by Adele Clee
No doubt the rooms were just as dismal. But how was she to broach the subject of new furnishings when the chamber was like a shrine to Mr Drake’s beloved mother?
While Juliet had a multitude of questions regarding the running of the house, including a curiosity to examine the last three months’ accounts, she needed time alone to gather her thoughts.
“Thank you, Mrs Barbary. That will be all for now.” At all costs, she must shake this morose mood. “We will meet tomorrow and go over the menus for the next two weeks.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The housekeeper hovered for a moment. Perhaps she sensed Juliet’s unease, for she said in a more personable tone, “There’s a pleasant view of the gardens and the fountain from the window. The path leads down to the brook if you’re in the mind for a stroll. The mistress used to sit on the bench and read her correspondence.”
She didn’t want to hear any more talk of reading letters.
“Thank you.” Juliet forced a smile. “Perhaps I might go out tomorrow.” A walk would distract her mind and give her an opportunity to build a relationship with Rufus.
“I shall send Tilly up to you.” Mrs Barbary’s critical eye focused on the mud stains on Juliet’s pelisse. “She’ll attend to all your needs until you’re ready to take a maid of your own choosing.”
Juliet nodded. Only when the rattle of Mrs Barbary’s chatelaine faded into the distance did she breathe a relieved sigh. Her stomach twisted in painful knots, much like the first day she’d spent under her father’s roof, feeling overwhelmed and out of her depth. The desire to run had been stronger then. The desperate longing to feel her mother’s loving arms wrapped around her proved equally intense.
Wallowing in pity was a fool’s pastime, and so Juliet unbuttoned her pelisse, shrugged out of the garment and threw it onto the chair. Then she braced her hands on her hips and surveyed the room. A brighter colour was needed, pale yellow or gold, something to bring life to the mausoleum. A vase of dried flowers on the side table and a few lively paintings on the wall would improve the room immensely.
Feeling more optimistic, she wandered over to the washstand and poured water into the porcelain bowl. As she immersed her hands, her gaze fell to the black and gold wedding band. The choice of ring was as intriguing as the man who’d slipped it onto her finger and made a host of promises he couldn’t possibly keep.
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.
“You do not have to tread lightly around me, Juliet.” He glanced up and dismissed the footmen. “Say what you will and accept that I will do the same. That way, there can be no misunderstanding between us.”
Guilt flared. Honesty had its limits. How could she tell him she was sent to spy?
“Then I must ask you two questions.” She would ask the easiest question first. “Is it not a waste for the kitchen to prepare so much food when an army of men would struggle to eat such a quantity?”
He scanned the table and shrugged. “The staff know little of my current tastes and needs. And for a reason I am yet to fathom, they are too nervous to broach the subject. But I agree it is excessive.”
“Then I shall speak to Cook and Mrs Barbary in the morning and make alterations to the menu.”
His lips curled into a sinful smile as he raised his glass in salute before downing the contents. “And your second question?”
Juliet glanced at the wedding band gracing her finger. “Tell me about the ring. How is it you bought my exact size when I have unusually small fingers? When I was not your chosen bride?”
Mr Drake swallowed deeply. She saw the same look of surprise in his eyes as she did when he realised he’d bought a perfect fit.
“There is only one possible explanation, only one answer to your question, Juliet.”
“And what is that?”
“I was meant to marry you.”
Their gazes locked. The power of his words struck her heart. If he truly believed what he said, then there was hope for them yet.
“But I did not choose the ring,” he reminded her.
“No, your friend Mr Dariell did.”
“Indeed. Dariell has the gift of insight, the gift
of intuition. The man has a way of seeing the truth while those around him are oblivious. Don’t ask me how he knew of this odd turn of events. He simply insisted I make the purchase, despite the fact it is a rather unconventional design.”
Juliet held up her hand and admired the pretty pattern. “I think it’s the most enchanting thing I’ve ever seen. It conveys a certain mystique. It draws the eye and holds one captive, although I think that has something to do with how the glass petals sparkle in the light.”
Mr Drake cleared his throat. “They’re not glass. They’re diamonds.”
“Diamonds!” She could not contain her surprise. “Diamonds? All of them?”
“All of them.”
“Oh!”
Good Lord. It must have cost a king’s ransom.
“I would never permit my wife to wear cheap imitations.”
The sudden rush of excitement coursing through Juliet’s veins was tempered by the fact he would have given the ring to Hannah had their father not played his ace card.
“You would have had to tell my sister about the diamonds before you attempted to force the ring on her finger else she would never have agreed.”
