by Adele Clee
The hard lump in Juliet’s throat grew to boulder-size proportion. Her chest tightened until she could hardly breathe. Painful knots in her stomach almost brought tears to her eyes, eyes blinded by bright flashing lights.
It wasn’t her father’s recklessness that hurt—many gentlemen made foolish wagers. It wasn’t the thought that Mr Drake would find her inadequate—she lacked everything an aristocratic gentleman required in a wife.
No.
Knowing her family had used her as a pawn in this game cut to the bone. No one cared for her feelings. She was a commodity to discard without thought. Oh, it was foolish to imagine her father might feel some affection for her—but the dream had shone in her breast like the night star, and now a black cloud had swallowed all hope.
“And if I refuse?” Juliet asked, mentally scrambling to maintain her composure.
The baron stared down his nose. “Then I must assume you lack the loyalty I require in a daughter. Your lack of gratitude for taking you in when your mother died will force me to throw you from this house into the gutter.” His ice-cold tone sliced through the air between them.
“I see.” Juliet ground her teeth together as tears surged to her eyes. But she would be damned before she would give Hannah the pleasure of seeing her cry.
As Juliet stood there, wringing her hands, watching these two strangers plot and scheme with her life, the thought of aligning herself with Devlin Drake didn’t seem quite so terrifying. Ambrose had been kind and sincere. And they were brothers after all.
And yet one look at Hannah’s beaming grin told Juliet there was fault in her logic.
“I doubt Drake will take you,” the baron continued. “Then again, if he suspects I hold you in high regard, he will accept the match.”
“Am I permitted to meet him before I am sold like meat at Smithfield Market?”
The baron’s gaze turned ominous. “Purely because I know you find the news distressing, I shall allow your disrespect to pass. You will accompany me today while I attempt to secure a licence.” He muttered something beneath his breath. “Though I shall have to put forward a compelling case if the archbishop is to deem you worthy of his consideration.”
Hannah snorted as she returned her china teacup to the saucer. “Drake won’t have her, so I don’t know why you’re going to so much trouble.”
Oddly, the thought that Mr Drake might turn her away roused a faint flicker of regret. This would be the one and only time she might marry, might have a family—children to shower with the same motherly love and devotion she had received as a child.
The stark reality of her situation hit her like a sharp slap. She was trapped in this house with two cold-hearted devils, and Mr Drake afforded the only opportunity for escape.
“I shall come with you, my lord,” Juliet said. In truth, she could not refuse, and she was eager to meet this odious beast. If only to sate her curiosity. “Should I find something more suitable to wear?”
The baron scanned the brown garment that did nothing to enhance her colouring. “Hannah will find you a dress.”
“For goodness’ sake.” Hannah huffed. “Look at her. Do you honestly think my expensive muslins will sit well on her dainty frame?”
Dainty? Hannah’s preferred words of choice were usually scrawny and gaunt.
The baron gave an indifferent wave. “Wear whatever you wish. We leave at twelve.” When Juliet failed to move, he added, “You are dismissed.”
Only when Juliet reached for the doorknob did she notice how violently her fingers shook.
“Oh, Juliet. Have Nora bring fresh tea, won’t you?” Hannah couldn’t resist barking one last order.
Juliet nodded, slipped out into the hall and closed the door behind her. She remained there for a moment, gathering her breath and her wits. Eventually, she found the strength of will to amble to the kitchen.
“Miss Bromfield is in need of more tea, Nora,” Juliet said in a monotone voice for she was still suffering from shock.
Nora frowned as she searched Juliet’s face. “What is it, miss? Don’t tell me Miss Bromfield has smashed the teapot again?”
“No, Nora. I fear the damage caused this time is far worse than that.”
The Bromfields had taken a knife to Juliet’s heart, had taken turns to slash and stab at the fragile organ. The robust fortifications had offered no protection. And now, all she could do was side with the devil and pray that Satan’s beast might bring her salvation.
