A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords Book 2)

by Adele Clee

  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.

  Part of him wanted to capture her in his arms and make her his own—a woman with such a huge heart would easily learn to love. Part of him wanted to distance himself. The thought of hurting her, of hearing the cruel taunts he’d endured as a younger man proved too much to bear. And so he stayed away.

  Three days passed, three long, restless nights.

  Valentine’s arrival distracted Devlin from his troubles.

  “Forgive me for mentioning the obvious,” Valentine said as he lounged in a chair in the drawing room. “But there appears to be a major flaw in your plan.”

  Devlin settled his long frame into the adjacent seat. He glanced out of the window at the delightful figure of Juliet racing about the manicured lawn. “And what flaw would that be?” he said, teasing his friend.

  “That the lady dancing with your dog is not the dreaded Miss Bromfield.” Valentine pushed his hand through his mop of golden hair. It was a gesture that often left the ladies breathless. “In your haste to settle the wager you’ve married the wrong woman.”

  “Juliet is not dancing with Rufus. She’s training him.”

  Devlin couldn’t help but smile at the comical sight. Every day beginning at noon, Juliet took the dog through a specific set of tasks, rewarding him for his obedience, returning him to the stables when he failed to obey her commands. Still, even though she wore her cloak, it was too cold to stay outdoors for long periods, and he made a mental note to caution her on the effects of the inclement weather.

  “It may have been some time since I graced a ballroom,” Valentine said in his usual suave, sophisticated voice, “but the dog has his paws on her shoulders while she twirls him about the garden. Is that not dancing?”

  “It’s a sign of affection. Rufus likes her. What can I say?”

  Valentine chuckled. “Rufus isn’t the only one salivating. It seems his master is also quite taken with the petite beauty. You’ve barely dragged your gaze from the window since we sat down.”

  To say Devlin’s wife fascinated him was an understatement. She might be small in stature, but her presence dominated the corridors of the dusty old house. He’d lost count of the times he’d hidden in the study only to hear the sweet melodic tones of a country tune echoing through the halls. Her animated conversation at dinner each evening held him fixated. And when she smiled, his stomach shot to his mouth.

  “So,” Valentine continued, “are you going to tell me what the hell happened after we parted company at Brooks’?”

  “Must I?”

  “Yes, if you have any hope of getting rid of me.”

  No man wanted to admit to being duped, but Devlin explained how the baron had tricked him, how he’d married the illegitimate daughter in the hope of still ruining the legitimate one. And yet that wasn’t the whole truth. The more time he spent with Juliet, the more he believed he’d been snared by an enchantress.

  Valentine narrowed his gaze. “And it did not occur to you that there are other ways of seeking vengeance on Miss Bromfield without marrying the poor relative?”

  “Not at the time, no.”

  “And do you regret your hasty and somewhat reckless decision?” With sharp eyes, Valentine studied Devlin intently.

  “No, I cannot say that I do.” He never lied to his close friends.

  The corners of Valentine’s mouth curled into a wicked grin. “Then she must be remarkable in the bedchamber for it is rare to see you so enamoured with a woman.”

  Devlin glanced out of the window for the umpteenth time. Juliet had managed to get the dog to lie down. Her beaming smile broke through his hard demeanour to touch his heart.

  “I wouldn’t know as I’ve not had the pleasure,” Devlin said, relishing the sudden look of shock on Valentine’s face.

  Valentine’s jaw dropped. “You’ve been married for four days, and you have not bedded your wife? Do you have a problem in that regard? For if you do, there is a shop on Jermyn Street—”

  “God’s teeth, Valentine, everything works exactly as it ought.”

  “Then why the hell have you waited?”

  It was difficult to explain without sounding like a smitten fool.

  “Because when I do enjoy her company, it will be because she desires me. Once we consummate the marriage, she is tied to me indefinitely, and I would rather know she wants to stay with me of her own volition.” Despite all protestations to the contrary, was he still hoping to find love?

  Valentine chuckled when he stared out of the window to see Juliet kiss Rufus on the nose. “I cannot see her leaving here. Not when she is hopelessly in love with your dog.”

  “It seems she has skill for controlling beasts.” Devlin suspected he, too, might do her bidding for such a handsome reward.

  Valentine, being a highly intelligent man, one proficient in hearing the unspoken, gave a curious hum. “And yet I cannot help but sense fear plays a part in your problem.”

  Damnation.

  As one of Devlin’s closest friends, Valentine knew his hopes and dreams, knew of his minor insecurities, his weaknesses and doubts.

  “I’ll not bed a woman who shows the slightest sign of fear,” Devlin reiterated. “You know that.” He hauled himself from the chair over to the row of decanters on the side table. “Brandy?”

  “Need you ask? But you are attempting to steer me off topic.” Valentine raised a brow. “I am not speaking about your wife’s fear. I am speaking about yours. What could a man with your strength and power possibly be scared of, Drake?”

