Rules for Heiresses by Amalie Howard

Seven

The cuisine onboard the Glory was beyond sumptuous. They could have been partaking of a ten-course dinner in any fancy dining room in London. Their every culinary need was met, from imported wines, to perfectly prepared and served courses, to melt-in-the-mouth desserts. It was delightful, and except for the fact that she’d barely seen her husband, Ravenna would have been having a wonderful time.

Right now, however, she was intent on drowning her fury at the bottom of a bottle in this very nice, very well-stocked library. Being foxed was vastly preferable to dealing with her feelings.

“A pox on marriage,” she toasted, taking a healthy draught of the liquor and spluttering through a cough as the book she held nearly fell from her lap. “A pox on men everywhere.”

She’d met most of the guests onboard the ship, including, to her intense dismay, the prejudiced and very persistent Mr. Sommers. Lord knew why he was going to England and with them to boot. Ravenna decided to keep her distance the minute she recognized his leering gaze in the breakfasting room, and she had been moderately successful at avoiding him thus far. Her wretched husband could have warned her that the man was onboard…if she even knew where he was.

She’d cornered Courtland’s valet, a very nice man by the name of Peabody, but he’d been unable to string two words together at the sight of her. And now whenever he saw her, he scampered away like a mouse afraid of being trapped and mauled by the house cat. She didn’t want to hurt the man; she simply wished to know where the dratted duke was.

Ravenna had tracked down Rawley, too. To her frustration, Courtland’s man of business, and cousin as she’d learned, was his usual stoic and tight-lipped self, saying that Lord Ashvale had much to do before arriving in London and he was busy. If busy meant keeping himself away from her like a spineless coward, then yes, he was. The parting look of pity in the man’s eyes had been rather too much to bear.

The rotter wasn’t busy. He was hiding.

It vexed her, she had to admit. The fact that he would rather run than speak to her after what had happened left her in a state of confusion. The way he had touched her and brought her to such pleasurable heights was never far from her mind. What had she done? Had she frightened him away with her overexuberance? Had she been too forward or too bold? Too impassioned? With gentlemen from her past, she’d feigned indifference, but with him, she had been honest. Perhaps too much so.

He’d seemed to be as immersed in the deed as she’d been, but then he’d refused her offer to reciprocate. She had seen the jutting evidence of his arousal herself. A quiver coursed through her. The thick, hard length of him had been obvious through the fine wool of his trousers. She didn’t have much experience with men’s anatomy, but that part of him had been straining against the fabric as if it intended to burst through at any moment. She wouldn’t have minded if it had. Ravenna had been desperate to see more of him. Feel more of him. To make him come as she had. But Courtland had snubbed her, and then he’d run from her.

Why?

Perhaps she didn’t suit him in the bedroom, after all. Men seemed to be particular about their preferences from what she’d gleaned on Rhystan’s ship. Then again, what did a bunch of randy old sailors know? She wished she had Clara or Sarani to speak to. They were both married women and certainly would have some helpful perspective, but neither of them was here.

No, she was alone. On a ship in the mid-Atlantic. With only a bottle for a friend.

Ravenna sighed. She could don men’s clothing and cross an entire ocean without blinking an eye, but put her in a gown in front of a man who made swarms of butterflies spawn in her belly, and she was at a loss on how to function. But then again, that could be because she was shockingly drunk.

The fact that she rarely imbibed was evidenced by her atrocious state.

“Do you mind a spot of company, Your Grace?”

Ravenna glanced up from the book she’d been pretending to read, her gaze unfocused for a second. She swallowed a hiccup and recognized the arrival through slitted eyes. “Mr. Bingham, of course.” Why did her voice sound so strange? “Please, have a…seat. Read or whatever.”

She smiled at him fondly as he found a chair and reached for a book. The kindly solicitor was one of her few favorites onboard. Apart from the Earl and Countess of Waterstone, who were good fun for a game of whist and charades after dinner, she preferred to keep to herself. Lady Holding had taken it upon herself to point out each and every one of Ravenna’s many flaws ad nauseam—her shoulders were too slouched, her smile was too bright, her gait was too choppy, her face was too splotchy and freckled.