Chapter Three
Devlin sat bolt upright in the leather wingback chair, his teeth clenched, his irate gaze fixed on the mantel clock. How long did it take to inform a lady she was to be married? How long did it take to convince the damn bishop of their urgent need to wed? He should have dealt with the matter personally, stomped over to the baron’s townhouse and demand he settle the debt immediately.
Devlin tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair, the solemn beat like that of a death knell. Whatever happened within the next few hours, death was the inevitable outcome. Should the baron fail to appear, he would pay the price for his daughter’s loose tongue and his own lack of honour. Should they arrive as planned, it meant the end of any hope Devlin had of ever making a love match.
A love match?
The idea was bloody ridiculous for a man of his size and gruff countenance. Even so, the thought of marrying Miss Bromfield made his stomach coil in revulsion.
God damn.
And to think he’d have to bed the spiteful witch. In all likelihood, he’d struggle to rise to the occasion.
The need to banish all thoughts of bedding such a cold and callous harlot forced Devlin from his fireside chair. He tugged the bell pull so hard plaster dust fell from the ceiling rose.
Mere moments later Copeland entered the study. It was the third time Devlin had called for the butler in the last half an hour.
“Well?” Devlin asked. “Have you any news?”
Copeland raised his chin. “Not at present, sir.” His indifferent expression bore no sign of frustration. “Your missive was delivered, but the boy is yet to return. And other than to address your immediate concerns, I have not moved from my post.”
Damnation.
Darkness would be upon them in a matter of hours. If the baron had procured a special licence, Devlin intended to leave for Blackwater immediately.
The rattle of carriage wheels drew his attention to the window. Four long strides—the benefit of being so tall—and he rounded the desk to peer out onto Wimpole Street.
The canary-yellow chariot rolled to a stop outside Devlin’s house. Only one man rode about town in such an ostentatious contraption—Bromfield. A servant dressed in garish yellow livery jumped down from his perch and hurried around to open the door and lower the steps.
Baron Bromfield descended. The lord surveyed the exterior of Devlin’s townhouse, his lips curling in contempt. The baron stepped aside, and the servant assisted Miss Bromfield to the pavement.
The sight of the golden-haired beauty sent bile shooting up to burn the back of Devlin’s throat.
Evidently, Miss Bromfield had inherited her father’s need for extravagance for she wore a ridiculous wide-brimmed bonnet dressed with three large ostrich feathers. Her midnight-blue pelisse flattered both her colouring and slender figure—and still, she was the most abhorrent woman he’d ever laid eyes on.
Devlin’s heart thumped hard in his chest—from anger, from the need to wipe the arrogant grin off Miss Bromfield’s face. Clearly the lady knew nothing of the wager else the baron would have dragged her from the conveyance, kicking and screaming.
Last of all, the lady’s maid clambered out of the chariot. The petite girl with red hair had a more pleasant countenance. Devlin pitied anyone forced to spend a second in Miss Bromfield’s company, let alone have to dress and pander to the spoilt chit.
“We have visitors, Copeland. Be sure to show them in, although there is no need to be polite.”
“Indeed, sir. I shall greet t
hem in a tone befitting a man of a much lower station.”
“Excellent.”
Devlin watched the scene from the window. The baron and his daughter strode up to the front door as if neither had a care in the world. The maid looked the most terrified of all. She stood gawking, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. She hugged her arms and shivered. Perhaps hearing her master talk of the hulking beast set to marry her mistress had sent her nerves skittering.
The baron barked an order, and the maid hurried to his side.
Devlin wasn’t sure where he wanted to sit. Eager to convey an air of authority, he chose the chair behind the desk. When Copeland escorted the illustrious guests into the study, Devlin was surprised the maid followed them in, too. Perhaps she came armed with the vinaigrette bottle ready to revive Miss Bromfield once she’d received the distressing news.
“No need for pleasantries,” the baron snapped when the butler opened his mouth to announce them. “Drake knows who we are.”
