Rules for Heiresses by Amalie Howard

Nine

Cold-blooded didn’t begin to describe the stone of a man she’d married. For the hundredth time in two days, Ravenna wished she’d never married him. Wished she’d never crossed paths with him. Ruination would have been a pleasure cruise over being an unwanted, pitiful duchess whom he’d married out of bad luck.

“Are you well, milady?” Colleen asked shyly.

Ravenna glanced over her shoulder, throttling her resentment. “Yes, though I am quite ready to get off of this ship.”

“I’ve never been to London,” the maid said, looking up from her packing. “What’s it like?”

“It’s big and busy.”

And fake and exhausting and suffocating.

Though in truth, she’d take town over her current circumstance in a heartbeat. Her husband resented her. Sommers stalked her at every opportunity. Lady Holding held her in silent contempt, criticizing everything from her short hair to her clothing choices to her impolite, unladylike views. God forbid that she dared have an opinion about anything that wasn’t needlepoint. On top of that, Lord and Lady Waterstone were acting like a pair of besotted lovers every time she saw them.

Heaven help her, she was this close to murdering someone!

Thankfully, the end was in sight.

Rawley had informed her that they’d make landfall in less than an hour. And then the lies would begin in earnest, whereupon she would emulate the Dowager Duchess of Embry, exemplifying the impeccable hauteur of her mother. Ravenna had married a duke and they had come to London to put on a show.

At the sound of the stateroom door closing, Ravenna turned to find her husband staring at her. Her heart caught in her throat and she fought the instant physical reaction to him. She wondered if he felt the same elemental spark that made her acutely aware of him whenever he entered a room. Probably not. Since the altercation in the corridor what seemed like an eternity ago, he’d avoided her like the plague. She’d done the same with him, distracting herself with the pleasures to be found onboard the luxurious ship: entertaining musicales, games, extravagant dinners, dancing…anything to avoid seeing or thinking of him.

It had worked during the day.

At night, however, her efforts failed her miserably. Her dreams left her hot, bothered, drenched between the legs, and utterly deprived of sleep.

The duke cleared his throat. “We’ll be arriving soon.”

Even the deep tenor of his voice tormented her, giving her starved senses a hollow thrill. Ravenna wished she was immune to him. Wished he wasn’t so absurdly appealing, impeccably dressed as he was in rich, dove-gray trousers and a navy waistcoat shot through with silver thread. The colors brought out a light sheen in the darkness of his eyes—a warmth that had been subdued since they’d left Antigua.

Because of her.

Ravenna bit her lip. It was done now; this was their fate. For better or worse, they were the Duke and Duchess of Ashvale.

Ravenna inclined her head. “Thank you for telling me.”

“You look well,” he said stiffly.

Colleen had dressed her in one of her new traveling dresses—a pale-blue ensemble with floral embroidery. Ravenna wondered whether the maid had planned for their clothing to match so splendidly, or maybe it was wishful thinking on her part. She smoothed the front of her skirts with a self-conscious palm. “Thank you, so do you,” she said.

“We’ll continue to London via my private rail car,” he said, retrieving his pocket watch. “I’ve sent some staff ahead to make sure everything is ready for our arrival.”

Ravenna eyed him, knowing full well that Stinson and his mother would be at the London residence. She couldn’t remember the exact ages of his sisters, Bronwyn and Florence, but she had a feeling one of them would be of age. Both girls were more than a handful of years younger, though Stinson had come one year and nine months to the day his father had finished mourning his late wife and remarried. Lady Borne had wasted no time producing a son of her own.

“Where are we staying, may I ask?”

Unfathomable dark-brown eyes met hers. “I own several properties in London. One of those, I presume. Rawley handled the details.”

“Naturally.”

Silence spun like a web between them, thick and uncomfortable until he cleared his throat again. Uncertainty flashed over him. “Ravenna.”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

He flinched at the formal address, his mouth flattening, but then he wiped all expression from his face and drew himself upright. His voice was quiet. “I never intended to marry, but here we are. I intend to honor those vows for your sake, and for the sake of my sisters.”

His matter-of-fact tone gutted her, but this was their reality. “I am aware of your reasons for this marriage, Your Grace.”

