Rules for Heiresses by Amalie Howard

Eight

Courtland ran a hand through his hair, having returned after a sleepless night on a hard couch to stare at the sleeping woman sprawled in his bed. His wife. His to protect and he could very well have lost her last night. His chest felt uncomfortably tight, his limbs brittle as though they might snap. The feelings that chased through him were unfamiliar.

And unwelcome!

All because of the fiery-tempered, shockingly direct, and intolerably vexing temptress currently ensconced in his bed. His fingers twitched, longing to drift over the satiny-soft skin of her shoulder just visible over the edge of her night rail. Memories of that lustrous skin flushing in the throes of orgasm assailed him—all rosy and delicious—she’d been the most exquisite thing he’d ever seen. He would treasure that gift forever, no matter how much she claimed to hate him.

Last night, she’d thought him Hades.

Hell, perhaps he was. The god of the underworld was far from a benevolent creature. He’d touched her and left her, avoiding her as much as he could. Coward that he was, he’d been holed up on the captain’s quarters, poring over complex engineering diagrams and looking at the same steam-turbine prototype specifications over and over. The fine drawings and sheets of numbers had served to distract him for a good while. But then Rawley had brought word that the duchess was wandering about the ship, foxed out of her mind. Thankfully, Bingham had been the one to find her and not one of the other guests.

Lady Holding would have been irreparably scandalized.

And Sommers would have taken dreadful advantage.

Helpless fury flooded him, but having Sommers here was a necessary evil. Courtland was so close to securing his trust. The man was pure scum. He was a smuggler and a criminal with a cruel streak. The Earl of Waterstone had been tracking him for some time and had only recently enlisted Courtland’s help to expose and arrest the man.

His marriage and the trip to England had come at an inopportune time…and so, he’d invited Sommers to visit his ducal estate in London. Like most of his ilk, the lure of hobnobbing with the crème de la crème of English aristocracy proved too big to resist. Though Courtland did not want his wife, or any of the other female guests, in any kind of proximity to Sommers, he’d had no other choice.

Waterstone had agreed it was the only way. The earl was a British agent who’d been on Sommers’s tail for years for the illicit smuggling of undeclared goods under the guise of legitimate trade. Courtland had tried to get Sommers to use his ships to catch him in the act, but the slippery man had always refused. So the only alternative had been to befriend him and ferret out his secrets that way. It turned Courtland’s stomach, but if his help put a criminal away, then it was worth it.

Not if it endangered his wife, however.

He glanced at the duchess, who moaned fitfully and shifted against the bedsheets before settling. God knew what had possessed Ravenna to pick up a bottle of spirits that had been left behind by a group of French poets and artists who’d been onboard the Glory some months ago.

He corrected himself. He knew exactly what had driven her to do so. Her brother had warned that she was not as tough as she pretended to be. Leaving her as he had after the intimacy they’d shared had not been well done of him by any stretch of the imagination.

Hell, he was a cad.

But if he hadn’t left that room, if he hadn’t stayed away, he would have finished what he’d started, and plowing his deliciously responsive wife wasn’t an option. Divorce was expensive and difficult, even with the recent changes in British law, which made such separation legal without an Act of Parliament.

While mutual pleasure was a gray area, consummation would only make things harder, especially if he intended to let her go at the end of all of it. And he did. Courtland had no intention of keeping her trapped in a marriage she did not want. And worse yet, if a child resulted from an act of passion, she would be even more tied to him. Neither of them needed that kind of complication.

Therefore, he would keep his distance. He had to. Even if it meant he had to be as distant as possible so she had a chance to walk away with her dignity intact and reclaim the future he’d deprived her of. It was the least he could do.

The end of the season was only a few short months anyway. They would go to London and be seen, he would deal with Stinson and the dukedom, and then Ravenna could go back to Kettering to live her life, whereupon he would return to Antigua.

They would both get what they wanted, and go their separate, happy ways.