In defiance of the last, Ravenna had taken indecent pleasure in sprawling across one of the lounging chaises on the promenade deck without a bonnet and lifting her face to the hot mid-Atlantic sun. She hoped she added a dozen more freckles! She’d thoroughly scandalized the meddlesome harridan when she’d had the audacity to kick off her slippers in public.

The duke himself had told her to do as she pleased, damn it, and he hadn’t even been around to see her defying decorum so splendidly. Those bloody rules of his—she could hardly think of them without going into a full-on visceral quake—each one of them punctuated by the feel of his hands and lips coasting over her skin.

Say what you think.

Act as you please.

Wear what you wish, or not.

Never be ashamed of your body’s response.

Ravenna took another unladylike gulp, spilling droplets down her chin. Sod his sodding rules! How dare he treat her so? Her fury had been the catalyst for stomping back to her quarters after yet another extravagant dinner and indulging in a lengthy sulk with a bath and half a bottle of French liquor in a nondescript green bottle she’d pilfered from her absentee husband’s study. The drink had been terribly bitter at first, but after the first few sips mixed with water, she’d ceased to care.

Her husband was a blackguard of the worst sort. She’d cursed his revival from death, calling him every name in the book and then some. Craven bastard. She’d sat in the bath until her fingers and toes turned to prunes and the water had become cold against her overheated skin.

Ravenna peeked over the book that had long ceased to be readable to peer down at her bare toes and wiggle them. How were toes so scandalous? They were just toes.

“This pig went to market,” she murmured, wiggling her big toe. “That pig stayed home. This pig had roast meat. That pig had none. This pig went to the barn’s door…” She hiccupped. “And murdered a dastardly duke.”

Her version was much better than the original.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?” Mr. Bingham asked. “Did you say something?”

“Oh no, dear Mr. Bingham,” she said with a wobbly wave. “Don’t mind me.”

Just plotting the murder of a duke. Death by toe.

Feeling sorry for herself, Ravenna sighed again. She’d only done as instructed and been condemned for it…for breaking with propriety and doing the unthinkable. They were shoes, for God’s sake, not her petticoats! Those dratted things belonged in the lowest reach of the underworld!

And besides, this was the duke’s ship, which meant it was her ship. Lady Holding was a nosy busybody. She had half a mind to tell her so…if only she could manage two steps without toppling over.

How she’d made it to the library, she’d never know.

Ravenna supposed she had Colleen to thank for making sure she was at least clothed before leaving her stateroom after her bath. They weren’t even on English soil, and already she felt the burden to be the perfect English lady bearing down on her shoulders. That pressure was why she’d run away in the first place. It was why she hadn’t been able to marry some titled prat of a gentleman and become his perfect, biddable, dutiful wife.

It wasn’t in her to be what anyone expected her to be… She simply wanted to be herself.

To be alone. To make her own choices.

But as she was, she would never be good enough…not for the Dowager Duchess of Embry, not for Lady Holding, not for the ton, and maybe now not even for her new husband.

Sod him, then. Sod the bloody lot of them!

Ravenna reached for the glass of brandy that wasn’t there and scowled when she saw the book in her hand instead. Where had her tasty liquor gone? Someone had bloody stolen it! She’d have their hide if she could remember who she could make her grievance to.

The Duke of Ashvale, no doubt.

That was the name of the cad who was to blame for all her tribulations. She shook a fist at the ceiling, noting the lovely mural of flying cherubs. She squinted up at it. How did cherubs fly? They were much too plump for those tiny wings.

“Your Grace, are you well?”

Her gaze flopped back down. “Oh, Mr. Bingham, hullo! I didn’t see you there. Where on earth did you come from?”

He shot her a queer look. “You invited me to sit with you, Your Grace.”

“Call me Ravenna, or Lady Ravenna, if you please.” She waved an arm and nearly smacked herself in the eye with the spine of her book. “Her Grace sounds like a terribly stuffy kind of person.” Her mouth formed a wry twist. “And while I’m at sea, I’d rather be me.”

“And who is that, er, Your Grace?” Mr. Bingham regarded her with curiosity before murmuring something to a nearby footman. A glass of something cold was pressed into her hands. “It’s water,” the solicitor said.

