Page 25 of Rules for Heiresses
“Do you mind a spot of company, Your Grace?”
Ravenna glanced up from the book she’d been pretending to read, her gaze unfocused for a second. She swallowed a hiccup and recognized the arrival through slitted eyes. “Mr. Bingham, of course.” Why did her voice sound so strange? “Please, have a…seat. Read or whatever.”
She smiled at him fondly as he found a chair and reached for a book. The kindly solicitor was one of her few favorites onboard. Apart from the Earl and Countess of Waterstone, who were good fun for a game of whist and charades after dinner, she preferred to keep to herself. Lady Holding had taken it upon herself to point out each and every one of Ravenna’s many flaws ad nauseam—her shoulders were too slouched, her smile was too bright, her gait was too choppy, her face was too splotchy and freckled.
In defiance of the last, Ravenna had taken indecent pleasure in sprawling across one of the lounging chaises on the promenade deck without a bonnet and lifting her face to the hot mid-Atlantic sun. She hoped she added a dozen more freckles! She’d thoroughly scandalized the meddlesome harridan when she’d had the audacity to kick off her slippers in public.
The duke himself had told her to do as she pleased, damn it, and he hadn’t even been around to see her defying decorum so splendidly. Those bloody rules of his—she could hardly think of them without going into a full-on visceral quake—each one of them punctuated by the feel of his hands and lips coasting over her skin.
Say what you think.
Act as you please.
Wear what you wish, or not.
Never be ashamed of your body’s response.
Ravenna took another unladylike gulp, spilling droplets down her chin. Sod his sodding rules! How dare he treat her so? Her fury had been the catalyst for stomping back to her quarters after yet another extravagant dinner and indulging in a lengthy sulk with a bath and half a bottle of French liquor in a nondescript green bottle she’d pilfered from her absentee husband’s study. The drink had been terribly bitter at first, but after the first few sips mixed with water, she’d ceased to care.
Her husband was a blackguard of the worst sort. She’d cursed his revival from death, calling him every name in the book and then some.Craven bastard.She’d sat in the bath until her fingers and toes turned to prunes and the water had become cold against her overheated skin.
Ravenna peeked over the book that had long ceased to be readable to peer down at her bare toes and wiggle them. How were toes so scandalous? They were justtoes.
“This pig went to market,” she murmured, wiggling her big toe. “That pig stayed home. This pig had roast meat. That pig had none. This pig went to the barn’s door…” She hiccupped. “And murdered a dastardly duke.”
Her version was much better than the original.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?” Mr. Bingham asked. “Did you say something?”
“Oh no, dear Mr. Bingham,” she said with a wobbly wave. “Don’t mind me.”
Just plotting the murder of a duke. Death by toe.
Feeling sorry for herself, Ravenna sighed again. She’d only done as instructed and been condemned for it…for breaking with propriety and doing the unthinkable. They were shoes, for God’s sake, not her petticoats!Thosedratted things belonged in the lowest reach of the underworld!
And besides, this was the duke’s ship, which meant it washership. Lady Holding was a nosy busybody. She had half a mind to tell her so…if only she could manage two steps without toppling over.
How she’d made it to the library, she’d never know.
Ravenna supposed she had Colleen to thank for making sure she was at least clothed before leaving her stateroom after her bath. They weren’t even on English soil, and already she felt the burden to be the perfect English lady bearing down on her shoulders.Thatpressure was why she’d run away in the first place. It was why she hadn’t been able to marry some titled prat of a gentleman and become his perfect, biddable, dutiful wife.
It wasn’t in her to be what anyone expected her to be… She simply wanted to be herself.
To bealone. To make her own choices.
But as she was, she would never be good enough…not for the Dowager Duchess of Embry, not for Lady Holding, not for theton, and maybe now not even for her new husband.
Sod him, then. Sod the bloody lot of them!
Ravenna reached for the glass of brandy that wasn’t there and scowled when she saw the book in her hand instead. Where had her tasty liquor gone? Someone had bloody stolen it! She’d have their hide if she could remember who she could make her grievance to.
The Duke of Ashvale, no doubt.
That was the name of the cad who was to blame for all her tribulations. She shook a fist at the ceiling, noting the lovely mural of flying cherubs. She squinted up at it. How did cherubs fly? They were much too plump for those tiny wings.
“Your Grace, are you well?”
Her gaze flopped back down. “Oh, Mr. Bingham, hullo! I didn’t see you there. Where on earth did you come from?”
