A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords 2)

Devlin Drake.

The words drifted through her mind like a haunting melody, and she found she rather liked the air of mystery contained within each note.

If a few furnishings could brighten her bedchamber, what would it take to light the fire in her husband’s obsidian eyes?

Nothing superficial or conventional or predictable.

A smile touched her lips.

She would just have to be herself.

Dinner was a formal affair. Footmen busied about bringing in platter after platter. Lamb in a piquant sauce. Wild duck. Ham and veal patties. Pigeon. Enough French beans to feed a battalion. Clearly, Mr Drake’s appetite was as large as his frame. Not that Juliet could enquire as to the reason for such excessiveness. They sat at opposite ends of a long table, too far away for her to read any emotion in his eyes, too far away to partake in idle conversation.

“Must we sit so far apart?” she asked, craning her neck to peer over a gilt centrepiece of a Grecian temple with winged maidens draped around the pillars.

The contrived scene was incongruous to what she already knew of her husband’s character.

Mr Drake dabbed his mouth with his napkin and said, “Forgive me, did you say something?”

“Can we not sit together?”

He brushed a lock of sable hair from his brow and looked at her blankly.

Juliet turned to the footman who stood in the background as if made of stone. “Would you ask my husband if I might move closer?”

The footman inclined his head, walked sombrely to the other end of the table and conveyed the message.

Mr Drake looked at her. She thought she saw his mouth twitch in amusement, but it was impossible to tell. But then he pushed out of his chair and strode towards her, power emanating from the thick thighs bulging in his breeches.

Towering above her, he offered his hand. “You do not need to ask permission to move.”

Juliet stared at his face, then at the width of his palm, the length of his fingers. “The aristocracy can be rigid when it comes to etiquette.”

“Do I look like a man who abides by the rules?”

Her heartbeat pulsed hard in her throat. “I do not know you well enough to answer.” Lord, he looked like a man capable of crossing swords with the devil.

“Then let us rectify the situation.” He extended his hand further, and Juliet slipped her small hand into his without hesitation.

The reaction was instant.

A jolt of awareness shot up her arm to play untold havoc with her nerves. Heat spread from her neck to her cheeks. She couldn’t look him in the eye but simply allowed him to assist her from the seat.

A curt nod to the footman and the servant seemed to understand his master’s request. By the time Juliet sat comfortably in the chair to her husband’s right, her place setting had been moved.

“Forgive me,” she said, hoping conversation would banish these strange sensations. “I’m used to dining in the kitchen and find I’m not comfortable following convention.”

Mr Drake sipped his wine. “I can see that.” Hungry eyes devoured her over the rim of his glass. They drifted over her loosely tied hair, considered the unruly red curls that always escaped any attempt to keep them at bay.

Juliet tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Are you disappointed I did not make more effort for dinner?”

Well, he did say he admired honesty.

“Not at all.” His rich, velvet voice stirred the hairs at her nape. “I despise the contrived, and it’s important you feel comfortable here at home.” He paused and then said, “You have beautiful hair. Why hide it with fancy combs and ridiculous feathers?”

The compliment sent her pulse racing. Never before had a man expressed his admiration and she couldn’t help but smile.

“May I ask you something?” She swallowed a spoonful of veal broth while waiting for his answer.