A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords 2)

“I see.” Juliet ground her teeth together as tears surged to her eyes. But she would be damned before she would give Hannah the pleasure of seeing her cry.

As Juliet stood there, wringing her hands, watching these two strangers plot and scheme with her life, the thought of aligning herself with Devlin Drake didn’t seem quite so terrifying. Ambrose had been kind and sincere. And they were brothers after all.

And yet one look at Hannah’s beaming grin told Juliet there was fault in her logic.

“I doubt Drake will take you,” the baron continued. “Then again, if he suspects I hold you in high regard, he will accept the match.”

“Am I permitted to meet him before I am sold like meat at Smithfield Market?”

The baron’s gaze turned ominous. “Purely because I know you find the news distressing, I shall allow your disrespect to pass. You will accompany me today while I attempt to secure a licence.” He muttered something beneath his breath. “Though I shall have to put forward a compelling case if the archbishop is to deem you worthy of his consideration.”

Hannah snorted as she returned her china teacup to the saucer. “Drake won’t have her, so I don’t know why you’re going to so much trouble.”

Oddly, the thought that Mr Drake might turn her away roused a faint flicker of regret. This would be the one and only time she might marry, might have a family—children to shower with the same motherly love and devotion she had received as a child.

The stark reality of her situation hit her like a sharp slap. She was trapped in this house with two cold-hearted devils, and Mr Drake afforded the only opportunity for escape.

“I shall come with you, my lord,” Juliet said. In truth, she could not refuse, and she was eager to meet this odious beast. If only to sate her curiosity. “Should I find something more suitable to wear?”

The baron scanned the brown garment that did nothing to enhance her colouring. “Hannah will find you a dress.”

“For goodness’ sake.” Hannah huffed. “Look at her. Do you honestly think my expensive muslins will sit well on her dainty frame?”

Dainty? Hannah’s preferred words of choice were usually scrawny and gaunt.

The baron gave an indifferent wave. “Wear whatever you wish. We leave at twelve.” When Juliet failed to move, he added, “You are dismissed.”

Only when Juliet reached for the doorknob did she notice how violently her fingers shook.

“Oh, Juliet. Have Nora bring fresh tea, won’t you?” Hannah couldn’t resist barking one last order.

Juliet nodded, slipped out into the hall and closed the door behind her. She remained there for a moment, gathering her breath and her wits. Eventually, she found the strength of will to amble to the kitchen.

“Miss Bromfield is in need of more tea, Nora,” Juliet said in a monotone voice for she was still suffering from shock.

Nora frowned as she searched Juliet’s face. “What is it, miss? Don’t tell me Miss Bromfield has smashed the teapot again?”

“No, Nora. I fear the damage caused this time is far worse than that.”

The Bromfields had taken a knife to Juliet’s heart, had taken turns to slash and stab at the fragile organ. The robust fortifications had offered no protection. And now, all she could do was side with the devil and pray that Satan’s beast might bring her salvation.

Chapter Three

Devlin sat bolt upright in the leather wingback chair, his teeth clenched, his irate gaze fixed on the mantel clock. How long did it take to inform a lady she was to be married? How long did it take to convince the damn bishop of their urgent need to wed? He should have dealt with the matter personally, stomped over to the baron’s townhouse and demand he settle the debt immediately.

Devlin tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair, the solemn beat like that of a death knell. Whatever happened within the next few hours, death was the inevitable outcome. Should the baron fail to appear, he would pay the price for his daughter’s loose tongue and his own lack of honour. Should they arrive as planned, it meant the end of any hope Devlin had of ever making a love match.

A love match?

The idea was bloody ridiculous for a man of his size and gruff countenance. Even so, the thought of marrying Miss Bromfield made his stomach coil in revulsion.

God damn.

And to think he’d have to bed the spiteful witch. In all likelihood, he’d struggle to rise to the occasion.

The need to banish all thoughts of bedding such a cold and callous harlot forced Devlin from his fireside chair. He tugged the bell pull so hard plaster dust fell from the ceiling rose.

Mere moments later Copeland entered the study. It was the third time Devlin had called for the butler in the last half an hour.