A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords 2)

“I’m quite sure they can.” The tremble in her voice revealed her apprehension. In a matter of hours he would expect her to consummate their union. But whenever she showed any signs of fear or anxiety, she felt Mr Drake retreat into the depths of his dark, dank lair.

“Yet while you spoke of their passion,” Mr Drake said in a more detached tone, “the word volatile suggests a violent, rather explosive relationship.”

Explosive was indeed the right word to describe her sister’s sudden outbursts. “Hannah finds it hard to control her emotions when things do not go her way.”

“She is unpredictable, then.” It was not a question. He fell silent again, a silence that stretched on and on until they had finished their meal.

A yawn escaped Juliet’s lips, and then another.

“Do you find my company tiring?”

“Not at all,” she said, feeling quite the opposite. She found him fascinating. “Conversation seems to flow naturally between us, but it has been a long day.” And might well be an equally long night.

“Then allow me to escort you to your bedchamber.”

Juliet sucked in a breath as he pushed out of the chair. She considered the broad expanse of his chest, considered how suffocating it must feel to have such a weight squashing her into the mattress. “Of course.”

As they ascended the grand staircase, the tension grew palpable.

Every painting they passed conveyed yet another

solemn face. Fear took hold. Each step, each breath drained her energy, seemed to suck the life from her limbs. By the time they reached the bedchamber door her hands were shaking, her knees barely able to support her weight.

“This is where I shall leave you and bid you goodnight,” Mr Drake said stiffly.

“Goodnight? Oh. I see. Are … are you not coming in?” Despite these crippling emotions, a part of her wanted to further their connection, longed for fate to draw her down this unfathomable path.

“No.” He captured her chin between his fingers, lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers. They were warm, tasted rich and exotic like wine and spice. She suddenly realised it was what she needed, realised how much she craved his touch, but he pulled away. “I shall visit you later once you have rested.”

Juliet looked up into eyes so shockingly black. Black as the night. “You must forgive me. I lack the experience necessary to quash any awkwardness.” And she didn’t have the first clue how to seduce her husband.

Mr Drake inclined his head. “No doubt we will muddle through.” His low voice carried a hint of dejection. “Goodnight, Juliet.”

“Goodnight.”

Juliet watched him walk away, shoulders slumped. He looked weary, his spirits deflated.

Oh, how she wished this was a love match, wished they could have come together in a night of blinding passion. She wanted to bring him comfort, hoped he could soothe away her fears, ease the years of loneliness.

Juliet thought about her husband’s perplexing personality while she stripped and washed. She thought about his sensual lips as she slipped in between the cool sheets and lay quiet and still.

For four hours she waited patiently for his return.

But Devlin Drake did not come back.

Chapter Seven

Alone in his bedchamber, Devlin sat in front of the fire, a glass of brandy cradled between his palms as he watched the dancing flames. Hours had passed since he’d left Juliet with a promise to return, an unspoken promise to consummate their union.

Never had he taken a woman who didn’t want him, and he had no intention of doing so now. So why did every fibre of his being implore him to navigate the dark corridors to her chamber? Why did the need to prove he had made the right decision to wed burn so fiercely in his veins?

Vengeance was proving to be more trouble than it was worth. Ambrose was dead. What did his brother care if Miss Bromfield paid the price for spouting lies? He had cared about furthering their family’s bloodline, about building a prosperous estate for future generations. Ambrose cared about honour and principles and duty. All the things that made a man forget what really mattered—things like honesty and friendship and love.

Perhaps that was what ailed Devlin. In seeking retribution, he had lost something of himself. Now he was married to a woman who trembled whenever he stood, a woman who affected him more than he cared to admit.

Damn, were he not so attracted to her it would be simple. But he’d wanted to kiss her from the moment he pushed the ring onto her finger. At dinner, he had watched her intently while she ate tiny morsels of food. He imagined the taste of her rosebud lips, imagined those vibrant red curls sprawled over his pillow, those delicate hands caressing the muscles in his chest—until his pleasurable thoughts were replaced by a nightmare vision of her crying out in pain as he thrust inside her.

Half a decanter of brandy hadn’t helped to rid him of these conflicting emotions.