Easy enough, if he could keep his lust in check.

* * *

“Fancy a drink, little fairy?”

From her place on the happily empty promenade deck, Ravenna glared at the odious man whose smirk made her want to punch him in his smug face. “Call me that again, Mr. Sommers, and you won’t be smiling.”

“I can see why he wants you.”

She threw an arm blearily across her face. “Who does?”

To Ravenna’s absolute dismay, the man plunked his bulk down in the chaise that sat a few feet away from hers. “Ashvale, of course.”

He settled in, to Ravenna’s alarm. Even the slightest noise made her head throb. Peabody, bless his tiny, mouselike valet heart, had brought her a cure-all headache tincture early this morning when she’d woken up in the duke’s wonderful bed, but the effects were already wearing off.

Sommers smiled unpleasantly at her. “You’re quite a firebrand.”

“I prefer to be direct, sir.”

“Aren’t all posh Englishwomen supposed to be demure and quiet?”

Are all American men so obtuse?

Thankfully, her reckless, brazen tongue did not communicate that. “We come in all shapes and sizes, Mr. Sommers.”

“I see that.”

This time she did not mistake the lewd gaze that swept down the fitted front of her modest walking ensemble. There was nothing to see, no daring décolletage on display. No, the Garibaldi shirt buttoned to her neck, but one would think that she was one of the puddings served at dinner, the way the man ogled her person.

She wished her husband was close by so he could put the man in his place, but the duke was not, so it was up to her. “It’s rude to stare, Mr. Sommers.”

His expression went hawkish. “I can’t help admiring a beautiful woman.”

“I am married, sir.”

“So am I.”

What a brute. Ravenna closed her eyes, once more with the hope that he’d take the obvious hint that she did not want company. How did one indicate one was not at home when out in public? She wished she had a fan. She could swat it open and place it on her left ear, clearly stating I wish to get rid of you. Or perhaps a slow, deliberate fanning movement, one that would indicate Don’t waste your time. I don’t care about you. Not that Mr. Clodhead would get it. She put a hand to her temples, unable to suppress a groan.

“Are you enjoying the voyage?” he asked.

“Most days.”

Sommers laughed, and the sound was like cannons firing. Oh, good heavens, why wouldn’t the dratted man go?

She tried to get the attention of Lady Waterstone who had just appeared on the foredeck and was giggling and leaning over the railing gazing into the depths of the ocean. Lord Waterstone appeared behind her, making her squeal. The blond gentleman whispered something to her that made her turn in his arms and then burst into laughter. The obvious closeness between the two of them made envy flood Ravenna’s veins.

She wobbled to her feet, and her nemesis, Mr. Sommers, was quick to follow. “May I escort you back to your stateroom, my lady? Or perhaps to one of the lounges?”

The man was a slimy prick. She couldn’t countenance that her husband was in any kind of business with such a man, yet here he was traveling with them like an esteemed guest. Despite her irritation, curiosity dug at her. Perhaps she could find out why.

“Walk with me, Mr. Sommers,” she said, knowing she wouldn’t be rid of him so easily and choosing to get some answers instead. “Let’s take a turn about the ship.” He offered her his arm, but she did not take it—a small breach of etiquette that she hoped he would not notice. His small frown appeared and disappeared in the same breath. “So tell me, how do you know the duke?”

“We’ve done some business together over the years.”

“Business?” she inquired, though her stomach clenched at the implication.

“Trade and investments, among other things.”

What other things?

Ravenna frowned. Courtland didn’t strike her as a man who dabbled in illegal affairs. Then again, how well did she know the man she’d married? She had known the boy during her childhood, but she of all people knew how easily a person could change. And Courtland had deeply buried secrets that had to do with Stinson and his family.

Who was he?

Her gaze spanned the polished slats of the deck and the shiny, well-made railings that ran the length of the hull. This ship itself was worth a small fortune. How did her husband make his money? The old Duke of Ashvale had been by no means poor, but this kind of wealth was beyond what most of the peerage enjoyed.