“In town, I trust you will conduct yourself as befits the Duchess of Ashvale, no matter your personal feelings toward me. It has come to my attention that it will be Bronwyn’s first season. You will smile and charm, and pretend to be pleased with your new position as my wife. Evidence of a strong, caring union will put gossip to rest and ensure suitable offers.”

Swallowing hard, Ravenna nodded, keeping her spine locked. The ache in her stomach rippled and grew, the urge to weep stinging the backs of her eyes. A strong, caring union. What a sodding joke. Here was the ruthless indifference he was known for.

“As you wish,” she managed to say. “I won’t disgrace you, if that is your fear. You’ve made your expectations of this marriage perfectly clear. As you’ve said, I am in your debt.”

“It’s not like that,” he said with a frown.

Ravenna raised a palm, heart splintering for reasons beyond her control. “I will make it my mission to see your sister happily launched by the end of the season.” She did not meet his eyes. “You’ve made it more than clear, Duke…when I am to speak, when I am to smile, when I am to breathe. As your faithful servant and obedient wife, I will do as you require.” Ravenna curtsied low, catching sight of his shaken, embittered expression before he stalked away, leaving her alone.

Her limbs gave out and she sank to the floor in a pool of pastel-blue skirts. The tears she’d been holding back broke free. She rarely cried. Not when her mother took her to task for not being a proper young lady. Not even when Rhystan had left her alone to go on his travels.

But this man…her husband…he could eviscerate her with a few well-chosen words. Shatter her with a look from those hard, emotionless eyes. Break her unconscionably.

Because there was no way she was going to survive this.

Or survive him.

* * *

He’d lied to his wife. Twice.

The first was when he’d told her that a strong, united front would put gossip to rest. That had been purely selfish on his end. Courtland simply couldn’t stand the thought of her looking at him with apathy in front of their peers, even if he’d been the one to hammer the wedge between them in the first place. But instead of making things better, he’d only made them worse. Now she was intent on obeying him to death.

The second was that Courtland had known exactly where they were going. The house in Mayfair was one of the first he had bought when he’d made his fortune, mostly as a slap in the face to Stinson who had commandeered the family’s town house as though it was his right. Courtland hadn’t even come back to England to canvass the location. He’d bought it sight unseen for an exorbitant sum. Primarily because it sat directly opposite Ashvale Manor.

He was a vengeful soul.

Stinson likely didn’t know that the property had been bought by him because Courtland hadn’t made the sale public knowledge. The transaction had been private. But his brother would swiftly learn who his new neighbors were now that they were in residence.

He wondered what his sisters were like now. He didn’t fault them for their egregious bloodline on their mother’s side, but he would not be surprised if they had turned out just like the marchioness—greedy, blinkered, and arrogant. Seven and eight years his junior, he had no idea what they looked like either. Bronwyn would be nearing eighteen, and Florence, sixteen. He would withhold judgment before deciding whether he would consider them family.

Their brother’s sins weren’t theirs.

Pacing the floor of the well-appointed study, Courtland pressed his fingers to his temples, feeling the beginnings of a migraine. He hadn’t had one in years, but London brought out the worst in him. Breathing in the thick, smoggy air had felt like inhaling soup through his nostrils, unlike the clean tropical air of the island. And London stank. Between the reek of the Thames and the filthy, clogged streets, he’d wanted to turn right back around, head for the Glory, and go back home.

One devastating kiss had set him on this path. He’d always been a big believer in small movements having big ripple effects, particularly in his study of commerce, but this was altogether something different. How had one small kiss taken on the power to change multiple lives, to impact the futures and hopes of so many? To get him to set foot on these shores when he’d sworn on his mother’s grave never to return. It was inconceivable.

His head pounded with renewed force.

“Rawley?” he called out, the sound of his own voice echoing off the walls sending stabbing pains through his temples. “Inform Peabody that I require some of that Collis Browne’s tincture.”

The voice that answered wasn’t the deep male one he expected and every nerve in his body leapt at the husky feminine notes of it. “Chlorodyne? Are you not well, Your Grace?”

“A headache,” he said as his wife appeared in the doorway.

Curiously, the sight of her did much to dispel the dark fog stewing in his brain. Her windblown hair was an auburn cloud about her face, disobedient ringlets escaping their pins, and her porcelain cheeks were flushed a becoming rose. Her copper eyes sparkled with health and vivacity. Dimly, he registered that she was dressed in a smart riding habit and had evidently just returned from a ride. “Were you out?”