She gulped gratefully, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat. When had she become so thirsty? Or when had water ever been so refreshingly delicious? What had Bingham asked her? Oh yes, who she was.

Who was she?

“A daughter. A misfit. A sailor. A gambler. A wife.” She peered up at him through a lock of damp, springy hair that had fallen into her eyes. She blew a stream of air upward, but it did little to dislodge the clump. That didn’t stop her from trying again and again—futilely, she might add. Hair was so bloody stubborn! Like men. Like dukes.

“Have you known the duke long?”

“Perhaps only as long as you’ve known him.”

“Oh, I’ve known Cordy all my life. He was my neighbor,” she explained helpfully. “We were engaged once, you know, but he was a dreadful bore. So bossy and such a know-it-all. He was insufferable. Everyone liked him, except me. He was the thorn in my side.” She trailed off with an indelicate hiccup. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir.” She sipped her water, noticing that the glass had been refilled. Her voice grew soft, heavy with memory. “But I think I rather loved him. He looked out for me. And then one day…poof!…he was gone.”

“What happened?”

She smiled sadly. “He died. Or at least that’s what Stinson told me.” Ravenna brightened at the thought of one friend she had in England. “Do you know Stinson? He’s lovely.” She lifted a hand and separated one blurry finger to point at nothing in particular. “I think he might have fancied me. But now he’s too late. I married the not-dead, cruel, heartless brother. He’ll be so crushed, my poor friend, because he has a heart.” She let out a sorry sound. “He said I couldn’t see him.”

“Who said?”

“Ashvale.” She spat out the word as if it burned her mouth. “The portentous Duke of Ashes and Despair.”

“That’s enough.”

The harsh command wasn’t Mr. Bingham’s. No, it came from the entryway to the library. Ravenna’s vision was starting to blur, so all she could see was a menacing, looming form that looked uncannily like what she imagined Hades, the mythical lord of the underworld, would look like: godlike, grim, and sinfully hot. Her stupid thighs quivered. Gracious, had he come to take his revenge because she’d cursed her petticoats to his realm? Surely he wouldn’t be so petty?

“Petty…petticoats.” She giggled as Hades-in-the-flesh strode toward her. Mr. Bingham rose and she reached out blindly for him. “Don’t leave, dear friend, I haven’t finished telling you about Cordy and our magical woods.”

“Perhaps tomorrow when you’re feeling better, Your Grace.” The solicitor bowed and took a rather hasty leave. No doubt it was because of the fearsome god’s arrival.

“I’m as fit as a fiddle, sir!” she screeched after Mr. Bingham.

“Are you foxed, Ravenna?” the new arrival demanded, dropping to one knee in front of her.

“Quite,” she replied, thinking that Hades was extraordinarily handsome. “Quite, quite, quite foxed. I stole the liquor, you see.”

“I’m going to sack that lackwit of a maid.”

“Don’t you dare blame my lovely Colleen! She’s the one who kept me from coming out here in my chemise and nothing else!” She poked Hades in his chest and winced. His earthly form had to be made of bloody rock. “I’ll tell you who you should blame…that Ashvale fellow. He’s a scoundrel and a liar and a rotten, abysmal husband.”

She’d had better adjectives in the bath, but she could hardly recall all of them.

His reply was soft. “Oh?”

Ravenna sniffed morosely. “He left me alone for days.” She dragged her legs up, nearly kneeing the stern god in the face—though he would deserve it after chasing poor Mr. Bingham off—and arranged them beneath her. She tucked her head into the crook of her arm and closed her eyes. This would be a lovely place for a nap. “Good night, Hades.”

The laugh was dry and humorless in the extreme. “You think me the lord of the underworld?”

She blinked one eye open. “Aren’t you?”

“I suppose I’ve been called worse.”

Strong arms scooped her up, one bracing beneath her knees and the other cradling her back. Hades was strong. He was also hot under her cheek and he smelled good, like lemon and verbena and something else that made her insides squirm. Too good. Was that what drew unsuspecting maidens to his underworld lair? Something wasn’t right. Faces blurred together as he moved quickly down several corridors. Inexplicable panic took root.

“Put me down this instant, sir! I insist!”

The reply was quick. “No.”

