The Princess Stakes

by Amalie Howard

  “A penny for your thoughts, Duchess?”

  Sarani smiled at her husband. “Only a penny? My thoughts are worth at least a sovereign.”

  “Is that so?” Rhystan scrunched up his nose. “Sounds rather dear to me. Just a month ago, they were half that.”

  She turned in his arms and propped herself up on her elbows, chin to her hands. “Would you like me to explain how inflation works?”

  Rhystan groaned. “I love it when you use big words.”

  “You love it when I don’t use words at all.”

  The sheet at his hips tented magnificently. “That’s true, too.”

  Sarani laughed. Oh, she loved this man to distraction. And he worshipped her, body and soul.

  After their wedding, the gossip rags had gotten tired of writing about how besotted the Duke of Embry was with his wife. They’d fixated on the duke’s younger sister, whose refusal to marry had become almost comically legendary. Rhystan had been at the end of his rope, but Sarani had convinced him to give her time. At nearly one and twenty, Ravenna was hardly on the shelf. She was simply particular about what she wanted. Like her brother.

  Sarani dragged a fingernail down her husband’s damp chest. “So about those thoughts you were interested in…”

  His eyes narrowed. “Do I still need to pay a pound?”

  “It’s worth it, I promise.”

  “Very well, you drive a hard bargain.”

  She stuck out her tongue. “You didn’t even haggle, Your Grace. Haven’t I taught you anything? Haggling is ninety percent of the fun.”

  Rhystan grinned and rolled them over so that he was braced above her. She gasped at the deliciously hard pressure between her thighs. Her blood went molten. She was wrung out and sore from his attentions overnight and again that morning, and suddenly, she wanted more.

  With a wicked grin, he tilted his hips, making her whimper. “Three pounds, then.”

  “I think you’re missing the point of haggling, my lord duke,” she said and wrapped her legs around him, pinning his hardness to her softness. Two could play at his game.

  He groaned. “Five pounds!”

  Sarani laughed as she tugged his head down to hers, slanting her mouth across his and nibbling on his full lower lip. “You are absurd.”

  “Absurdly in love with you,” he said. “Now, tell me these thoughts of yours before I’m forced to increase my offer.”

  “I’m with child.”

  Rhystan stilled, his glowing eyes capturing hers. So many colors swam in them—blue, green, gray—much like the ocean lit by the sun with a storm in the distance. He didn’t say a word, but his mouth trembled slightly. Sarani pinned her lips, uncertainty suddenly blanketing her.

  They’d talked about children, but with his work in Parliament and the scandal broth surrounding their unconventional, highly publicized marriage, they’d decided to wait. Rhystan had been careful and she’d timed her courses, but a handful of times a couple of months ago, they’d been so consumed by passion that no precautionary measures had been taken.

  “Rhystan?”

  “We’re going to have a baby?” he whispered.

  “I know we didn’t plan on it, but does the thought please you?”

  “Does it please me?” Her duke’s smile was slow and lit his eyes with love and joy as he slid down her body to place a kiss on her bare abdomen. He peered up at her, steel-blue gaze shining. “You undo me, Your Grace. I am delighted.” He kissed her skin again. “And you, little one, I cannot wait to meet you.”

  Sarani felt a tear slip down her cheek, watching this powerful man place tender kisses on her belly, cherishing the tiny being they had created. Rhystan rubbed his cheek against her and then crept back up her body to gather her into his arms.

  “I hope our child has your eyes,” she whispered. “And your huge heart.”

  “If it’s a boy, he better get my huge heart!”

  She chucked him in the shoulder, giggling at his awful innuendo. “You are a ridiculous man.”

  “You adore me,” he said, kissing her again.

  “Someone has to.”

  He placed a sweet kiss on her lips and then peppered over the sun spots covering her nose. “I hope our child has your smile and your courage. And most of all, I hope they have beautiful skin like yours and freckles like these.”

  Daily walks on the shore had turned her skin golden brown and made her spattering of freckles stand out. Sarani hadn’t cared—he loved her skin and her in it. And she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that any child of theirs, regardless of what they looked like, would be beloved as well.

