Page 46 of Rules for Heiresses
“His father was married to his mother before she died and then he married you,” Ravenna replied, keeping her voice low. “His grandfather knew he was legitimate.”
“My father-in-law was not in his right mind, you silly girl.”
Ravenna kept her mounting fury in check. “I am not a girl, Lady Borne, and I’d much rather be called silly than a bigot. The truth is I feel sorry for you. That hate in your heart is a rot, one that has been left to fester, and it will be the thing to eat you alive.”
“How dare you speak to me so in my own home?” the marchioness snarled, gripping Ravenna’s elbow. “I’ll have you thrown out on your ear.”
Ravenna lifted a cool brow. “This residence belongs to the Duke of Ashvale, the man you cast out as a child because of your own selfishness, becauseyoufelt he did not deserve his birthright. Let’s not mince words, Lady Borne. You and your children live here only at my husband’s whim. Now please release me. I doubt the duke will be pleased with your threats to my person.”
The marchioness’s hand fell away, mouth opening and closing on an irate huff, and then her lips thinned with rancor. “You two deserve each other.”
“Thank you, I think so, too.” Ravenna frowned thoughtfully, tapping a gloved fingertip to her lip. “My sister-in-law—you know the Duchess of Embry, don’t you?—well, she has a saying about the things we put out into the universe coming back around, an intriguing phenomenon she calls karma, and I’d be very afraid, if I were you, Lady Borne.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Ravenna clapped a hand to her breast in mock surprise. “Of course not, my lady, it’s just some friendly advice.” Her smile grew fangs and she leaned in close. “However, in case such advice is unwelcome, then you should also know that Courtland is not a child and he is no longer alone. He has family and powerful friends, and we won’t stand by and watch him be maligned by the likes of you.”
“Dear me, you’ve become as savage as he is.”
“If being savage means fighting for what’s right and being a decent human being, then you are correct. Now, please do excuse me, Lady Borne, I have better things to do than sit here and try to enlighten the equivalent of a rock.”
Swallowing an unruly snort at Lady Borne’s affronted expression, Ravenna turned on her heel and left, the tension draining from her stiff limbs with each step she took. She recalled how things like prejudice worked—why Lady Borne thought she was better than the previous marchioness. She’d seen it for herself with her sister-in-law.
Most of thetonhad sneered down their noses at her because her father had been an Indian maharaja, regardless of the fact thatshehad outrankedthem. Queen Victoria had welcomed her to court, where she entertained royalty from around the world all the time. Despite those things, Sarani’s heritage had still rendered her lesser in the eyes of many.
Ravenna couldn’t deny the similarities between Courtland and her sister-in-law.
But he was also a man, which meant he wielded more power than Sarani ever had as a woman. And he was an English duke, the highest rank of nobility. Ravenna understood that neither of those external things were of much consequence, however. Fear and insecurity ate away at a person from the inside. Courtland might be male and a duke, but he was still vulnerable.
And the truth was, no island, no matter how well barricaded, was unassailable for long.
With a determined breath, Ravenna went after her husband.
Thirteen
The rage was suffocating.
It gnawed at him like a starving creature.
Hell, if he didn’t do something, he was going to explode, and proper English society would not soon recover from the scandal. Courtland rubbed at his bare knuckles, barely bruised from the brutal punch to his half brother’s face.
How dare that maggot insult hiswife?
Fury and bitterness crashed through him in unforgiving waves. The fact that his brother had seen fit to insult a duchess in public was galling! And Courtland knew it was because of him. His brother and stepmother viewed him as inferior, so Ravenna was inferior, too. He’d seen the degradation in Stinson’s eyes, heard it in his stepmother’s crass insinuation that Ravenna had made the wrong choice of husband.
The sight of Stinson’s blood had been gratifying, but Courtland ached to thrash his brother senseless. How dare he embarrass him in his own sodding home? How dare he humiliate Ravenna? For the first time in years, Courtland had felt utterly powerless, much as he had when he’d been a boy.
“Fuck,” he swore aloud, raking his hands through his hair and demolishing Peabody’s excellent work. Cursing a blue streak, he stalked deeper down the wide hallway leading to the unlit conservatory. He hadn’t meant to head this way, but his agitated, wandering footsteps had led him here. This was the one place he’d secretly adored as a boy whenever he’d been allowed to visit Ashvale Manor. The one place he’d always belonged.
Plants and flowers never judged. They loved attention and bloomed in return for the smallest measure of affection. Rumor had it that his grandfather had had a similar affinity for plants, though he’d have to take the old head gardener’s word for it that they shared the same green fingers. The man had insisted that the conservatory was the duke’s quiet pride and joy, and so it had also become Courtland’s secret haven.
The conservatory was deserted, though he could smell the variety of lush plantings of lemon and orange trees interlaced with the sweeter musk of night-blooming roses. Thankfully the gardeners had kept his fondness for this sanctuary a secret. If the marchioness had suspected his love for the place, she would undoubtedly have set it on fire or forbidden him from entering. Then again, without the splendid conservatory, she wouldn’t have had an impressive venue to hold her lavish tea and garden parties à la Queen Victoria.
And impressions were everything.
He inhaled deeply, letting the peace fill him and chase away the remnants of his anger as it had done so many times before. Perhaps it was habit, something ingrained like muscle memory.
Fresh horse dung splattered on his clothing in the wardrobe? He’d come here.
