by Adele Clee
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.”
“Oh, no.” She waved her hands at him. “Please do not go to any trouble on my account.”
“Then allow me to go to the trouble for my own sake.” He’d not have his wife walking about looking like the hired help. “You’ll need various dresses, gowns, nightclothes—”
“Nightclothes? But I never wear—” She stopped abruptly, and her cheeks flushed berry-red.
“Never wear what?” Devlin asked despite knowing exactly what she was about to say. “Nightclothes?” His pulse raced at the thought. “Not even in the dead of winter?”
“I hate to feel encumbered,” she said though could not look him in the eye. “And I should tell you now that I do not ride or dance, so there is no need to go to extra expense.”
An image of her assisting the maids in the scullery flashed into his mind. While Juliet lived in the shadows, her sister rode in the park during the fashionable hour, danced in silk gowns, wore diamonds at her throat.
“Then I shall teach you to do both.” He had always been one to root for the less fortunate. “There is nothing like riding to get the blood pumping.” How easy it would be for this conversation to turn salacious.
“Oh, no.” Juliet swallowed. “I fail to see how someone so small might command such a large beast.”
“Are you referring to your husband or the horse?” he said, unable to resist teasing her.
Juliet’s eyes widened. “You are not a beast. You’re just … just a rather large man.”
They stared at each other for a moment until a deep, powerful bark and the sound of crunching gravel drew a muttered curse from his lips.
“Damnation,” Devlin said, glancing over her shoulder. “Do not be afraid.”
Juliet jerked her head back. “I’m not afraid of you, Mr Drake. I find your size a tad unnerving but—”
“I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about my dog.” Devlin caught sight of the monstrous animal bounding towards them. “I suggest you turn around. Do it slowly else you might end up in a heap on the floor.”
Juliet turned to witness the hound’s approach. Her eyes grew wide, and her chin hit her chest. “Good Lord!” She stumbled back, her outstretched arms grasping for something stable to help keep her upright. “That’s not a dog. That’s a … that’s a …”
“Beast?” Devlin wrapped his arm around her shoulder and drew her close to his side. “He’s harmless. I can assure you.”
“To you perhaps. Forgive me for being somewhat apprehensive when a dog is tall enough to look me in the eye.”
“Rufus, stay.” Devlin raised his hand in command, but the black hound galloped towards them, ears flapping, eager to meet his new friend. “Rufus!”
In a panic, Juliet shuffled behind Devlin. She clutched the back of his coat as the dog charged at them. The athletic animal jumped up and almost took Devlin clean off his feet.
“There’s a boy.” Devlin stroked the dog’s ears and then tried to force the muscular creature back onto all fours. “Now sit so you may meet your new mistress. Rufus, sit.”
Rufus climbed down but was more interested in what his master was hiding behind his back. He bounded behind Devlin, leapt and bounced on his hind legs in a bid to get closer to Juliet.
“Arghh, get down, Rufus.” Juliet gasped as she released Devlin’s coat. “Rufus. Good heavens. No. Stop it. That’s enough.”
Devlin swung around to offer his assistance and had to purse his lips at the comical sight.
Rufus stood on his back legs, his front paws draped over Juliet’s shoulders as she struggled under the strain. She winced as he licked her face, and then pulled her head back to prevent him from repeating the friendly gesture.
“Rufus!” Devlin shouted in the harsh voice that made men quiver. But the dog had been without his master for five years and struggled to follow commands. “Let me help you.”
“No, wait.” Juliet wrapped her arms around the dog’s chest, stroked and tickled his back affectionately. “If he thinks I need you to fight my battles, he’ll jump at me every time he wants your attention.”
The lady might be slight of frame, but she had a backbone of steel.
He liked that.
The dog slobbered over her, left mud stains on her blue pelisse. She looked up at Rufus—whose head was twice the size of hers—stared him in the eye and said in a firm but kind voice, “Get down, you daft dog, so I may stroke you some more.”
Surprisingly, the hound obeyed.
Juliet continued to pet the dog and mutter words of endearment. She turned to Devlin. “Now, this is a beast.”
“A beast you have managed to tame within minutes.” Devlin wasn’t surprised. There was a sweetness to her character, a quality that spoke of love and loyalty—the only things that mattered. “No doubt you’ll be riding my Arabian stallion before the week is out.”
The thought that this lady might possess the ability to command and conquer him, too, sent the hairs at his nape prickling to attention. His pulse soared, so much so that he became aware of his heartbeat thumping hard in his chest.
His wife of almost an hour had already touched him in ways no other woman ever had, or could. She had made him laugh twice—a rare feat in itself—had surprised him with her courage. The desire to hold her in his arms grew. The need to protect her, to make her smile, to be the best version of himself pushed to the fore.
Bloody hell!
Something told him theirs would not be a simple marriage of convenience.