  “I love you, Rhystan.”

  “It cannot possibly be as much as I love you, my duchess.” Blue-gray eyes full of joy and love held hers. “Thank you, my love.”

  She stroked her fingers over his jaw. “For what?”

  “For loving me. For choosing me.” He placed a hand on her heart and then the small curve of her stomach and pressed his forehead against hers. “For giving me everything a man could ever hope for.” He let out a choked breath. “And for saving me.”

  “Saving you?”

  He gave a solemn nod, his eyes so full of love that her throat went tight. “You did, even when I didn’t know I needed saving, you were there. You will forever be my port in the storm. My safe harbor. My home. Always.”

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at

  Rules for Heiresses

  Coming October 2021 from Sourcebooks Casablanca

  One

  Lady Ravenna Huntley, unwed sister to the Duke of Embry, was in the biggest pickle of her life, and that was saying a lot, considering she’d been a fugitive on one of her brother’s ships across the Atlantic. Now, she was about to lose a substantial fortune playing vingt-et-un while disguised as a man…unless she did something she’d never considered before.

  Unless she cheated.

  This win was a matter of survival. She was almost out of money, barring her last pair of earbobs. Notwithstanding her previous exploits, her brother would have her hide if his precious sister ended up getting thrown into the stocks on an island in the British West Indies.

  But she wasn’t a cheater and never had been. Ravenna could understand how desperate times made people consider unpalatable options because at the moment, she truly was out of options. She hadn’t fully thought through her plan. Yet again.

  She could win if she bluffed her way through it, but if she lost… Well, better not think of that. Why was it so bloody sweltering? It felt as though sweat was pouring down her back in rivers. She eyed the men gathering around the table in the gaming hell at fashionable Starlight Hotel and Club, and tugged at her collar.

  Jump first and think later had served her marginally well over the past six months.

  Not now, naturally.

  Her overwarm skin itched beneath the scratchy fabric of her clothing. Men’s fashion, while practical, chafed unbearably especially when sweat was involved. And right now, she was boiling like a hog farmer on a blistering day. A part of her—a sad, whimsical, miniscule part of her—missed the silks and the satins of her gowns, but those times were behind her. These days, she went by Mr. Raven Hunt, young nob and ne’er-do-well who enjoyed a spot of gambling…especially when finding his amiable, charming self in need of quick, easy coin.

  Though said coin at the moment was neither quick nor easy.

  She’d lost count of the cards ages ago…because of him.

  Ravenna gulped, her heart kicking against her ribs, currently restrained beneath a starched band of linen. Despite its functional purpose of keeping her identity as a female hidden, the stiff, restrictive layer made it quite hard to breathe. And at the moment, she needed to capably inhale, exhale, and focus, mostly because of the inscrutable gentleman across the felted table who watched her with hard, piercing eyes.

&n
bsp; Mr. Chase. Shipping magnate. Undisputed local sovereign.

  Ruthless, cold, powerful.

  Her one remaining adversary.

  His sinful looks didn’t help. Lips, luscious and wicked to a fault, were framed by a square jawline covered in a dusting of dark shadow, and an aquiline nose was drawn between high-bladed cheekbones. A pair of thick slashes for brows sat over an onyx gaze that was so mercurial it was impossible to read. His eyes reminded her of a churning ocean at midnight, lightning flashing over its surface. Those storm-dark eyes were a study in temptation alone—she’d only ever seen such intensity in one person before. She shook off the unwelcome near miss of a memory. It had been a very long time ago, and that boy was gone.

  This man certainly was striking. Possibly even the most attractive man she’d ever seen.

  Forget his bloody looks, you twit!

  Ravenna shook herself hard, hoping to knock some sense into her own head. What were the odds that he would be at her table, over this pot? As far as she knew, Mr. Chase wasn’t known to frequent the exclusive gaming rooms of the Starlight Hotel. On occasion, he’d have dinner at the exclusive restaurant there, a beautiful woman on his arm, but Ravenna had only glimpsed him from a distance. It would be impossible to live on an island and not know who wielded the most influence here or the man who ran most of the trading ports in the islands. But powerful people made for powerful enemies, and she’d hoped to avoid him and escape his notice.

