Page 60 of Rules for Heiresses
Ravenna considered her options. She wasn’t ashamed of sneaking in behind Rawley, the footmen, and the butler. She’d only just returned from Hastings and had donned a loose shirt and a pair of her male alter ego’s trousers, much to the horror of her lady’s maid. But truly, she’d been sick to death of petticoats and crinolines—and becoming Raven Hunt if only for a moment had made her feel less trapped. The dark clothing had been a boon, allowing her to slip unseen into the dimly lit study.
And then she’d listened in on the most enlightening conversation known to man. She might as well own being brazen. Giving her chin a determined toss, she stepped from her shadowy hiding place to meet the expression of her irate if resigned brother, a beaming Waterstone, an exasperated Rawley, and lastly, her blank-faced husband.
“Gentlemen, my wife,” Courtland said, lifting one of the glasses and holding it out to her. “The extraordinarily crafty Duchess of Ashvale.”
At the veiled sarcasm, Ravenna opened her mouth and closed it. She had no excuse and would not apologize for her choices. It was the only way she’d learn anything, after all. At the very least, she’d expected a few secrets, maybe about the closed-off man she’d married, though not the veritable treasure trove of information she’d been privy to.
Ravenna was still reeling from what she’d discovered.
One, Waterstone was, in fact, a British spy. Neither was he truly married. She could have sworn he and his countess were a couple from their passionate display on theGlory, but what did she know of love and marriage? Perhaps, Lord and Lady Waterstone were simply brilliant actors. However, if the kiss she’d witnessed had been a fraction of what kissing Courtland had felt like, there was no way it could be false. Perhaps they were lovers in addition to being covert associates.
Two, the Marquess of Dalwood was likely going to meet a dreadful end, given the deadly look on her husband’s face, unless she could convince her husband to leave well enough alone. Though a tiny, furious part of herwantedthe marquess to suffer and never again try to compromise a young lady.
And three, the least surprising news was that Sommers was a rat and smuggler. She’d known there was something off about the man, and the fact that he still supported such an evil, vile system, made her ill. She felt no pity if he got caught by Waterstone.
What, however, was perhaps the most astonishing revelation of all was that Courtland appeared to have missed her while she’d been gone. If his question to her brother hadn’t been a dead giveaway, the expression he’d tried to hide from the men by turning around in her direction gave her a first-row view of it. He’d looked devastated and desperate, and for an unguarded moment, his entire heart had been on his sleeve.
Ravenna risked a glance at her husband, taking in his now stoic but drawn features as he held out the glass of brandy. Light flickered in the unreadable depths of his eyes as he took her in. Up close, that dark unshaven jaw made her want to graze her fingertips against it. She wanted to muss his clothes even more and, most of all, growl at everyone to leave.
Instead, she took the glass and sketched a jaunty bow.
“Mr. Hunt, I presume?” her husband asked.
Her cheeks heated as she remembered her change in clothing. Rhystan had seen her in breeches before, especially in Kettering, but she was certain Waterstone hadn’t.
Her brother scowled. “Hunt?”
“Mr. Hunt. Captain Hunt. I knew there was a connection.”
“You dreadful liar,” Ravenna blurted out. “I told you who I was to save my own skin from the bloody stocks.”
The confession was out before she realized her mistake. She didn’t dare look at her brother.
“What stocks?” Rhystan asked.
Courtland gave a sly grin and propped his body against his desk. The action pulled his fawn-colored trousers tight across his lean hips. Ravenna had to forcibly avert her eyes and then expunge the salacious thoughts that crowded her mind…of those very same hips driving her to obscene heights of pleasure. She should be angry with him for goading her into giving up what should have remained a secret to eternity, instead of the lascivious direction her thoughts were taking.
Avoiding her brother’s gaze, she sipped from her glass, nearly choking as the brandy went down the wrong way. Once the liquid courage kicked in, she put her attention on her brother instead of the man who made her want to tear her hair out and her clothes off in the same breath. “A misunderstanding, nothing more.”
Rhystan scowled. “That dismissive attitude might work on everybody else, but not me, sister dear. Explain what you meant.”
“I was playing vingt-et-un at his tables, if you must know!” she burst out. “And he tricked me after I won fair and square. When he accused me of cheating and threatened to throw me into the stocks, I had to confess my identity.”
Waterstone guffawed, clapping his knee. “Bloody capital!”
“Have a care, Waterstone,” her brother growled before spearing her with a flinty blue gaze. “Did you cheat?”
“No!” Ravenna went hot; she’d only thought about it for half a second, but that wasn’t cheating.
Courtland tapped his fingers against his glass. “She held nine cards totaling twenty. Those odds are suspect so what was I to think? And besides, other gentlemen had been complaining about her emptying their pockets for weeks.”
That partwastrue. She’d made a killing, but she hadn’t cheated.
She’d counted…then lost count…then bluffed.
“I didn’t cheat, for the love of God, but I needed the funds to live and those men were easy pickings,” she grumbled and glared at her husband. “But then, you had to show up and ruin it all, didn’t you? I could have been done and gone in a day.”
“Gone where, Ravenna?” Courtland asked silkily.
