Page 33 of Rules for Heiresses
“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 survivehim.
* * *
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 onobeyinghim 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 theGlory, 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 missedthem.
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?”