  No such luck, however.

  He did not resemble a soft, displaced Englishman in the least. Ravenna narrowed her eyes and fought the urge to yank on her sweltering, suffocating collar. While he didn’t seem to be an expert gambler, she could tell he wasn’t used to losing. She frowned. Had he meant to play poorly early on so she wouldn’t suspect him…and then lure her into this final snare? Or was she reading into things?

  Blast, her own sharp instincts were failing her.

  She peeked at her excellent hand—possibly a winning hand—unless her opponent held a natural. The last round had seen all of the other players overdrawn, except for the dratted Mr. Chase who claimed he was content with his two cards. Ravenna eyed them and ground her jaw in frustration. She was so close. She needed the money for lodgings and food, or even passage back to England. And besides, Mr. Chase didn’t need it. He was richer than Midas, or so the rumor mill said.

  A bead of sweat rolled down her skin, beneath the linen drawn mercilessly across her breasts. She wished she’d left an hour ago, her pockets well lined and heavy. But no. Greed, overconfidence, and plain stupidity had taken over.

  And she might as well admit it: smitten lady parts.

  Not just because Mr. Chase was beyond a shade of a doubt unnervingly gorgeous, but because her shocking attraction to him—to any man—was something she had never, ever experienced. His arrival had thrown her off her game.

  Ravenna didn’t fancy gentlemen; she didn’t fancy anyone.

  In London, suitor after suitor had been foisted upon her—rich, titled, handsome fellows—and she’d felt nothing. Even when offers had been made, Ravenna had found a way to thwart them.

  After all, she’d been engaged twice and almost compromised into a third betrothal.

  The first had been arranged in her infancy, but that betrothal had been squashed by her father when her future groom had taken off for parts unknown without so much as a by-your-leave. Ravenna didn’t know what could possibly have made Cordy do such a thing, but she hadn’t cared.

  She’d been glad to be rid of the pesky nuisance!

  Over the years, the two of them had been occasional friends but mostly enemies, having childhood adventures between their adjoining country estates in Kettering. He had been obnoxious and arrogant, and had thrown it in her face that when they were married, she would have to do everything he said. He’d sported a blackened eye for weeks after that declaration. One day, Cordy disappeared, sent off to school, she’d been told, and much later on, she’d been saddened to learn from his brother that he’d perished from illness.

  Betrothal number two had been a momentary blip in sanity. After her brother Rhystan’s love match, Ravenna had felt the first stirrings of indecision. Didn’t she want a family of her own? She would have to wed…eventually. Perhaps she could attract the ideal sort of gentleman: old, bored, perhaps on his deathbed, and willing to let her live her life. Lord Thatcher had ticked all the boxes—widower, older, quiet—and after he’d proposed, she convinced herself she might have been content. But in the end, Ravenna couldn’t go through with it.

  Her third and final almost engagement, though it could hardly even be called that, had caused her to flee London on her brother’s ship. Ever since her come-out, the Marquess of Dalwood had been persistent in a way that had made her skin crawl. She’d barely escaped his slimy clutches.

  “Are you going to play, lad?” The low, lazy drawl drizzled through her chaotic thoughts like thick, smoky honey.

  She peeked up at Mr. Chase through her lashes and grunted a noncommittal response. Drat, he was stunning…stunning in the way she imagined a fallen angel would be. A sultry, terrible, beautiful angel meant to lure poor innocent souls into doing sinful things. Her skin heated with what could only be a surge of primitive lust. Ravenna opened her mouth, not even sure what was going to come out—a breathy Take me now or a much smarter I withdraw.

  “What’s it to be then?” Mr. Chase asked, idly tapping his long, elegant, and shockingly tanned fingers against his cards in a repeated sequence that made her stare. His little finger tapped followed by the ring finger, then the middle, ending with his index finger. Those hands looked familiar and strange at the same time. Ravenna felt she might be hallucinating. His voice recalled her with a snap. “I haven’t got all night.”

