A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords 2)

“Agreed.”

As they followed the baron to his carriage parked in the courtyard, Juliet considered the way Mr Drake’s dark eyes masked all emotion. She considered the stubborn set of his jaw, the errant lock of black hair falling across his brow and realised he did terrify her.

It had nothing to do with his powerful build or commanding countenance, and everything to do with the way he held her close. What terrified her most was that she could easily grow to care for him. She could easily grow to love him.

Chapter Five

Still cradling Juliet in his arms, Devlin stood beneath the portico and watched the baron’s chariot rumble away down the drive. He stared at the vibrant yellow conveyance—silently cursing the occupants to hell—even after it trundled through the iron gates and turned into the lane.

The next time he saw Miss Bromfield, she would not be wearing the same smug expression. The next time he saw the baron, he wondered if he’d thank him for tricking him into taking a different bride. Despite the fact Bromfield cared little for his illegitimate daughter, something about the ease in which he accepted the situation bothered Devlin.

The baron’s parting words to Juliet echoed again in Devlin’s mind.

/> Remember what I said.

Something told him not to ask his new wife what the devious lord meant. They were practically strangers, had been married for less than an hour, and it would serve neither of them if she felt forced to lie. No. Devlin would bide his time, encourage her to confide in him, divulge any secrets.

God, he was the worst sort of hypocrite for he had chosen not to reveal the reason he’d slipped the ring onto her finger and made her his bride.

“Well, do you intend to put me down or will you carry me around as some matrons do their pugs?”

Devlin couldn’t help but smile at her comment. “That all depends. Will you bite me if I tickle your chin?”

“Most definitely. And I shall yap relentlessly if I grow tired and bored.”

A chuckle burst from his lips. He could not recall the last time he’d found a woman so amusing. One thing was certain, his wife piqued his interest.

“You’re not yapping now,” Devlin said, looking into eyes that reminded him of the rare jade stones he’d seen on his travels. “Does that mean you like being held in my arms?”

Dariell once told him that jade brought good luck. That it symbolised a unity of mind and soul. His insightful friend was always right, and the thought brought a sliver of optimism.

Her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink. “It means I’m still unsure how best to deal with my master.”

Devlin felt his smile slip. “I’m not your master, Juliet. You have free rein over this house, these lands. Make your demands, and you will discover I am not so disagreeable.”

“Why would I think you disagreeable when you have been nothing but obliging?”

He lowered her gently to the ground, missed the warmth of her body instantly. In his arms, they seemed equal. Now, as he towered above her, she looked so delicate, so fragile. Fragile enough that the urge to protect her held him in a vice-like grip. They had been married for less than an hour, and already chivalrous thoughts entered his head.

The irony was that he would be the one to hurt her.

When a man lived for vengeance, he lacked the capacity to love. Had a heart filled with nothing but bitterness and hatred. Like her father, he intended to use this innocent lady for his own gain.

And how the hell could he consummate this union when he was liable to bruise her, to crush her beneath his weight? For a man who applied logic to every situation, somehow he had failed to follow the same principles when it came to choosing a bride.

“Come,” he eventually said. “Let me introduce you to the staff. Mrs Barbary will escort you to your apartments where no doubt your maid is unpacking.” As the words left his lips, he realised his error.

Juliet smiled, and it suddenly felt like a promising spring day, not a chilly one in late autumn. “I am my own maid, sir,” she said with a chuckle, “and it will take me five minutes to unpack the two dresses in my small valise.”

“Two dresses? No one saw fit to provide you with a trousseau?”

What was he thinking?

A lady’s family spent weeks preparing her new wardrobe. The baron wouldn’t care if his daughter married him wearing nothing but a coal sack.

“No, Mr Drake.” She tugged at the pale blue dress and pelisse she’d chosen for her wedding ensemble. “These are the best clothes I have and once belonged to my sister. But they’re terribly out of fashion I’m told.”

“Devlin,” he corrected, eager to hear how his name sounded when spoken so sweetly. “Then we must send for a modiste.”