“Oh, I wanted to check in on Athena, my mare, and the weather was so lovely that I decided to take her for a quick turn about Hyde Park.” She took a few hesitant steps toward him, bringing with her the scent of crisp air and that underlying fragrance that was uniquely hers—plumeria with a hint of peppery spice. London seemed to suit her. A concerned sherry gaze traveled his face. “You do look rather pale. Shall we fetch the doctor?”

“No,” he said, moving behind the huge desk to put a barrier between them, lest he reach out and wind his needy fingers in that soft, unruly mass of curls that begged for him to touch it. “That’s not necessary. Peabody will attend to me.”

His wife eyed him, sidling closer, her own indecision clear in her eyes. Courtland’s chest clenched. He resented that it had come to this. That they tiptoed on eggshells around each other, barely able to have a conversation lasting more than a minute beyond the standard greetings and platitudes. He hated them like this. He hated that he’d caused her any injury at all, made her feel as though she was beholden to him. The truth was that he missed their sharp-edged banter.

He missed them.

His regret must have shown on his face because she nodded once and gave him a tentative smile. “Do you trust me?” she asked softly.

It was a loaded question. In business, he trusted no one. In life, he’d fashioned himself a home somewhere safe, one which did not require much interaction with others, apart from a select few that included his man of business, his valet, and most definitely not his wife.

“Why?”

“I have an alternate remedy,” she said, though irritation flashed in her stare at the curt question, followed by a defiant toss of her head. “Do you trust me not to poison you in the hopes of breaking the bonds of wedlock at your death, I mean?”

A choked laugh rose in his throat. Was she serious? Her unreadable face said she might not be, but he nodded, grudgingly. “I suppose so.”

“Very well, I shall return shortly.”

She left the study, and the dull throb in his skull resumed. Courtland slid into his chair and propped his aching head onto his hands, only to look up as someone entered the room with a tentative knock. Not his wife…his valet.

“The tincture, Your Grace,” Peabody said, bringing the small medicine bottle toward him. He rarely used it as it contained laudanum and other mixtures that acted as a sedative and clouded his wits, but sometimes, he had no choice.

“It’s all right, Peabody. The duchess is attending to me, but don’t fret, she promised not to murder me.” The valet’s eyes widened and Courtland fought back a laugh. “A joke, Peabody.”

“You don’t joke, Your Grace.”

“No, I expect I don’t.”

One more change in disposition he supposed he had to thank his wife for—the bold and thoroughly exasperating duchess. It should bother him, but it didn’t. Ravenna was…Ravenna. Fearless in the extreme and curious about everything, she possessed a terrible sense of humor and was blessed with an unusually generous heart. She always had been like that, even as a girl.

A forgotten memory rose to his thoughts.

Years ago, they’d once found a baby bird in the woods between their estates with a wounded wing, and she’d insisted on ferrying it back to its nest. It’d been a long shot that it would survive, but she hadn’t given up, climbing and returning it to its nest high up in the boughs of an elm, even when a dour Stinson had sneered that some things weren’t worth saving.

They’d found the baby raven at the tree’s base a few days later. Its neck had been snapped.

“Oh,” Ravenna had cried, dissolving in tears and dropping to her knees. “Perhaps it tried to fly and couldn’t. Do you suppose that’s what happened, Cordy?”

A young Courtland had stared at the dead bird and its glazed, unseeing eyes. Birds didn’t suddenly get their necks broken, especially not this specific bird. He suspected his brother had had something to do with it. Stinson was known for his cruelty. He would have done it for spite.

Courtland had gnawed his lip. “Sometimes they fall from their nests.”

“I thought most birds knew how to fly?”

“Ostriches don’t,” he’d said, trying to distract her. “And penguins.”

It had worked. He’d buried that bird later and shed his own quiet tears in private. He had no idea why he’d been so sad. Perhaps his ten-year-old self had somehow seen himself mirrored in that poor little bird that someone decided hadn’t deserved to live. Hadn’t been deemed of worth. Like him.

Courtland shook himself from the bittersweet memory as Ravenna returned, a steaming cup of something in her hands. “Do you ever think of that baby raven we found?” he asked.