  After filling two crystal tumblers, Devlin returned to thrust one at Valentine. His friend accepted the drink, but his mocking smile only made Devlin restless. He couldn’t sit still in the chair for it offered a perfect view of his delectable wife playing games with Rufus. Juliet looked so happy, so carefree, not as nervous as she was in his company.

  “Well?” Valentine continued. “Are you going to ignore my comment?”

  Valentine possessed a persuasive charm one could not ignore.

  “What is it you want me to say? That I’m scared of hurting her? You know damn well that’s the case. You can see how small and fragile she is.”

  “Good God, you speak as if your wife were a child.” For a man who displayed cool indifference for most things, Valentine surprised him by raising his voice. “She’s a grown woman. Anyone can see that.”

  Jealousy stabbed Devlin’s heart. Valentine only had to look at a woman and she was panting. “You’ve had the gall to peruse my wife’s assets?”

  “What virile man does not admire the female form?” Valentine was taunting hi
m, seeking a reaction, out to prove a point.

  “Then you would have had to look hard to notice anything in that unflattering dress.”

  A wicked glint flashed in Valentine’s bright blue eyes. “I’m a master at most things, Drake, you know that. I have an immense ability to use my imagination, though I do believe that in paying your wife a compliment I have struck a nerve.”

  “Perhaps you should worry about your own affairs. Did you not come home to convince Lady Durrant that you’re a man capable of commitment?”

  A look of uncertainty passed across Valentine’s face, but he soon replaced his mask of indifference. “I gave her a reason to doubt me once before, and she married someone else. Now the lady is widowed, I have no intention of making the same mistake.”

  “And you believe her lack of loyalty provides a solid foundation to forge a relationship?”

  Sometimes, when it came to women, intelligent men failed to see the flaw in their logic. Yes, Valentine needed a strong woman who refused to pander to his whims. Someone his equal in intelligence and mental agility. The last thing he needed was a woman who manipulated men and played the coquette.

  Valentine needed someone unlike any other woman he had ever met—a bluestocking with the seductive wiles of a courtesan. If such a lady did indeed exist.

  Just thinking about unique women drew Devlin’s gaze back to the window. His heart sank when he found no sign of Juliet or Rufus on the lawn. The urge to hunt them down, to join them in mindless frivolity took hold. He wanted to smile, to laugh, to love, to feel something other than bitterness.

  “Five years ago, I left Lady Durrant no choice but to seek a husband elsewhere.” Valentine swallowed the remains of his brandy and snorted. “But it seems I am not alone in seeking the lady’s affection. A Mr Kendall is eager to pursue her hand, and the lady is taking full advantage of the situation.” Valentine shook his head, the indolent wave that followed suggesting an end to that particular conversation. “It is of no consequence. I came to see how you were faring with the vicious harlot. I came to offer my support, only to find you married a kind-hearted beauty instead.”

  Devlin contemplated the bizarre turn of events. “Perhaps we all thought we knew what we wanted when we decided to come home. But perhaps we’re not being true to ourselves and fate has intervened.”

  “It is not like you to offer such a philosophical appraisal,” Valentine said with a chuckle. He proffered his empty glass to prompt Devlin for a refill.

  “No. I find I am not myself of late.” Devlin’s gaze flitted back to the window. It was not like him to lose focus when he’d set his mind on a task. It was not like him to pine after a woman, either.

  Chapter Eight

  “Don’t you ever grow tired?” Juliet patted Rufus’ head as they stopped to rest on the stone bridge. Rufus sat obediently at her side, his long tongue lolling as he panted for breath, and she couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction at her accomplishment.

  And yet part of her wished she would fail in her mission to tame the hound. The desire to learn what Devlin Drake would ask for should he win the wager burned in her chest.

  Was it wrong to hope he might dare ask to spend the night in her bed?

  For three nights she had sat with him at dinner. They’d spoken about the theatre, about his lengthy travels abroad, and she had barely been able to contain her excitement when he described the exotic food, the strange languages, the stifling heat. Whenever it was her turn to speak, his obsidian eyes devoured every inch of her face and body until she was so hot she almost believed she might be thousands of miles away in India.

  During the hours spent in conversation, she felt his equal in every regard. She forgot about the difference in size, forgot about her inferior bloodline, forgot that they had somehow felt obliged to marry.

  He had been watching her today as she played on the lawn with Rufus. Her awareness of him grew more acute by the day. Her need to bring comfort, to ease the tiredness that lingered in his eyes grew with each new day, too.

  Rufus’ whine brought Juliet’s thoughts back to the present.

  “What is it now? Have I not given you enough attention?” Juliet tickled the spot beneath the hound’s ear, and his eyes flickered closed in response. “If only your master reacted to me so easily.”

  If only she had the skill to tame the mysterious man who proved elusive after dark.

  Rufus stood and nudged her leg with his head whenever her attention waned.

