Page 19 of Rules for Heiresses
London and his marriage were necessary evils, simply a restitution for breaching the rules. Because no matter how well suited he and Ravenna seemed to be on every single level, no matter the intense physical attraction between them, and no matter how easily she’d reached inside and found forgotten tenderness in his granite heart, there was no real future for them. There wouldneverbe any true future for them.
She didn’t want it—and neither did he.
* * *
Escaping the packed and stifling ballroom, Ravenna slipped outside. The evening was overwarm, not offering much relief as sweat trickled down her nape. She fanned herself with some type of broad palm frond she’d broken off from a nearby pot, gulping in the fresh air on the wraparound balcony, desperate for a huge glass of the thirst-quenching lime juice and water the local ladies here favored.
While the gentlemen preferred their liquor, the ladies were rather more sedate than she’d expected…especially after reading Charlotte Brontë’s account of Bertha Mason inJane Eyre. Not that a fictional account of an island Creole woman had any bearing on reality, but it had created quite a stir some seventeen years before when it was first published.
The peerage, particularly, had always looked down on their counterparts living here, seeing them as somehow lesser. The hot climate, apparently, was at fault. It apparently made people violent, per the account in the book. Lady Holding’s letters to Ravenna’s mother had conveyed a similar tone and judgment, bemoaning the absence of proper civility among the local gentry as well as the dreadful climate.
The old harridan was categorically wrong on both accounts.
For her part, Ravenna loved the heat and found most of the white Creoles, as they were called, to be quite fine in temperament, though a few of them had looked down their noses when she’d befriended a few of the island women. Ravenna did not care about anyone’s narrow-minded opinions—she would make friends wherever and with whomever she pleased.
Life beyond England was a plethora of vibrant culture. Peoples from Africa, India, Asia, and the Americas. She’d never seen anything like it. Several of the island women she’d met, and who were currently in attendance at the dinner and dance, were wealthy shop owners or businesspeople in their own right, married to powerful men in the local government.
Her husband welcomed them all at the Starlight. In that, Courtland was much the same as other English lords of her acquaintance who owned exclusive clubs in London—if one had the means, one was allowed entry, regardless of station or circumstance of birth. It was not a novel concept. Wealth opened doors everywhere. Ravenna wondered if that was why Courtland had so much of it. Had he felt a need to insulate himself because of his background?
In the few weeks she’d been on the island, she had learned much about him, though always from other people. He was fair. He was shrewd. He valued loyalty and honesty, and he was not a man to be crossed. Ravenna formed a wry smile.That, she’d learned firsthand. But Courtland rarely spoke about himself. What had caused the estrangement in his family? As far as she knew, Stinson had adored his brother and had mourned him when he thought he had died. Yet, the moment she brought up Stinson or Lady Borne, Courtland grew stony and cold.
The night before, she’d asked her husband if he intended to see his family in Kettering and said she hoped his brother might be in London for the season.
“Are you well acquainted with Stinson?” he’d demanded with diamond-hard eyes.
She’d stared at him. “We live on neighboring estates. You know this. Of course we are well acquainted.”
“You won’t see him or seek him out when we get to London.” It was a stark command, expressed through his teeth as though the very thought of his brother angered him, and the ferocity in his tone had surprised her.
“Ashvale, be reasonable. He’s your brother. I don’t know what happened between you, but he has always—”
“You will heed me on this, Ravenna.”
Bristling, she’d opened her mouth to snap back, but the brief flash in his eyes had stopped her. It was a deep-seated, aching pain, visible but for a single instant that had made something inside of her fissure. It was a look that spoke of considerable hurt, of tremendous injury. So she’d clamped her lips shut and nodded.
Stinson had always been quite amiable and pleasant to her. Perhaps what had happened between the brothers was born of a misunderstanding. Siblings quarreled all the time. Her own brother had been estranged from their family for years because he’d felt disparaged by their father, when that hadn’t been the case at all. Perhaps she could find some other way to help bridge the rift between them, but she’d have to tread carefully with any attempts at reconciliation.
Ravenna fanned herself harder, hoping for some relief from the heat. Normally there was a lovely evening breeze, but tonight the tropical air was dead still. Usually, that meant a storm was brewing on the horizon, not that anyone in attendance would care. The revelry hadn’t stopped since their wedding night, continuing on into the wee hours when she and Courtland had retired. At breakfast the next morning, she’d blushed at some of the knowing, sidelong glances. Little did they know that nothing had happened.
Courtland’s care had surprised her, but after Rhystan’s awful reaction to her grand tour, which he’d calledgrand codswallopamong other things, she hadn’t been in the mood for company, much less a husbandly deflowering. Not that she hadn’t obsessed about the act more than a dozen times. Her own mother had been vague about relations between husbands and wives, and while Ravenna had been exposed to enough bawdy talk from the sailors that would shock a seasoned harlot, she couldn’t countenance that some of their lewd stories were true.
People weren’t animals in the bedroom.
At least, Ravenna hoped they weren’t.
She recalled one boatswain’s account of mounting a jade from behind like a stallion with a mare, and blushed hot when the image of her husband in such a lewd position stole through her thoughts. Biting back an indelicate gasp, Ravenna fanned herself harder. Ribbons of heat that had nothing to do with the weather crawled up her damp neck, and she forced the wicked and thoroughly wanton vision away. Shame bit at her cheeks. She was a fool. Fantasizing about the man was useless and served no purpose other than frustration.
Because she was certain her husband wasn’t remotely interested in bedding her.
Two nights had passed since Rhystan had left, and they’d maintained separate rooms. The rejection chafed. She was well aware that their marriage had been one of convenience, if not necessity, to save her reputation, and matrimonial vows didn’t mean their spoken vows had to be consummated. Sex was not a requisite in a marriage like theirs, though clearly, some deeply desirous part of her wished it was.
She couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Another heated shiver lanced through her to land right between her thighs.
Maybe Brontë had the right of it after all—the heat was turning her into a trollop.
Fanning with futile force, Ravenna caught sight of her husband through the massive balcony doors, speaking in earnest to the governor. Likely, it was about some amendment or local bill he wanted passed. He was very passionate about working conditions for the local laborers as well the influx of people migrating from nearby American cities in the turmoil of the country’s civil war.
