A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords 2)

“Good morning, my lord. I’m Withers. Welcome to Blackwater.” The butler—a plump man of average height and with a dour-looking face—inclined his head. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

The baron whipped his watch from his pocket and examined the face before thrusting it back into his coat and releasing a huff of frustration. “We did not come all this way to stand on the doorstep making idle conversation. Where’s Drake?”

The butler’s expression remained impassive. “At the chapel, my lord. He asked that someone escort you there upon your arrival.”

“Then make haste, man. Let us get the matter over with.” The baron attempted to shoo Withers into the house.

“You can access the chapel via the path, my lord.” Withers gestured to the left of the house. “A footman will escort you there at once.”

“Only a heathen like Mr Drake would expect you to walk a mile to your own wedding,” Hannah complained as they sauntered behind the footman.

They followed the gravel path down past the lush green lawns and crossed a small stone bridge over a babbling brook. Her father pressed the footman to hurry, chiding the servant for his slow, doddery pace. While Hannah chased their father’s heels—for she despised being

the last to arrive—Juliet ambled behind.

Nerves pushed to the fore.

Many women married for status, for convenience, to keep them from the workhouse. Most had no choice. Most were miserable and indulged in hobbies to replace the lack of love. The Blackwater Estate was vast. Running such a property would easily fill Juliet’s days.

But what about the long, lonely nights?

Would Devlin Drake come to her bed? Would he be as forceful as the rogues her mother warned her about? Or would he be kind and understanding of her situation?

They arrived at the chapel, a quaint building set amongst the trees that looked hundreds of years older than the house. Being late October, there was a bitter nip in the air, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The tiny panes in the stained-glass windows shone and sparkled as the sun’s rays bounced off the surface.

If Juliet searched the length and breadth of the country, she doubted she would find a prettier place.

The footman came to a halt at the church entrance. “Mr Drake awaits you inside, my lord.” He raised the latch, pushed open the arched wooden door and gestured for them to enter.

Neither her father nor Hannah thought to ensure Juliet looked presentable. Neither had bothered to provide her with a dried posy or some other frippery to indicate she was the bride. Neither offered words of encouragement or comfort or hope.

Loneliness breezed through the cracks in Juliet’s armour. Her chest constricted, squeezing her heart. Many times she had longed to feel her mother’s warm embrace, but no more so than today. Juliet closed her eyes and conjured an image of the sweet lady who always cupped her cheeks and kissed her with genuine affection.

“Stop dawdling.” Hannah’s less than polite nudge in the back dragged Juliet from her reverie. “Your ogre awaits.”

Years spent biting her tongue culminated in the sudden urge to speak the truth. “As I no longer need to appease you, Hannah, let me give you a word of warning. Lay a hand on me again, and I shall make it my life’s mission to inform every lady I meet what a spiteful hag you are.”

Hannah gave a wry smirk. “You’re not married to Mr Drake yet. Until he says ‘I will’ you’re still my servant.”

“Does the fact that I’m your sister mean nothing to you?” Once, Juliet hoped they might be the best of friends.

“You’re my father’s by-blow,” Hannah said, thrusting her button nose in the air. “You’re a mistake. A stain on our family’s reputation. And I for one will be glad to see the back of you.”

Juliet was about to say the feeling was mutual, but they were suddenly cast in shadow. She turned to the door to find Devlin Drake’s large frame filling the narrow space.

He cast Hannah a menacing glare. “Opinions are subjective, Miss Bromfield.” Mr Drake’s words hit like an arctic chill. Ice cold. Cold enough to freeze the flaming fires in hell. “Perhaps it is you, with your vile tongue, who is the blight of the Bromfields.”

Hannah shivered, but it took more than a frosty tone to unsettle the ice queen. “Well, Mr Drake,” she began, thrusting her fingers more firmly into her gloves, “after the disreputable way your brother behaved, you are hardly one to cast aspersions.”

A volatile energy clawed at the surrounding air. Mr Drake ground his teeth and looked like a jaguar ready to pounce.

Juliet cleared her throat. She looked up into Mr Drake’s onyx eyes, knowing it would take more than a few chosen words to break through the hard layers. “Pay her no heed, sir. These last six years, she has used every means possible to ruin my day. But I refuse to let her ruin this one.”

Mr Drake met her gaze, those dark eyes softening just a fraction. A shiver of awareness shot through Juliet’s body. Her stomach flipped more than once, and she felt suddenly breathless.

Mr Drake inclined his head. “Then let us proceed, Miss Duval. Your father has taken a seat in the pew and seems determined to remain there.” His gaze drifted over her face, settled on her lips for longer than was deemed appropriate. “But you do not need his arm to lean on.”

The hint of admiration in his tone gave her a rush of confidence. “No, Mr Drake. I am more than capable of walking down the aisle on my own.”