“We should retire for a few hours,” he said, but then realised he sounded like an eager husband desperate to bed his wife. “No doubt you would care to spend time in your chamber, familiarise yourself with the staff and the house. And I have a few business matters that need my attention.”
Business matters? On his damn wedding day?
Juliet’s hand came to rest on Rufus’ head. Disappointment flashed briefly across her face. “Oh, you want to be alone.”
No, for once in his life he didn’t. Juliet was easy to talk to, pleasant to be around, entertaining company. But he could not lose sight of why he’d married her, and it would take time to grow accustomed to having a woman about the place. “We will dine together this evening.”
“Of course. Your time is precious. I understand.” His stomach tightened when her green eyes dulled. “And you’re right. I have work to do and must learn all I can about running a house of this magnitude.”
Guilt flared.
It didn’t help that Rufus whined and stared at him with the same sad eyes and forlorn expression.
“Remember that you are mistress of the house, not a servant.” Having spent years in servitude to her father, it would take some time for her to grow accustomed to
her new position.
Juliet forced a smile. “Should I feel the need to make any changes, would you like me to seek your approval?”
Devlin shook his head. “As long as loin of peacock remains off the menu, I shall have no complaints.”
She fell silent and the knot in his stomach wrung tight again.
The crunching of gravel underfoot drew their attention to the brick archway to their left. A stable hand appeared. The boy, Jack, clung on to his hat and broke into a jog when he spotted Rufus sitting beneath the portico. “Beg yer pardon, Mr Drake sir,” he said in a state of mild agitation. “Rufus was sittin’ inside the stables one minute an’ gone the next.”
“Rufus was eager to meet his new mistress.”
The boy inclined his head to Juliet. “I’ll take him, ma’am, though that’s the first time he’s sat still all day.”
Juliet patted Rufus’ head. “And does Rufus live in the stables permanently?” she said, locking eyes with the hound.
Devlin considered the look of affection in Juliet’s eyes and couldn’t help but feel a tinge of jealousy. Never had he felt threatened by a rival, let alone a damn dog. “He is not coming into the house if that is what you’re about to suggest.”
“I wouldn’t dream of bringing him inside.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Not until he is fully trained.”
“Trained? You think you can tame that wild beast?” Devlin had to admire her enthusiasm.
Not wanting his staff to be party to their private conversation, Devlin dismissed Jack. The only way the boy could get the dog to follow him was to tap him on the nose and then run away. Rufus bolted, caught up with the boy on the lawn and brought him to the ground.
“You see,” Devlin said, finding the whole scene amusing. “Rufus only sat still because you showered him with affection.” Hell, Devlin would lie on the chaise all day if she stroked his hair with the same devotion.
“Perhaps,” she said, raising a coy brow. “But I won’t know if he can behave unless I try to teach him to be submissive.”
“It will be a waste of time and effort. He’s been alone for too long and cannot obey the simplest commands.”
Juliet pursed her lips. “So he is the only dog of that size you own?”
“Indeed.”
“I see.” The corners of her mouth curled up into a sweet, innocent smile, yet those hypnotic green eyes sparkled with mischief. He liked that, too. It seemed there were many things he liked about his wife. “Well, you’re a man who likes to gamble. Would you care to make a wager?”
Devlin folded his arms across his chest. “A wager? That depends on the stakes.”
Her gaze lingered on the expanse of muscle in his upper arms. “Should I fail to train Rufus sufficiently enough that he may spend a considerable amount of time indoors, you may ask anything of me and I shall grant your request.”
A host of possibilities raced through Devlin’s mind. Sabotaging her efforts in order to ask questions about Ambrose was not his first thought. Neither was asking her about her father’s cryptic message.
No.
He wanted to teach her to ride, to dance, wanted to lounge on the bed and watch her bathe. He wanted a kiss, a caress, to bed her in the hope the goodness filling her heart might cure him of the bitterness plaguing his own beating organ.
“You won’t win,” he said, feeling another frisson of guilt that this charming lady had curtailed the need to avenge his brother. “I tend to succeed in most things I put my mind to.”
“And yet while you won your last bet, did you not come away with the second prize?”
Devlin wasn’t entirely sure what to say to that. “Not when I judge integrity to be a most valuable asset. In that regard, every lady in London trails miserably behind you.”
Damn. He despised men who spouted sentiment to win favour, but it was the truth.
Her porcelain cheeks flushed pink again. “What better compliment could a lady have on her wedding day?”
Her words carried no hint of sarcasm. Still, it occurred to him that he’d not told her she looked beautiful. To do so would sound insincere when they both knew that was not the reason he’d married her. “You should know that I rarely express my good opinion.”
“Then you do me a great honour.”
Their eyes locked and the air between them crackled to life.
Had he married Miss Bromfield, he would have deposited her in her chamber within minutes of returning to the house. The next few hours would be spent plotting all the ways he might make her rue the day she spoke so cruelly of Ambrose.