Ravenna’s stomach sank. Was Courtland truly involved with a man like Sommers?

“Is this your first time to England?” she asked.

Sommers grinned. “No, but it’s my first time as the honored guest of a duke.” An insolent gaze scanned her. “Duchess as well.”

Oh no. Surely, he did not intend to stay with them. She would retire to Huntley House in London with her mother if that was the case. At least on this massive ship, she had enough room to thwart him. In a London town house, that would be impossible. And every instinct screamed that she would not want to be cornered by this man. As a matter of fact, he reminded her very much of the Marquess of Dalwood. They shared the same sense of entitlement and viewed people as things to own.

“Ashvale did not mention it.”

“A man doesn’t have to tell his spouse everything,” Sommers said, voice lowering to a cadence he probably thought was seductive. All it did was make her skin crawl. “We all have secrets, darlin’.”

Ravenna came to a sharp stop and tilted her chin. “Mr. Sommers, you are overstepping,” she said coldly. “I am happily married and do not keep secrets from my husband.”

“Is there a problem here?” They both turned to see the Duke of Ashvale striding toward them.

Ravenna caught her breath, her heart tripping over itself at the welcome sight of him. Despite her lie to Sommers about being happily married, heaven knew Ashvale didn’t feel that way. The only reason he’d put her in his bed the night before was because he didn’t want her falling overboard and dying on his ship during his watch.

She didn’t make him happy. She made him angry.

They were unhappily married.

Even now, his lips were a hard line, his eyes dark with a tornado of volatile emotion rolling through them. He was ever the storm around her, it seemed. Though it was the middle of the afternoon, he wasn’t wearing a coat and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to expose tanned, muscular forearms. His inky hair was windblown, his cheeks ruddy, as if he’d been doing some form of manual labor. Ravenna liked that he wasn’t indolent like other gentlemen and was willing to use his hands.

He’d used them well enough on her.

Goodness, where had that thought come from?

“All is well,” Sommers drawled, annoyance flashing in his gaze. “Just accompanying the duchess for a turn about the deck. It’s a lovely afternoon.”

It had been a lovely afternoon until he’d interrupted it. Ravenna shook her head. “I was just about to go in. I fear I might’ve had a bit too much sun.”

The duke’s inscrutable gaze panned from her to Sommers. “Shall I escort you?”

“You look busy,” she said, not wanting her neediness to show. “I can find my own way.”

“Please, I insist.”

She did not argue, resting her gloved fingers on the crook of her husband’s elbow. Feeling the weight of Sommers’s displeased stare, she was grateful to the duke for his timely arrival. Given his state of dishevelment, she wondered if a servant had fetched him in a hurry. She hadn’t seen anyone on deck besides Lord and Lady Waterstone, and they had been much too preoccupied with each other to have noticed Sommers’s persistent attentions to her. But someone must have.

“Be seeing you, Duchess.” Sommers drawled the address in the same way he’d called her darlin’, and that made her flesh crawl. Ravenna could not hide the way her fingers jerked on Courtland’s arm, but she could have sworn every muscle in her husband’s body went rigid. She didn’t have to look at him to know that he was furious when he led her indoors.

Was he upset with her? Did he think she encouraged the odious man?

“Your Grace, I—” He silenced her with his body as he blanketed her against the wainscoting of the inside passageway.

“Did he touch you? Hurt you?”

She shook her head with a frown. “No.”

Tension bled from him, even as his eyes searched hers. “Keep away from him.”

“He’s a friend of yours, is he not?”

“Far from it.” Still looming in the empty corridor, the duke inhaled a deep breath and then exhaled raggedly as if the scent of her was too much to bear. His nose grazed the hollow beneath her ear as one muscled male thigh wedged between the skirts of her dress, making her gasp. “You smell of sunshine and the ocean.”