Mr Drake opened his mouth to speak, paused for a second and then said, “I had no intention of giving Miss Bromfield that ring.”
“You didn’t?” Confused, Juliet shook her head and frowned. “But you purchased it for your wife.”
“And my wife is wearing it.”
Perhaps she had drunk too much wine. Perhaps the trials of the day made it impossible to form rational thoughts. “You are not making any sense,” she found the courage to say.
“The thought of giving your sister that ring filled me with loathing.” He shifted uncomfortably in the chair, hesitated before speaking again. “I purchased a plain band to use in its place.”
So why had he given it to her?
Why give the inferior choice such an expensive, such a breathtaking piece of jewellery? Regardless of his reason, she couldn’t help but feel flattered. But his answer raised another important question. Why make a wager in the first place when one was repelled by the prize?
“Dariell taught me to listen to my intuition,” her husband continued. “It felt right to give you the ring. The fact it fits confirms it was a wise decision.”
If the ring was meant for her, then there must be some higher force at play. The knowledge that fate would guide their way was like a reassuring arm around her shoulder.
“You mentioned meeting my brother,” Mr Drake said as he stood and performed the duties of the footman: moving the china bowls and serving a selection of food from the silver platters.
“Yes, I met him many times.”
“So you bore witness to his relationship with Miss Bromfield?”
“Indeed.” Whatever it was he wanted to know, these evasive tactics would not work. “What are you asking? If they loved one another? Because I can tell you the answer is no.”
Mr Drake took his seat at the head of the table. She was rather glad as it eased the pressure on her neck.
“You seem confident in your answer.”
“Hannah couldn’t possibly love anyone as much as she loves herself.” Loving someone meant making sacrifices, meant a willingness to compromise. “Had she loved your brother she would never have slandered his character, even if he did break her heart.”
His expression darkened. “And you know of the vile things she said, about his fondness for—” He stopped abruptly, a frown marring his brow. “Did you just say Ambrose broke her heart?”
Juliet nodded. “Hannah was most upset when your brother ended their betrothal.” She remembered the night clearly. The argument started in the garden, went on for an hour or more. It was the only time Hannah had ever cried herself to sleep. “Though I am the only person who knows the truth.”
Mr Drake sat forward, intrigue playing in his eyes. “But everyone believes Miss Bromfield was the one who decided they would not suit.”
“As a gentleman, perhaps your brother did not wish to cause her any embarrassment. Perhaps my father threatened him, insisted Ambrose do something to save her reputation. I don’t know.” A rumble in her stomach drew her gaze to the sumptuous meal before her. “Do you mind if we eat now?”
“Not at all.” Mr Drake glanced at her plate. “You will need your strength if you plan to train the hound.”
While Juliet slipped a piece of cold lamb into her mouth, Mr Drake sat in an odd meditative silence, the tips of his steepled fingers touching his lips.
“Were you party to their private conversations when Ambrose came to call?” he suddenly said in the suspicious tone one might expect from a barrister attending in the Old Bailey. “Do you know why my brother decided against marrying Miss Bromfield?”
Something about his brother’s death troubled him deeply. It went beyond grief. Was it that he had been absent in his brother’s time of need? Was it the vile things people said? Did Mr Drake feel it necessary to try to salvage his brother’s ruined reputation?
For now, she would answer his questions. But she needed to conduct a more in-depth enquiry.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. I remember hearing various snippets of their conversation but you can hardly expect me to recall them three years later.” Juliet drew on the few mental pictures stored in her mind. “But theirs was a volatile relationship.”
“Volatile? How so?”
Juliet’s cheeks grew hot. She could hardly tell him that she spied on them, that at times she was a little envious of the romantic connection they shared. She could hardly tell him Hannah had slapped Ambrose’s face so hard it had left an angry red welt.
“Oh, they would kiss with a passion that would affect anyone who saw them. It is why I find it difficult to believe your brother had a distaste for women.”
“Trust me. Ambrose was not interested in men.”
“No. I am inclined to agree.”
A relieved sigh breezed from his lips. “Passion can be all-consuming.” His obsidian eyes roamed over her face. “It can rob a man of all logical thought.”
“Only a man?” The odd stirring in her breast when he slipped the ring on her finger suggested otherwise.
“I am sure women possess the same propensity for lust.” He watched her as he brought the glass of claret to his mouth, sipped the wine and licked the burgundy residue from his lips.
The air thrummed with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. She imagined him kissing her, touching her, believed she might actually come to enjoy the experience.
“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.