But he had married this petite creature with her broad smile and beguiling eyes. For some obscure reason, the thought of hurting her made his stomach coil in revulsion. For his sanity, he should put some distance between them, make it clear theirs was a marriage of convenience. He should focus on discovering what the hell had happened to Ambrose.
Which was why he surprised himself when he said, “Then I agree to your wager and shall think long and hard about how you might reward me when I win.”
She must have noted the salacious tone in his voice—one he failed to suppress—for her gaze fell to his lips. And then he saw the one thing in her eyes he dreaded most—the flicker of fear that told him he was wrong to assume his size didn’t matter. Wrong to assume her courage knew no bounds. They were mismatched, unsuited, odd.
Juliet swallowed deeply. She opened her mouth, but he did not give her a chance to speak.
“Well, we cannot stand conversing under the portico all day.” His voice carried his frustration. “I have matters to attend to and shall see you this evening at dinner.”
“Of course,” she said but did not present him with one of her wide, beaming smiles. “Will you at least introduce me to your housekeeper before you retire to the study?”
Devlin inclined his head. No doubt his staff were lined in the hall waiting to greet their new mistress. “Mrs Barbary is eager to meet you.”
He chose not to tell Juliet that she should expect some hostility as he did not want to worry her unduly. But Mrs Barbary had served his family for fifty years, had come to the house as a girl of twelve, had cared for Ambrose like a son and blamed the Bromfields for his demise.
“Should you encounter any problems with the staff then you may seek me out.” Devlin continued, hoping she would learn to embrace her new role.
“There will be no problems,” she said, and though she straightened her back and lifted her chin, he could hear the nervous edge in her voice. “If there’s one thing I do know, it’s how to deal with unreasonable people.”
Chapter Six
“And the household linens? Have you inspected them this month?” Juliet said in a firm but friendly tone as Mrs Barbary gave her a tour of the house.
Within minutes of meeting the staff, it soon became apparent that the housekeeper was not a woman who welcomed interference from the mistress. Aware of the lengthy time Mr Drake had spent abroad, Juliet decided that Mrs Barbary had been left to her own devices for far too long, and that was perhaps the reason for her reluctance to disclose any information relating to the running of the house.
“When the master is in residence, I inspect the linens on Fridays,” Mrs Barbary said, her pinched face and thin lips suggesting suppressed annoyance.
The housekeeper stood a foot taller than Juliet—as most people did. Clearly the woman knew of Juliet’s inferior birth else she would not speak with such veiled disdain.
“And when he is not in residence?”
Mrs Barbary looked down her pointed nose. “I inspect them once a quarter.”
“Then I ask that you take a full inventory and we will discuss the matter tomorrow.” The last thing Juliet wanted was to cause animosity, but she had to make a stand. She had to show she was capable of holding her position.
“Yes, Mrs Drake.”
Juliet’s stomach performed a flip at the sound of her married name. A dark, brooding image of
her husband invaded her mind. For some inexplicable reason she felt drawn to him, craved spending time in his company, even though there were plenty of reasons she should be frightened.
Devlin Drake was too tall, too broad, too strong. His countenance screamed of virile masculinity. And those eyes—heavens above—they were like dangerous pools with fathomless depths. When the sun’s rays caught the black irises, they turned an inviting chocolate brown. When he smiled and laughed, they grew warmer still.
“And these are your apartments.” Mrs Barbary’s words drew Juliet from her musings. The servant stood in the gloomy corridor and gestured to the chamber door. “All the rooms are exactly as they were when the mistress was alive.” The housekeeper’s mouth twitched in a half-smile of admiration. “Now, there was a lady of high standards and unshakable integrity.”
The indirect insult did not go amiss.
Nor had the earlier comment about there being no need to unlock the music room door.
“Then I hope to prove myself a worthy replacement as mistress of Blackwater.”
Mrs Barbary pursed her lips and gave a curt nod. She opened the chamber door and stood back for Juliet to enter.
Like all the rooms in Blackwater, the bedchamber was a gloomy, oppressive place. The panelled walls, the faded tapestries, the green velvet bed hangings made the space feel sombre and morbid.
Juliet’s heart sank.
It was as if a solemn presence lingered within the walls, one eager to invade her spirits, to suck every drop of hope and happiness she possessed, leaving a shrivelled wreck. A sense of melancholy gripped her, ready to drag her down into the depths of despair.
She had married a man who’d left her alone on her wedding day, in a strange house with servants who obviously disapproved of the match. Never had she felt so lonely, not even in her father’s home. Now she knew why a lady took her own maid when she married. A familiar face would be a welcome distraction.
“What with the sudden news of your wedding, there’s been no time to air the place properly.” Mrs Barbary moved to the window and pulled back the curtains. “There’s a dressing room through there,” she continued, pointing to another door. “And a sitting room where the mistress used to take her breakfast and write her letters.”
