Page 34 of Rules for Heiresses
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 notthisspecific 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.
