Page 20 of Rules for Heiresses
Giving herself one last swat with her makeshift fan and depositing the palm frond back into its pot, she made her way over to where the duke stood in animated discussion with a small group. Conversation slowed as she approached, but her husband did not ignore her—something else that set him apart from other men of her acquaintance.
Instead, he took her arm, drawing her against him. “Gents, may I present my wife, Her Grace, the Duchess of Ashvale. This is Sir Stephen John Hill, governor as you know, and Mr. Brent Sommers.”
Both men greeted her with smiles and pleasantries, though the second man stared more at her breasts than her face and his lascivious expression made her feel mildly uncomfortable.
“A pleasure, Governor,” she murmured and then turned to the other, detecting his accented drawl. “Mr. Sommers, are you American?”
“You guessed it, little lady.”
“The correct form of address to a duchess is Your Grace, Sommers.” The quiet assertion came from her husband even as Ravenna bristled. “Though I might not care how you address me, she is as aristocratic as they come.”
“Marrying up, eh?” Sommers said with a loud laugh, slapping Courtland about the shoulders. Ravenna decided she instantly disliked the man. Howdarehe?
“Still a duke, Mr. Sommers,” Ravenna chided softly.
Pale-green eyes met hers, then insolently ran the length of her body. “Forgive me, Your Grace. The aristocracy is English, not American. We make our own way, regardless of what we’re born to.” The last was said with no small amount of derision. “Money talks, everything else walks.”
Seeing that Courtland and the governor had resumed their debate, she pasted a polite expression on her face. “What do you do, Mr. Sommers?”
“I own land in the Carolinas.”
Ravenna blinked. The American Civil War was at its zenith, and tensions were high, particularly in the South. Though Britain had not publicly supported the American war as they did not want to become caught in a costly conflict, she’d seen accounts, mostly from private correspondence sent to her brother, that some British officials had secretly supported the South in their efforts and were still doing so.
“The past few years must have been instructive for you.”
His smile was indulgent as though he didn’t expect her to possess a brain or any ability to form an articulate sentence. “How so, darlin’?”
“‘Your Grace’ will suffice,” she said crisply. “The reason for your civil war. We made sure to end that vile practice thirty years ago.”
Sommers looked like he’d sucked on a lemon. His sour expression said it all: he was not in agreement. It made her dislike him even more and she opened her mouth, though at the same moment she felt a gentle pressure on her arm, drawing her away from her impending outburst.
“Excuse me, sirs, while I interest my new bride in a dance.”
“What are you doing?” she asked Courtland as he steered her in the opposite direction, away from the men and away from the dancing.
“Sommers is a dangerous man.”
“I’m a dangerous woman.”
Her husband smiled at her furious answer. “I am well aware, but I’d rather not shed blood on my imported Italian marble because my fierce wife gutted one of my guests for his intolerant views.”
“Why is he even here?”
“There are many men like him, not just in the United States, my dauntless little vixen, and I have my reasons,” he murmured, running a soothing hand along her back and then up through her damp hairline. She resisted the urge to curl into the caress like a cat. “We must choose our battles.”
“Is that what you’ve been doing? Choosing your battles?”
He stared at her, his gaze immediately shuttering. The question was not related to Sommers, but to the dynamics of his family, and he knew it. “You don’t understand. It’s complicated.”
She flinched at the short snap of his reply, and Courtland blew out a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Her heart ached at the strain she could see on his handsome face. He could have a discussion on all manner of principles and policy, but the mere mention of his own family turned him mute.Why?Perhaps he might trust her, but she knew he would not when he shook his head and his eyes went cold.
She reached out for him, but dropped her hand at the last second. “You can talk to me.”
“Leave it, Ravenna,” he replied tiredly. “Trust me, the saga of my tragic adolescence is not worth a single moment of your time or anyone’s. I’ve put the past behind me and that’s where it will stay.”
“Burying the past is not the same as moving on.”
“It is for me. Hurt me once, shame on you. Hurt me twice, and I am the fool.” He stared at her, those eyes that had been so warm now as cold as ice. “I will never be any man’s fool.”