“I was outside,” she whispered, her knees instantly going weak at the gossamer pressure of his lips on her skin. Anyone could come upon them where they stood, but she didn’t care. Neither did he.

“Why can’t I keep my hands off you?” It was a tortured question, a rhetorical one she knew he didn’t expect her to answer. Besides, she wanted his hands on her. All over her. Beneath her garments. Everywhere. Her body craved it. Demanded it. Her need was an insistent pulse in her head and between her legs. He shoved himself off the wall—off of her—with effort, his breath coming in harsh, hard pants. “Stay away from Sommers.”

“Just like you want me to stay away from Stinson?” She hadn’t meant to sound so waspish, but she was sick of his abrupt rejections. Sommers wasn’t on her list of favorite people, and she’d gladly stay away from him, but Courtland’s constant push and pull hurt. One minute he couldn’t get enough of her; the next he was shoving her away. It was exhausting. “Who will it be next? Lord Waterstone?”

A muscle kicked in his jaw. “What did he do?”

“Nothing, he’s madly in love with his wife if you hadn’t noticed.” She ground her teeth, inexplicably angry. “Then again, a blockhead like you wouldn’t notice such insignificant things. Why don’t you just leave me alone, Ashvale!”

He gave a harsh, desolate-sounding laugh. “If only I could.”

* * *

Ashvale.She called him by his bloody title whenever she wanted to distance herself. It pierced him for no good reason. It was a name—his name. Surely he should get used to it! Courtland stared down at his impassioned wife, lips parted and eyes sparkling with hurt and rage. Hurt he’d put there. Yet again. He licked his lips, the honeyed salt of her skin resting upon them like dew, and suddenly, he wanted to taste every luscious inch of her.

He wanted to eat her alive.

She wants you. Put yourself out of your misery.

The thought was provocative. Sly in the extreme. Lust and fury battled through him like twin demons, but Courtland made himself see reason. He’d always been good at that. He could isolate a problem, take it apart, and solve it. His tantalizing wife was the problem.

With her, he could fight, fuck, or flee.

The last two were not practical—the second led to unnecessary complications and the third was an impossibility unless he planned to swim for England—which left only one option.

“You will obey me, Ravenna,” he bit out, his voice hard. “Keep your distance from Sommers and Stinson, and anyone else I tell you to.”

“Obey?” The reply practically vibrated with wrath. If looks could kill a man, Courtland knew he’d be skewered into tiny, unrecognizable pieces and flung into the dark waters of the Atlantic.

“You pledged your troth in your marriage vows,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “Do I need to remind you of it?”

“Do I need to remind you of your oaths?” she shot back. “How dare you make such demands of me?”

His look was coolly assessing. “I am your husband.”

“Only when it suits you,” she snapped. “Save us both the trouble and tell me what it is you want from me, Your Grace.”

Your body. Your consent. Your surrender.

But none of those things were his to demand. Courtland blew out a breath.

“Stay away from Stinson and Sommers, Ravenna, or so help me, I won’t be responsible for my actions.” Face clenched, he ran a hand through his hair. “And all I want is to just to put this whole goddamned mess behind me.”

“Were you always such a bastard?”

“Sadly no, or none of this fucking charade would be necessary, would it?” She reared back as if he’d slapped her, but Courtland dug the knife in and twisted it for good measure. “If I were a bastard, you would be ruined from your own folly, I would be living a life I love, and no one would expect me to fall on my unworthy sword to save a selfish brat from her silly, self-indulgent capers. Of all the goddamned luck, you had to crash into my life.”

She flinched from the words as though they were blows. The anger drained from her starkly beautiful face, only to be replaced with a queer sort of distress. Her eyes, so full of life and fight before, went hollow.

Regret filled him and he reached for her before he could stop himself. “Ravenna—”

“Don’t touch me.”

Then she whirled in a flurry of skirts and dashed away.