Her pretty eyes swam with confusion as she set the teacup in front of him. “The one in the woods between the estates in Kettering?”

“Yes.”

She leaned one hip against the desk, her body close. Too close for comfort. One shift of his elbow and he’d be touching her skirts. Another shift and a tug, and she would be seated in his lap. His jaw clenched, adding to the vicious ache in his skull.

“It couldn’t fly,” she said. “Broke its neck, you said. I wept for days. What made you think of that?”

“No reason.” He shook his head. How could he begin to explain that it was a metaphor? That London was the elm and he was the bird. That his own brother had sought to snap his neck and oust him from his nest. He reached for the steaming liquid. “What is this?”

“Willow-bark tea with crushed ginger and cloves,” she said. “Sarani, Rhystan’s duchess, taught me how to make it. It’s better than laudanum for pain.” Courtland sipped, the taste of it surprisingly not bitter as one would expect with willow bark. His wife smiled at his expression. “I added a touch of honey as well.”

Without a word, she shifted off the desk and moved behind him. A discarded glove appeared, and then another. Cool fingertips grazed his temples and pressed gently. He couldn’t suppress his groan of pleasure. “What are you doing?”

“Just relax and drink your tea.”

“Wait, this is not…”

Fingers stilling, she blew out an aggravated hiss. “For once in your stubborn life, will you let someone take care of you?”

“So tyrannical,” he muttered, eyes nearly rolling back when her fingers resumed their work and sank into his hair, massaging in small, firm circles. Without another word, he took a sip of the tea.

“Only when the situation calls for it.” Her hands threaded through his mane, brushing it off his brow and temples. Pleasure lit up his nerve endings.

“Ravenna.” He shifted and her fingers dug in to his scalp.

“Cordy.”

He hissed out a breath. “Nobody has called me that in years.”

“You haven’t been this irritating in years,” she said. Was it his imagination, or had her sensual voice grown a tad huskier? “Sit still and let me do this for you. It’s no hardship and I’ve been told I’m quite good this.”

The beat of jealousy took him by surprise. “Who told you that?”

“My harem of male lovers, who else?” she replied with a small laugh. It wasn’t as funny to him and he scowled. Her fingertips smoothed over his furrowed brow. “My mother, silly. She suffers from frequent migraines. Massage helps.”

He sighed at the firm ministrations. She was rather skilled, her hands moving in small, concentrated circles. Courtland opened his mouth to tell her so, but then lost all power of speech when those warm, strong fingers slid down his bare nape to knead into the tight muscles there.

“Damnation, woman.” He breathed out, closing his eyes.

She laughed. “I suppose there’s a compliment in there somewhere.”

“Your hands are bloody magic.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was a liquid caress as her proficient hands stilled and lifted, and he mourned their loss. “Would you be so kind so as to remove your coat and waistcoat?” His eyes snapped open at the husky, nearly erotic command. She might have well commanded him to take off his trousers. The thought nearly unmanned him.

“It’s not proper.”

“How so? I’m your wife,” she said from behind him, her warm breath gusting against his ear, and he had the abrupt desire to instantly strip himself bare. For some reason, the fact that he couldn’t see her face added to the sexual tension currently flooding the study. “Besides, the door is closed. There’s no one in here but you and me.”

“Peabody and the servants will know.” Courtland wanted to take the asinine words back as soon as he said them. When had he become so missish? He couldn’t give a shit about Peabody, or anyone else, even if the house started to burn down around his ears.

Her laughter tickled his hairline. “Since when do you care?”

Since she’d turned him into a prudish henwit, apparently. Courtland was grateful the desk was covering most of his lap because his shaft suddenly had no intention of behaving. Against his own forewarnings, he shrugged out of his upper layers, not missing his wife’s fine intake of breath. The soft lawn of his shirt grazed over his highly sensitive skin.

“Finish your tea and lean back,” she said, and fuck if that throaty edict didn’t harden him to forged steel.

Fingers reached around to unknot his cravat to reward him after he’d emptied the cup, and then slipped beneath the collar of his shirt to his bare skin. At her expert and divinely blissful touch, every nerve ending in his body went screamingly alive: his skin burned, his stomach clenched, and his cock wept.

Devil take it, he was going to purgatory.