The muscles in Devlin’s stomach clenched. He couldn’t bear to look at Miss Bromfield, couldn’t bear to look at the baron and found himself staring at the maid instead. The woman held his gaze with a level of enquiry considered ill-mannered for a servant. A look few aristocratic women dared to bestow.
“That will be all, Copeland. Do not go to the trouble of arranging tea.” Devlin’s tone was as cold as the ice casing around his heart. “We hope to conclude our business quickly.”
This was nothing more than an arrangement, a task, a chore.
“May we at least take a seat?” The baron gestured to the two chairs facing the desk.
Devlin gave a curt nod.
Miss Bromfield made sitting seem like an art form. She examined the seat. With poise and an air of self-possession she straightened her back, gathered her skirts and lowered herself down gracefully. Her movements were so affected even the maid rolled her eyes.
The baron waited for his daughter to sit before taking the seat next to her.
The maid looked at them both, rolled her eyes again and stood stiff and rigid behind the baron’s chair.
“Am I to assume you have not broached the subject of our wager with your daughter?” Devlin did not need to glance at Miss Bromfield to know her grin stretched from ear to ear. Indeed, she put her gloved hand to her lips and tittered at the question.
“On the contrary,” the baron said with mild condescension. “My daughter is aware of her obligations and will consent to the match.”
Shocked, Devlin’s head shot to the venomous creature whose mind was riddled with poison.
“Yes, Mr Drake,” Miss Bromfield said in a high-pitched voice that grated. “We discussed the matter at length this morning.”
“And you’re happy with the arrangement?” Devlin stared at Miss Bromfield and tried to find something attractive in her countenance, something that might sweeten the deal, something that might make the next twenty years moderately bearable.
But alas, his search was in vain.
“Oh, I am more than happy with the turn of events.” Miss Bromfield smiled in the sly way that persuaded a man to sleep with one eye open.
This was not the reaction he envisioned while waiting patiently these last few hours. Wails and screams, yes. A tantrum to surpass all others, certainly. This sickly sweet sense of acceptance, most definitely not.
Devlin stared at her with a level of disdain he could not hide. Once at Blackwater, he would have his answers. What was the real reason Miss Bromfield ended her betrothal to his brother? Why had she invented the story of Ambrose’s fondness for men? What prompted his brother to wander Wimbledon Common in the dead of night? And what was so important about the letters she’d written that her father would demand access to Devlin’s home?
“Then I trust you had luck with the bishop,” Devlin said in an attempt to focus on the matter at hand.
The baron reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a tightly rolled scroll. “The archbishop refused to grant a special licence.” Bromfield leant forward and threw the document onto the desk.
Damnation.
“On what grounds?” Devlin snatched the paper.
“On the grounds that one applicant is of inferior birth,” the baron said haughtily.
Miss Bromfield sniggered.
Anger ignited in Devlin’s chest. “My bloodline is purer than yours. My grandfather was a viscount.” How dare the baron suggest a Drake was an inferior match for his serpent daughter.
“The bishop granted a common licence,” the baron said. “With some persuasion, I managed to make him see the urgency of the case.”
A brief flutter of relief filled Devlin’s chest—until he remembered whom he was marrying. “Then we will marry in the private chapel at Blackwater at ten in the morning.”
“So, you have been a resident in the parish for four weeks?” The baron stared down his nose. Would he use Devlin’s absence from Blackwater as an excuse to delay?
“Of course,” Devlin lied. “I’m certain the Reverend Fisher will confirm that to be the case.” The clergy rarely enforced the rules as long as there were no impediments to the marriage. Devlin unravelled the scroll. The blue tax stamp confirmed the document’s legitimacy. “Should we discuss the lady’s dowry, any portions or trusts set aside for children?”
Baron Bromfield cleared his throat. “There is no dowry. You won my daughter’s hand, nothing more.”
