Page 45 of Rules for Heiresses
“I thought we were friends,” she said quietly. “I valued our friendship.”
“Friendship,” Stinson spat out, a cold spiteful little sneer brewing on his lips. “Do you know who you’ve tied yourself to? He might have fooled you”—he waved an arm, nearly toppling himself in the process—“and everyone here. And Grandfather too. What a goddamned joke.”
“Stinson, control yourself!” The warning came from a feminine voice so icy a chill seemed to blow through the room, but either Stinson was too drunk to notice, or he was too far gone in his rage to take heed of his mother’s command. Lady Borne bore down upon them with two hefty footmen in her wake.
Stinson sneered. “Well, hear me, the jest will be on you. You and the frigid prize you married. Everyone knows about her. Even Dalwood says she’s as cold as any stone.”
A hard buzzing hummed in Ravenna’s ears, her breath coming inconceivably fast as a dozen stares converged upon her. She barely felt the duke move nor saw the fast snap of his fist before Stinson’s head was flying back. A spot of red marred the spotless white of Courtland’s glove and Stinson’s nose started to gush blood as he stumbled back into Mr. Sommers, Lady Borne’s footmen arriving in time to keep him upright. Shrieks permeated the ballroom and the music screeched to an ungraceful halt. The altercation had been so swift that even for those watching, it’d been a blink of an eye.
“Escort my son outside for some air,” Lady Borne ordered the footmen, and the stunned Stinson went, as meek as a lamb. Mr. Sommers followed with a circumspect look over his shoulder to the duke as though he hadn’t expected the vicious strike. Neither had Ravenna, for that matter, but that chary look from the American troubled her. “Carry on,” Lady Borne said to everyone else and clapped her hands. “Music!”
The band was quick to comply, music filling the hall. The dancing resumed and most people pretended to carry on their conversations, though they were still shamelessly eavesdropping. Lady Borne turned to her stepson, her cold gaze giving nothing away.
“Courtland,” she said with a practiced smile that stayed a far step from her eyes, considering her refusal to use his title. “I had hoped you would call upon me before today.”
His mouth tightened, but he canted his head. “Apologies, my lady. I was detained by urgent estate business.”
Though he did not correct her, Ravenna bristled on the inside and pasted a syrupy smile on her lips. “It’s His Grace, Duke of Ashvale, now, Lady Borne, but I am sure you knew that.”
That cold stare met hers, fury sparking before it was hidden behind a charming smile that made Ravenna want to scowl. The nerve of this woman. The utter cruelty of any mother worth her salt turning out her stepson to the mercy of the streets because of her own ugly biases. What mother could ever do such a thing?
One who wanted her own son to be duke, instead of the rightful heir.
Could Lady Borne truly hate Courtland simply because of whohismother had been? British lords married commoners more often than expected, and while society screeched its dislike, eventually the scandals died down. But those commoners would not have hailed from a place portrayed by British novelists as a one of savage inclinations and dissipation. Brontë’s words, as Ravenna had discovered herself, were especially misleading.
“Of course,” Lady Borne said to her. “It was with some surprise I found out the news of your nuptials from my son.”
Though her tone was as sweet as spun sugar, there was an underlying judgment in there that Ravenna did not take kindly to, as if she herself had made an unpardonable mistake. The underhanded slight that Ashvale wasn’therson also didn’t go unnoticed. “Thank you, Lady Borne. We are rather happy.”
Her gaze fell to her husband who had peeled off his bloodied glove and was in the process of removing the other. It was considered uncouth to be ungloved at a formal event, but evidently, he did not care. Lady Borne looked horrified, and Ravenna took great satisfaction in that fact.
“Please, excuse me, Duchess, I need a moment,” the duke murmured in her ear, a steely dark stare flicking down to her, a dozen emotions brimming in them for the briefest moment before they were throttled to one. Anger. Not directed at her, she knew, but it affected her just the same.
Her heart shouldn’t have felt that statement—or his dismissal—as hard as it did, but the organ felt like it was splitting in half when she watched her husband walk away, cutting a wide swath through the guests as though he were a king.
Or a pariah.
Not for the first time, Ravenna realized she had no hold over him. Not as a wife, not as a lover, not even as a friend. Courtland Chase was an island onto himself. Circumstance and fate had decreed it so. Lady Borne had had a hand in that as well. Ravenna couldn’t conceive that his own family had conspired to chase him away from what was rightfully his, but she supposed intrigues like that occurred more often than not in theton.
Prejudice and greed could turn people into monsters.
Case in point was the woman still standing at her side.
A deep sense of righteous indignation rose in her like a storm tide. Ravenna knew it wasn’t the time or the place, but she simply did not care. Before she could stop herself and before the other woman could leave, she stepped into Lady Borne’s space, lowering her voice. “Howcouldyou?”
“How could I what?” she replied.
“Destroy his life. Send him away. Break an engagement that wasn’t yours to break.”
Those hard eyes glittered with malice. “He was not fit.”
Ravenna bristled at the dowager’s disparaging tone, glad that Courtland wasn’t here to take in any of her spite. “And yet I find myself quite content to be married to the man to whom I had been promised so very long ago, regardless of your judgment that he was lacking in some way.”
“Stinson is Ashvale’s real heir, and perhaps he should have been your husband.” She sneered, thin nostrils flaring. “Not that he would ever take you now, tarnished thing that you are.”
“I am not a thing to be taken, Lady Borne.” Ravenna’s fingers itched to slap away that smug smile, but she kept them firmly at her sides. “You and I seem to have different understandings of the laws of primogeniture. Courtland is duke, not Stinson.” She exhaled, dissipating some of the rage that coiled within. “Why did you do it? Why did you tell my father he was dead?”
“You wished to be married to a bastard?”
