Deuce it, there was an audience!
Her cheeks flamed anew.
“Get off me,” she muttered, shoving fruitlessly at the duke’s hard chest, but attempting to move him was like trying to move a boulder. Mortification spread like a tide through her body at the sight of the somber solicitor. The late duke’s man of business, and from his appalled expression, a very proper, stick-in-the-mud, all-for-propriety-and-blue-blooded-decorum Englishman. Blast her dratted luck.
“I won’t marry him,” she blurted out, finally wiggling away and scrambling to her feet.
“I don’t intend to wed,” Courtland said at the same time, rising and moving to his desk.
Good, then the matter was settled.
Mr. Bingham stepped into the room, nodding to one of the prune-faced ladies at his back to accompany him. He closed the door to the office behind them. Ravenna blinked. The woman was older and clearly nobility, given her gown and stance. It was obvious Bingham intended for her to be a chaperone, though Ravenna didn’t know what dregs of modesty she’d be expected to protect. The ruined cat was well and truly out of the bag.
A resigned expression passed over Courtland’s face, a suffocated noise leaving his lips as if he was realizing the same. “Lady Holding,” he greeted. “Good to see you.”
Ravenna’s heart sank. Good Lord, could her luck get any worse? Lady Holding was a denizen of local society. In addition, she was a passing acquaintance of her mother’s from when they were in finishing school and they still kept in touch. It was the reason Ravenna had chosen Antigua in the first place. She had read her mother’s correspondence with Lady Holding and the island had felt familiar. Any remaining dregs of hope she’d had to get out of this unscathed died a sad, swift death.
“Not so nice on your end, I’d wager, Your Grace,” Lady Holding replied with a toss of her well-coiffed head. “The tongues will be wagging after today.”
Her eyes moved to Ravenna, who met the lady’s stare evenly, though the weight of judgment made her skin prickle and itch. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Lady Ravenna, and your wild, unseemly exploits, so much so that your poor mother has despaired of ever finding a proper match for you.”
“I’m not ready for marriage,” she said calmly. “Embry knows this.”
“Then the fault lies with your brother, the duke, for not taking you firmly in hand.”
Ravenna almost snorted. The day when any man felt he could take her in hand would be the day that hell became a wintry wonderland. The irony wasn’t lost on her that Rhystan’s wife was also an unrepentant hellion who did not live by any man’s rules, least of all her brother’s. Ravenna nearly giggled at the long-suffering expression on Courtland’s face, a look she recognized. He’d thought her unchecked and out of hand for years.
“Your mama writes that Dalwood approached Embry with an offer for you,” Lady Holding went on.
A wave of pure disgust buried Ravenna’s amusement. “Dalwood is a revolting pig I wouldn’t let near my worst enemy.”
Lady Holding huffed, face going purple. “Well, I never. The marquess is well connected and an acceptable match for a girl of your station.” She peered down the length of her hooked nose at her. “Though at this point, you’d be lucky to receive any offer from anyone worth his salt, and the fortune-hunting scoundrels will come out in droves.” She tossed her head and stared down her long nose at the solicitor. “Mr. Bingham, I cannot help the chit if she refuses to be helped.”
“Lady Holding, with all due respect, I would rather marry a disease-ridden, money-loving cur than that man,” Ravenna bit through her teeth.
The incensed lady started to reply, but Courtland lifted a palm with narrowed eyes. “Did he say or do something untoward?”
“Planning to defend my honor, Your Grace?” Ravenna asked.
“Stop it. Answer the question.”
Ravenna’s jaw clenched. Fine. He wanted to know? Then she’d tell him. She’d tell all of them. “Said and did. Lord Dalwood’s singular obsession led him to corner me in a locked room at a banquet. It was only by a miracle that I managed to escape unscathed and in possession of my cherished virtue.” Even as Lady Holding gasped with outrage at her plain-speaking, Ravenna saw Courtland’s eyes go wide in understanding and then darken with fury, a muscle beating wildly in his cheek. “Don’t worry, I left a mark on him that he won’t soon forget,” she added with a shark’s grin. “Right in his cursed, tiny ballocks.”
Dalwood had gone down like a sorry sack of shit. Her sister-in-law, Sarani, had imparted that valuable instruction: a knee was always best, but when severely limited by skirts and petticoats, a swinging fist released with as much force as possible could do as much damage to those tender parts. But with the manhandling marquess, Ravenna had gone one step further, not that she’d admit to exactly what she’d done. Suffice it to say that Dalwood got what he deserved.
“Well, I never!” Lady Holding screeched. “Such lies. You are a disgr—”
A low growl erupted from the man beside her. “Not another word, Lady Holding, or you will find yourself removed from my presence.”
Heart hammering, Ravenna wanted to stare at him, but she kept her gaze averted. She’d anticipated no one would credit her for speaking the truth, but Courtland’s rebuke sounded like the opposite. Unexpected warmth slid through her veins. He believed her.
Mr. Bingham gave a discreet cough into the tense silence. “Let me be clear here, Duke and ladies, and state the obvious. You were witnessed on the floor in an extremely compromising embrace. Lady Ravenna, you are the daughter of a duke and sister to one, and are yet unmarried. As such, the damage to your reputation will be unsalvageable.” He took a measured breath, letting the impact sink in. “Your Grace, it is your duty as a gentleman to make reparations. In the most placid way I can say it, you have compromised the young lady.”
“No, he categorically did not—” Ravenna began.
“He’s right,” Courtland interrupted. “We might not be in England, but the rules of society and civility still apply.”
“Well, I disagree,” she fumed, all earlier warm thoughts of him slipping away. She glared at Bingham. “I kissed him as well. If anything, I compromised him, yet you don’t see me flinging marital platitudes at his head. We were both at fault and now we can each go our own separate ways like reasonable adults.”
But they were angry and utterly useless words. A gentleman of honor—even one with scruples as skewed as the hard-nosed Courtland Chase—would never let a lady face the consequences of ruination alone. She saw it written all over him…the silent and martyred acceptance of his fate. Of her fate.