  Two earth-trembling barks and she knew the dog needed to spend his insatiable energy.

  “Come on. We could run from Land’s End to John o’ Groats, and still, you’d want more.” Juliet wrapped her cloak more firmly around her shoulders and broke into a jog while Rufus galloped on ahead. “I shall certainly sleep well tonight.” At least then she wouldn’t feel quite so inadequate when her husband failed to come to her bed.

  As they crossed the field that ran parallel to the boundary wall, Juliet wondered if Mr Drake regretted his decision to marry. Perhaps the thought of siring an heir with a woman who society deemed inferior was part of the problem.

  But he had been tempted to knock on her door.

  Only last night, she heard his heavy footsteps pace the landing before coming to a sudden stop outside her bedchamber. For one long, drawn-out minute Juliet had waited for the turn of the doorknob. But her wait was in vain.

  Clearly he was determined to probe her mind about his brother’s relationship with Hannah, but the conversation always left him in a sullen mood, and she had started to avoid mentioning her devious sister.

  The clip of horse’s hooves on the lane beyond the low stone wall captured her attention. Juliet stopped to catch her breath. At first, she wondered if it might be Lord Valentine returning to London. Mr Drake’s friend was an incredibly handsome man, although not to her tastes. He was more angel than devil, and she had developed a sudden fondness for the dark, brooding type.

  The horse trotted past, though the rider did not raise his hat, did not even glance in her direction. Miserable blighter. And she’d heard country folk were far friendlier than those in town. Then again, with Mr Drake’s commanding countenance there was no telling who he’d upset.

  Pushing the thought from her mind, Juliet found a stick, called Rufus to her side and then threw it as far as she could manage. The hound bounded off to retrieve it, but rather than return with his prize, he charged into the distance.

  “Rufus! Come back here.” Juliet braced her hands on her hips as the animal bolted towards a small cluster of trees. “Damn that daft dog. Rufus!”

  She was so preoccupied calling Rufus, that she failed to hear the pad of footsteps behind her until it was too late. Juliet swung around, shocked to come face-to-face with the gentleman who had passed by on the horse.

  “Heavens, you scared me out of my wits.” The tremble in her voice supported her claim, as did her racing heart. Anyone capable of trespass was someone to be feared.

  “I was told you’d be expecting me.” The man looked not the slightest bit familiar. His accent bore the coarse tones of someone who hailed south of the Thames. Beneath his greatcoat, his clothes looked to be of reasonable quality, though not the expert tailoring that might mark him a gentleman. “Why else would you be alone and so far from the house?”

  Juliet’s throat grew tight. “Who are you, and what do you want?” She managed to keep her voice even while silently wishing Rufus was at her side.

  “I come at Lord Bromfield’s behest. On account that I work for Mr Middle, his man of business.”

  “Oh, I see.” Juliet felt a little more at ease knowing who had sent him, although when her father said he expected to see results in three days, she didn’t think he meant it. “I imagine he wishes to learn of my progress concerning the matter of spying.”

  “I’ve been sent to retrieve the letters. To take back any you’ve found.”

  “Then you have had a wasted journey, Mr …”

  �
�Biggs.”

  While Mr Biggs was nowhere near as tall as Devlin Drake, he looked down on her with the same air of condescension as her father.

  “I have searched the house numerous times,” she lied, “and have found nothing of interest.”

  For a second, Mr Biggs looked appeased, but then the menacing glint in his eyes suggested otherwise. He gritted his teeth and scowled, grabbed her by the elbow so tightly a stabbing pain shot up her arm.

  “You’ll find those damn letters no matter what the cost.” Mr Biggs shook her roughly. Letters? So she was looking for more than one. “And I’m here to make sure you do.”

  “Ow! You’re hurting me.” Juliet tried to tug her arm free, but Mr Biggs held her in a vice-like grip. “I shall be certain to tell my father of your violent treatment.”

  Mr Biggs sneered. “It was your father who instructed me to beat you. I’m to make sure you understand your responsibilities to your family.”

  “Beat me?” The pain in her elbow shot to her heart. Why was she so surprised? Hannah’s reputation came before anything. “What? And rouse my husband’s suspicion? I think not.”

  The comment did not deter the villain. With his free hand, he pinched her chin and pulled her face so close to his she caught a whiff of his rancid breath.

  “You don’t want me to mar that pretty face of yours. Else you’d have to tell your husband about your plan to steal private letters from his household.”

  Your honesty is perhaps your greatest asset.

  Devlin Drake’s words invaded her mind.

  Despite their utter unsuitability, he valued her integrity. Perhaps it was time to tell him the truth, explain her father was equally obsessed about Hannah’s involvement with Ambrose. Oh, all this angst, all these lies, and all because Hannah had written something slanderous in her missives.

  “Perhaps I will tell my husband,” Juliet countered. It was the only thing her conscience would allow. “I can assure you he will seek revenge should anything untoward happen to me.”