Page 17 of Rules for Heiresses
“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.
“Mygrandmèresaid 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. Mygrandmèrepassed 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.
Hisgrandmèrehad 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.
