Her desire for him was plain to see, with no coyness or pretense.
How many lovers had she had? He frowned at the thought of any who had touched her before, but struck the pulse of pure jealousy from his head. She was his now. Courtland did not blame her, of course. He’d had lovers before; why should he not place the same standards upon himself? If she was experienced, the better for it.
Gliding up her corseted sides, he filled his hands with her breasts, kneading the soft fabric-covered flesh gently. Her eyes dilated with want, a desperate pant escaping her parted lips. Hell, he couldn’t wait to see more of her.
“Rule number three: you will wear what you wish when you wish.” He sank to his knees, one hand brushing against her shoeless stockinged soles. She swallowed her small gasp when his fingers wrapped around her foot. “Or what you don’t wish to wear, as it were.”
Her feet were beautiful, much like the rest of her, with delicately sloping arches and slender, fine-boned ankles. His hands slid up her rounded calf just as her fingers slid through his hair as if she needed to touch him. She traced one eyebrow with her finger, staring down into his eyes, and something deeply possessive passed between them with that single shared touch. His hands upon her, and hers upon him.
“Courtland.”
The whisper of his given name on her lips moved him to action, his palm tickling the sensitive spot behind her knee. He gave an involuntary grin at the feel of her many petticoats brushing against his upper arm and her ferocious opinions on them. “Petticoats are the devil’s work. I want to rip them off you.”
Her throaty laughter filled his starved soul. “On that, we are categorically in agreement.”
Courtland held her gaze as his fingers skimmed up her thigh to the slit in her drawers where he hovered uncertainly. “May I, Ravenna?” he asked hoarsely.
He’d die if she said no. Hell, he was so hard already that death felt like it was upon him already. Every breath, every strained beat of his heart echoed in his cock. His gorgeous wife turned deliciously pink, bit her plump lip, and nodded. He didn’t need her to tell him twice, his greedy hand sliding past the embroidered lace edges of the fabric.
A groan tore from him as he encountered bare skin, his own arousal ratcheting to excruciating levels, moisture leaking from him to bead against his trousers. Her skin was hot to the touch, the soft thatch of her maidenhair rustling against his fingers.
He slid a fingertip down the damp seam of her, and her hands dug into his hair in reflexive response. “You’re so silky, so soaked for me, Duchess.” She went crimson, eyelashes dipping in embarrassment, and he chuckled low in his throat. “As it should be. You’re perfect.”
Drawing his fingers through her slick sex from her entrance to the swollen bud of nerves above, he rose to catch her sweet gasps with his mouth, closing his lips over hers. She sucked at his tongue and clung to him, soft cries escaping her as he cupped her, relishing in the heat and wetness, stroking relentlessly until she was writhing in his arms.
“I can’t wait to taste you here,” he murmured, staring at her while giving his thumb a purposeful flick across her saturated flesh and making her moan. Ravenna sucked in air, surprise flashing through her eyes. “Does that shock you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Courtland couldn’t help the beat of satisfaction that she wasn’t as schooled as he’d expected, that there were still things he could teach her. “I’ll make you burn,” he promised.
“I’m already burning,” she whispered.
Her head fell back, nearly knocking into the glass of the porthole. No one could see inside of course, but people walked up the footbridge a stone’s throw away, and here he was pleasuring his wife in broad daylight without a care in the world. She wasn’t the only one on the edge. He was so hard he was surprised he wasn’t drilling past the fly of his trousers.
“Come for me, love.” His thumb worried the hidden pearl at the apex of her sex, coating his fingers in her copious, silky arousal.
“Where?” she mumbled.
A low, husky laugh burst from him as he took her lips in a sweet kiss. Hell, she couldn’t be that untried, could she? Courtland redoubled his efforts, gently pinching her sensitive flesh between his thumb and forefinger. When she arched back with a cry, her nails piercing into his scalp, he shifted to insert a finger into her. Her sheath clamped around him, making him wish it was his cock buried in her depths instead.
“You’re grasping me so tightly.”
She gave a helpless moan. “Please.”
He knew what she wanted, and he had every intention of giving it to her. He wanted to give her wings, to make her rush over the edge with the confidence that he’d catch her when she fell. He wanted his duchess to soar.
He worked his hand faster, adding a second finger and stroking in and out, his thumb circling the neediest point of her, until her body went rigid. Huge copper eyes met his, scarlet flooding her cheeks as her mouth parted soundlessly on his name.
“Fly, Ravenna.”
When the cataclysm struck, she broke around him…so beautifully it took his breath away. Her body clenched and rippled, her beautiful eyes going wide and glazing over with such palpable passion it awed him. What would she look like when he was buried to the hilt inside her? Rosy color stamped every inch of her porcelain skin, her lips releasing such a delicious sigh that he couldn’t help but claim her mouth again.
“So lovely, you’re so damned lovely.”
His duchess came back to herself slowly as he removed his hand from her clothing, and ducked her heated face into his neck. He laughed. “Rule number four: never be ashamed of your body’s responses. Not with me, and not when you reach your peak so prettily. Pleasure is to be celebrated, not scorned.”
“That was…incredible.”
“Yes, it was,” he agreed, setting her skirts to rights and gently lifting her off the sideboard. He watched as her gaze darted to the porthole where the incoming guests were visible, and she turned instantly scarlet. “They can’t see us,” he assured her.
“What about you?” she asked, her soft gaze dipping to the noticeable bulge at his crotch. She slid a palm down to his waistband. “I could—”
Those eyes…they eviscerated him. Arousal and need swam in them, and so much melting emotion, it made him weak. Courtland stalled her, gently removing her fingers and lifting them to his mouth in a kiss, the insistent voice of reason finally penetrating his lust-fogged brain.
“Another time, perhaps.” He ignored the barest flash of hurt in her eyes as he turned around and adjusted his mongrel of an erection before putting some much-needed distance between them. “Get yourself settled. I’ll send Colleen back in to help you get ready for dinner. Your rooms are just beyond those doors.”
She blinked. “My rooms?”
“Yes.”
Now that the blanketing haze of desire had lifted enough for him to function, the truth was glaringly obvious. He couldn’t be trusted, not even to pay heed to his own conscience. Clearly, being in any kind of proximity to her, especially with a bed anywhere in the vicinity, would only spell disaster.