  “A man has to think.”

  “I could have sailed to England in the time it takes you to think.”

  “You can forfeit if you’re in a hurry,” she grumbled. The other gentlemen at the table had long since backed out, and now it was down to the two of them. He reminded her of a proud, terrifying dragon sitting atop his treasure, daring anyone to come take it. And here she was…daring to do just that.

  “Why would I when I have the winning hand?” he drawled.

  “I’m sure you think you do, especially as quite a bit of money is at stake,” Ravenna remarked, keeping her naturally husky tones low. A man like him missed nothing, and while her disguise of a young, rich, well-born chap had served to fool many, she had the feeling it would not trick him so easily. She had the advantage as dealer, but if she took one more card, she could easily overdraw and lose. Twenty was solid and she doubted he had a natural. Those two cards under his drumming fingertips taunted her.

  Mr. Chase peered at her. “What are you called?”

  Hiding her sudden dread, Ravenna sketched a cheerful bow from her seated position, hand tipping the brim of her hat. “Mr. Raven Hunt, at your service. Seventh son to a seventh son seeking his fortune, friendship, and a fine adventure.” She cringed. That was a smidge too dramatic, but she held on to her charming grin as though it were a shield.

  Eventually, one side of his full lips curled up at the corner into a half smirk. “You’re barely wet behind the ears. What’s a whelp like you doing here?”

  “I’m old enough to seek my own way.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?” She was still contemplating how to respond when he leaned back in his chair. “I make it my business to know everyone who comes onto my island.”

  “Is that a fact, Your High-Handedness?” she shot back.

  “Careful, puppy.” His lips tugged into a full smile, though it didn’t make her feel any better. This one was a downright threat. Ravenna bristled. No one, not even Rhystan, had ever spoken to her with such condescension. Who did he think he was?

  A duke’s heir, her brain interjected. If local gossip was to be beli
eved anyhow. But the rumor mill on the island was unreliable at best. He had money, certainly—the cut of his clothing revealed that—but Mr. Chase didn’t carry himself like elitist British nobility. Notwithstanding the delicious layer of scruff covering that hard jaw, his attitude was relaxed and unconcerned as though he didn’t need an English title to flaunt his power. No, that came from within…from someone who had earned his place in the world and reveled in it.

  Even now, a muscle in his cheek jaw flexed with careless ease, a hint that there was a good chance he held nothing. Besides, she had three of the aces and the last had already passed. Hadn’t it? Yes, she was quite certain. There was no way he had a natural. Even if he had twenty, she would still win as ties paid the dealer.

  With a grand flourish, Ravenna set down her cards. She shot him a wink. “What do you know, old man, you just got trounced by a pup.”

  * * *

  Courtland Chase sat back in his chair.

  Old man? The lad had balls, he’d give him that. Word of the boy’s winning streak had filtered up to him, mostly from grumbling members. This was his hotel and his club, and he made it his business to know what went on. At first, he thought the boy a cheat, but his skill with the cards was extraordinary. Closer scrutiny revealed that the lad didn’t need to cheat to win; he simply kept track of the cards that had been dealt. It was bloody genius.

  But that didn’t mean the boy hadn’t practiced some clever sleight of hand. Nine cards adding up to twenty was incredibly lucky. Or extremely resourceful.

  A fascinated Courtland had kept a watchful eye on the young man from afar for a few weeks, the boy’s natural baby-faced charm making him a popular addition to aristocratic circles. There was something uncannily familiar about that stubborn jaw—the arrogant tilt of that head—but Courtland couldn’t figure out what it was.

  The lad was so young he barely had any hair on his pallid chin, but aside from his skill, something about him had rubbed at Courtland. It wasn’t anything more than a feeling that something was out of place, but his instincts had never served him wrong. The boy was hiding something. Not that many of the gents here didn’t—half of them had run from responsibility or duty in England.