A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords 2)

Valentine stood. He sauntered over to the row of decanters on the console table and refilled his glass. “We are at your command, Drake, and will do whatever we can to assist you.”

Collectively his friends agreed.

“I look forward to making Juliet’s acquaintance,” Lydia said, no doubt eager for female companionship in a room full of men.

Devlin inclined his head. “She will be down shortly. The modiste arrived with her wardrobe and insisted on dressing her this evening.”

Juliet’s inner beauty shone through no matter what she wore. The old dresses were fit for the bonfire, and he hoped she incinerated them along with all terrible memories of the past.

A knock on the drawing room door brought Withers who introduced the baron and his insipid daughter. They all stood to greet the guests. Much to his chagrin, Devlin poured them both a drink though Miss Bromfield complained that the sherry was a little tart for her taste.

“And where is Juliet? Is she lost?” Miss Bromfield sniggered as she glanced around the room. “Has she forgotten she’s to come to the drawing room and not the scullery?”

Spiteful witch!

“You surprise me, Miss Bromfield,” Valentine said in a voice as smooth as the finest claret. “I thought a lady of your standing would know that the mistress of the house is always last to make an entrance.”

“Of course I know. But what could be keeping her so long?”

“Most ladies of my acquaintance take an age to dress for dinner,” Valentine replied.

Miss Bromfield tittered. “Well, perhaps she is mulling over which shade of brown suits her best.”

“Having had the pleasure of meeting Mrs Drake,” Valentine said, unruffled, “I can assure you she will look splendid in anything she wears.”

“Then you must have been chirping merry when you met, my lord,” Miss Bromfield countered.

Devlin remained rigid—his temper held in check by a flimsy thread. Once it snapped, he was liable to rip through the room in a whirlwind and destroy everything in his path.

“I can assure you, Miss Bromfield, that even in my cups, I am a man who recognises true beauty.”

“Indeed,” Dariell added. “Clothes, they do not make the man.”

Miss Bromfield’s eyes narrowed as she observed Dariell’s unconventional attire. She screwed up her button nose. “And judging by your odd dress, I imagine you have spouted that nonsense many times before.”

Dariell never lost his temper.

Nothing could rattle his composure.

“And I have another mantra you may find amusing.” Dariell did not wait for a response. “How people treat others is often a true reflection of how they feel about themselves.” Dariell inclined his head and smiled. “Is that more pleasing to your ears?”

“That is utter poppycock.”

“If you say so, madame.”

The baron cleared his throat. “And how is married life, Drake?” His mocking tone grated. “Do you find the girl agreeable?”

The girl? Could the man not bring himself to call Juliet his daughter?

Devlin forced a reply. “I could not be happier and can only express my gratitude to you for presenting me with a much more appealing prize.”

“You do strike me as a man who demands subservience,” Miss Bromfield interrupted rudely. “It is why we would never have suited.”

He would rather stab pins in his eyes than suffer her vile tongue each morning.

“You know nothing of my wants or needs, Miss Bromfield, though I happen to agree with your last comment. When it comes to you, incompatibility is in my blood. My brother found you disagreeable, too, I’m told.”

Miss Bromfield’s arrogant countenance faltered for a few seconds. “Your brother was less of a gentleman than your butler, Withers.”