The comment drew Devlin’s attention away from the document. “A dowry is about protecting Miss Bromfield’s future as much as rewarding me for shouldering such a burden.” And what a crippling weight it was.
He waited for Miss Bromfield to gasp at the insult, to jump up from her chair and flick her forked tongue in warning. But she sat there demurely as if nothing he could say or do could unsettle her calm composure.
“Miss Bromfield has a sizeable dowry,” the baron informed with an arrogant grin. “However, Miss Duval does not.”
The maid put a trembling hand to her mouth and sucked in a breath.
Devlin surveyed the scene. It suddenly occurred to him that a man as cunning as the baron or a lady as devious as Miss Bromfield would come out fighting when backed into a corner.
“And who is Miss Duval?” Devlin asked though he had a suspicion he would not like the answer.
“My daughter.” The baron gestured to the petite girl behind him. “The lady whose hand you won at the gaming table.”
Devlin did not breathe, did not blink.
The baron had attacked his flank, and he had not seen the bastard coming.
Do not show any sign of weakness.
Do not give them the satisfaction.
Using every ounce of willpower he possessed, Devlin kept an impassive expression as he scanned the details of the document. His gaze lingered on the name Juliet Duval. Well, at least the bishop had recorded Blackwater as the place to solemnize the marriage.
Once confident he was not likely to dart across the desk and throttle the baron with his bare hands, Devlin looked up and met Miss Duval’s gaze. While she, too, tried to keep her chin high and shoulders square, he could see a wealth of pain hidden behind her vibrant green eyes.
How was he to protest without making the woman feel more worthless than she already did? It was clear from her dress, her name, the way she stood behind her family like the hired help, that the baron cared nothing for Miss Duval’s welfare.
Devlin exhaled slowly. “Miss Duval is your illegitimate daughter?” he attempted to clarify.
How the hell had he missed something so vital?
How was it society knew nothing about this lady?
The baron nodded. “The details of her birth are hardly worth mentioning. I have done more for the girl than most would expect under the circumstances. She received a reasonable education. Understands what it takes to run a large household.”
Miss Duval pursed her lips.
The longer Devlin sat opposite the arrogant lord, and the longer he had to listen
to Miss Bromfield’s mocking snorts and chuckles, the more the blood in his veins burned. His heart thumped against his ribcage. His hands throbbed with the need to inflict pain, to punish, to maim.
“One might argue that you deliberately deceived me when making the wager,” Devlin said evenly, though he wanted to rant and rave and rip the place apart. “Some might consider your deception enough to warrant a call for satisfaction.”
The baron shrugged. “You cannot hold me accountable for your lack of clarity. Should the gentleman who offered the wager not stipulate exactly what is at stake? You won the hand of my daughter, and I have come to pay the debt.”
“And you expect me to accept?”
God damn. He’d spent three years dreaming of Miss Bromfield’s demise. The only reason he’d settled on marriage was to make the lady’s life a misery and discover the truth about Ambrose.
“You are under no obligation to accept payment.” Baron Bromfield sat forward. “We can call the matter satisfied, and both agree that we were hasty in our decision to gamble. The slur against my daughter is offset by her inferior bloodline and lack of connections.”
Devlin was of a mind to agree.
He’d risk everything—his home, his reputation—if it meant marrying for love. But he had no need to shackle himself to the subdued creature hovering behind her father. No doubt when he rose from the chair, the sight of his large frame would terrify the girl.
But then something unexpected happened.
Miss Duval smiled at him and inclined her head. The look in her eyes spoke of compassion and understanding, and before Devlin knew what he was about, he said, “Before I make my decision may I have a moment alone with your daughter?”
The baron appeared surprised, almost as surprised as Devlin. “Certainly.”
Devlin pushed out of the leather chair and straightened to his full height. Miss Duval inhaled sharply as her gaze scanned the breadth of his chest and then climbed higher, higher still. A flash of fear replaced her brief look of shock.
