Page 31 of Rules for Heiresses
“I was outside,” she whispered, her knees instantly going weak at the gossamer pressure of his lips on her skin. Anyone could come upon them where they stood, but she didn’t care. Neither did he.
“Why can’t I keep my hands off you?” It was a tortured question, a rhetorical one she knew he didn’t expect her to answer. Besides, she wanted his hands on her. All over her. Beneath her garments.Everywhere. Her body craved it. Demanded it. Her need was an insistent pulse in her head and between her legs. He shoved himself off the wall—off of her—with effort, his breath coming in harsh, hard pants. “Stay away from Sommers.”
“Just like you want me to stay away from Stinson?” She hadn’t meant to sound so waspish, but she was sick of his abrupt rejections. Sommers wasn’t on her list of favorite people, and she’d gladly stay away from him, but Courtland’s constant push and pull hurt. One minute he couldn’t get enough of her; the next he was shoving her away. It was exhausting. “Who will it be next? Lord Waterstone?”
A muscle kicked in his jaw. “What did he do?”
“Nothing, he’s madly in love with his wife if you hadn’t noticed.” She ground her teeth, inexplicably angry. “Then again, a blockhead like you wouldn’t notice such insignificant things. Why don’t you just leave me alone, Ashvale!”
He gave a harsh, desolate-sounding laugh. “If only I could.”
* * *
Ashvale.She called him by his bloody title whenever she wanted to distance herself. It pierced him for no good reason. It was a name—hisname. Surely he should get used to it! Courtland stared down at his impassioned wife, lips parted and eyes sparkling with hurt and rage. Hurt he’d put there. Yet again. He licked his lips, the honeyed salt of her skin resting upon them like dew, and suddenly, he wanted to taste every luscious inch of her.
He wanted to eat her alive.
She wants you. Put yourself out of your misery.
The thought was provocative. Sly in the extreme. Lust and fury battled through him like twin demons, but Courtland made himself see reason. He’d always been good at that. He could isolate a problem, take it apart, and solve it. His tantalizing wife was the problem.
With her, he could fight, fuck, or flee.
The last two were not practical—the second led to unnecessary complications and the third was an impossibility unless he planned to swim for England—which left only one option.
“You will obey me, Ravenna,” he bit out, his voice hard. “Keep your distance from SommersandStinson, and anyone else I tell you to.”
“Obey?” The reply practically vibrated with wrath. If looks could kill a man, Courtland knew he’d be skewered into tiny, unrecognizable pieces and flung into the dark waters of the Atlantic.
“You pledged your troth in your marriage vows,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “Do I need to remind you of it?”
“Do I need to remind you of your oaths?” she shot back. “How dare you make such demands of me?”
His look was coolly assessing. “I am your husband.”
“Only when it suits you,” she snapped. “Save us both the trouble and tell me what it is you want from me, Your Grace.”
Your body. Your consent. Your surrender.
But none of those things were his to demand. Courtland blew out a breath.
“Stay away from Stinson and Sommers, Ravenna, or so help me, I won’t be responsible for my actions.” Face clenched, he ran a hand through his hair. “And all I want is to just to put this whole goddamned mess behind me.”
“Were you always such a bastard?”
“Sadly no, or none of this fucking charade would be necessary, would it?” She reared back as if he’d slapped her, but Courtland dug the knife in and twisted it for good measure. “If I were a bastard, you would be ruined from your own folly, I would be living a life I love, and no one would expect me to fall on my unworthy sword to save a selfish brat from her silly, self-indulgent capers. Of all the goddamned luck,youhad to crash into my life.”
She flinched from the words as though they were blows. The anger drained from her starkly beautiful face, only to be replaced with a queer sort of distress. Her eyes, so full of life and fight before, went hollow.
Regret filled him and he reached for her before he could stop himself. “Ravenna—”
“Don’t touch me.”
Then she whirled in a flurry of skirts and dashed away.
Nine
Cold-blooded didn’t begin to describe the stone of a man she’d married. For the hundredth time in two days, Ravenna wished she’d never married him. Wished she’d never crossed paths with him. Ruination would have been a pleasure cruise over being an unwanted, pitiful duchess whom he’d married out ofbad luck.