Seized with alarm, she began to struggle in earnest, the comfort of her captor’s arms suddenly becoming a pair of heavy brackets that trapped her in place. She did not want to be confined! “Ravenna, cease! It’s me, Courtland. You’ve had a bit too much to drink. I’m taking you to your room.”

“I hate my room.”

“You hate your room?”

She wanted to weep. “I hate you, too.”

The softest of kisses feathered over her brow, so soft that she could have sworn she imagined it. “I know.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I needed to think.”

The fissure in her heart widened. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.”

Courtland paused for a second, exchanged words in a low voice with someone, and then she was being gently set on top of a feather mattress. Blearily, she took in the details of the magnificent stateroom, noticing that it was not hers. For one, the mural on the ceiling was quite different. She’d studied hers for hours when sleep had eluded her, memorizing every bend and line of the ornamental cornices, every tender stroke of the artist’s brush. This was not her chamber or her bed.

“Where are we?” she mumbled.

But Courtland was gone. In his place was Colleen, that darling maid of hers. “Come now, Your Grace. Let’s get you into your night rail.” Within a few quick moments, her clothing had been deftly switched out.

Ravenna reached out. “Don’t be afraid of the duke,” she told the girl.

To her surprise, Colleen sent her a shy smile. “I’m not, Your Grace. In fact, he’s rather dashing, isn’t he, rescuing you as he did?”

Rescuingher?

Ravenna blinked through her muddled mind. Surely she wasn’t so much in her cups that she couldn’t remember having to be rescued. Had there been cutthroats? Pirates on the high seas? A fire-breathing dragon, perhaps?

When her lady’s maid gave her a quizzical look, Ravenna realized she had asked the questions out loud. Her poor maid backed out of the room so fast it was a miracle she was ever there at all. Ravenna’s mind spun as she settled back against the fluffy pillows. Her limbs felt quite strange—like they were sinking into a cloud.

Good heavens, she was never drinking French brandy again!

“It wasn’t brandy,” that voice that did unconscionable things to her insides said. Drat and blast, had she said that aloud as well? “Yes, you did.” There was laughter in the reply. She groaned. A familiar green bottle waved in front of her face, and she fought the urge to make a grab for it. “Brandy is brown. This is pale green. You consumed nearly a quarter of a bottle of absinthe.”

“Absinthe?” she repeated somewhat dimly.

“La fée verte.”

“I know what absinthe is, you big lump,” she told him with an imperious look, though it was ruined by the indelicate slurring of her words. “The green fairy, everyone knows. I assure you, sir, this is not it.”

“I assure you it is.”

“It turns white when you mix it with water, did you know?” She wrinkled her nose. “No, no, it’s brandy. Really terrible, possibly spoiled, dreadful brandy.”

“And you still consumed it?” he asked, a pair of dark thundercloud eyes drilling into hers.

Ravenna did not want to admit that it was the first bottle she snatched, nor that she’d set out to get completely sotted so it hadn’t mattered which liquor she swigged. “Heavens, Ashvale, are you always this fatalistic? I’m fine.” She attempted to stare him down and failed. “As you can well see, I’m here in my chamber, safe and sound.”

“These are my rooms.”

“Why am I in your rooms?”

The duke groaned out loud. “Confound it all to hell, woman! You’re not fine. You were prowling around the ship with no idea where you were. How you ended up in the library is anyone’s guess. If Bingham hadn’t stumbled upon you, Lord knows what could have happened to you. You could have gone overboard!”

He stared at her after his outburst. So many emotions ran across his face. Anger was the most obvious, even to her fuzzy senses, then exasperation, followed by anger again. Fear was there, too, as well as resignation of some kind. But at the heart of it, he was clearly very angry with her. She didn’t want him to be angry. She wanted him to hold her. To gather her into his arms and hold her tight, and never let go. But first, she wanted to erase those deep lines of worry and strain from his brow.

“Cordy?” she whispered.

“What?”

“I’m glad it was you.”

His brow furrowed more. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m glad I found you again.” She burrowed into his blankets, inhaling the clean, comforting scent of him into her aching lungs. Her eyes fluttered shut, exhaustion overcoming her in a rush. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

Perhaps she’d only imagined that soft response, because the next thing Ravenna knew was the comforting embrace of oblivion.