by Adele Clee
“My butler will attend you in my absence, and you will both remain here while I speak to Miss Duval.” Devlin had no intention of leaving the Bromfields alone with his private papers. He turned to Miss Duval. “I trust you are happy to accompany me out into the garden?” Outside, they were in no danger of anyone hearing their conversation.
Miss Duval nodded. “Indeed.”
“Very well.” Devlin rang for Copeland. He gave the butler strict instructions not to leave the study and then escorted Miss Duval into the drawing room and out through the terrace doors. “Would you care to sit? There’s a stone bench at the end of the path, or we may walk if you prefer.”
She craned her neck and looked up at him. “For fear of causing myself a permanent injury, I think it is best we sit.”
Her voice breezed over him, soft and sweet. Her elocution was faultless, held not a trace of artifice, unlike her sister’s. And she seemed less timid than she had in the study.
“Some find my size somewhat overpowering.” It was a polite way of saying people thought him a beast.
“I imagine they do,” she said, and he found he appreciated her honesty. “While being rather small in stature myself, some think they may ride roughshod over me. My father included.”
That had nothing to do with her height and everything to do with the character of the man determined to use her as a pawn.
Devlin led Miss Duval along the gravel path. They walked in silence. He wasn’t sure why he’d asked her to step outside, wasn’t sure how to phrase his objection without causing offence.
“So, you live with the baron?” he said as they arrived at the bench. He brushed the dead leaves onto the ground and waited for her to sit before dropping into the space next to her.
“I have lived with him ever since my mother died six years ago.”
“And your mother was—”
“An actress, sir.”
“Of course.”
Good Lord, he felt like a giant seated beside her. She seemed so small and fragile as if she might break were he to hold her too close, too tightly. Not that he would be holding her at all.
“One cannot help but notice that there is a distinct lack of affection between you and your family, Miss Duval.” Society treated illegitimate children like an inferior breed.
She clasped her tiny hands in her lap. “I’m an inconvenience to them, sir, and I fear my sister is jealous of anyone who might steal her thunder.”
Again, the truth fell from her lips with ease.
Devlin resisted the urge to call her sister a malicious crone.
A tense silence ensued.
“Do you want to marry me, Miss Duval?” It was a ridiculous question. Clearly she was at her father’s beck and call. “Before you answer, know that I require honesty in this matter.” Devlin’s harsh tone carried the frustration of having been outwitted by the pompous baron.
She glanced up at him and for a moment said nothing. Her vibrant green gaze drifted over his face, settling on the grim downward turn of his mouth that he knew made his dark features appear more menacing.
“If you want the truth, sir, I would do anything to escape spending another night with those who have the gall to call me family.” She sighed. “But they tricked you, and it is clear we are unsuited. I fully understand your reasons for withdrawing your claim.”
Did she?
Did she think her inferior status was reason enough for him to retreat? He was not a preened lord of the ton who lived and breathed for his mama’s good opinion. Why would he permit a horde of gossipmongers to control his life or his destiny?
“What makes you think we are unsuited?”
Miss Duval arched a brow. “You mean besides my illegitimacy and the fact you’re twice my size?” she said with a faint hint of amusement.
“Twice your size when standing. Seated here, it is not so obvious.”
“No,” she agreed. “It is not.”
“Do I frighten you?”
“A little.”
“Only a little?” Less than most, then.
Once again she fell silent.
“I met your brother, Ambrose, numerous times,” she suddenly said, and the mere mention of his brother made Devlin’s heart pound hard in his chest. “I found him to be a most kind and generous gentleman. You have the same dark hair, though his eyes were lighter if I remember correctly.”
“They were hazel. Mine are almost black.”
“Yes.”
Devlin clenched his jaw. What the hell was he doing outside with Miss Duval when it was his need to punish Miss Bromfield that led him to make the wager?
“Are you aware of the vicious things your sister has said about my brother?” After death, a man’s reputation was his legacy. Miss Bromfield had destroyed that which mattered most to Ambrose. The one thing he strived to protect.
“Yes, sir, and I find it despicable.” Her hand fluttered to her chest, and she grew breathless. “Forgive me,” she said in a mild panic. “I meant only that I find my sister’s behaviour despicable and do not believe her lies for a second.”
Intrigued by the comment, Devlin turned to face her fully. “You are aware of Miss Bromfield’s devious traits?”
The words left his lips, but his mind became engaged in counting the tiny freckles on Miss Duval’s nose. Her lips were rosebud pink, her eyes a penetrating jade green. There was something otherworldly about her, something bewitching.
“I believe my sister inherited her cold heart and callous manner from my father,” she said, oblivious to his musings.
“Then I must assume you inherited your pleasant manner from your mother.” He was not a man to partake in even the mildest flirtation, yet there was a smooth tone to his voice that sounded foreign to his ears.
“I like to think so, and I thank you for noticing, sir.”
Devlin considered her appealing countenance, her kind face and warm eyes. Perhaps this lady had value after all. Perhaps he, too, should attack the baron from the flank rather than plot a frontal assault. Miss Duval had an intimate knowledge of her father’s household, knew Miss Bromfield’s habits. Devlin had no hope of trapping Miss Bromfield into marriage now, but he could find other ways to ruin her, to gain the information he required.
“So let us return to the predicament that plagues us both,” Devlin said in a logical tone far removed from any notions of fancy. “Are we to wed or not?”
Miss Duval jerked her head back, somewhat surprised. “You are considering an alliance?”
“Why not?” Devlin shrugged.
She seemed confused, bewildered.
“But you cannot accept.” She shook her head numerous times. “They despise me. There is villainy afoot, and it suits their purpose to trap us both in a sham of a marriage. No. You won your bet, Mr Drake. If you know what is good for you, sir, you will not force your claim.”
Devlin took a moment to absorb her impassioned speech. “Do you speak out of concern for my welfare or your own?”
“Why yours, of course.” She blinked rapidly in surprise. “I’m simply a servant in my father’s household. Abused. Tormented daily. One cannot help but dream of escape.”
Hatred for the baron filled Devlin’s chest. He despised those who preyed on the innocent. His pulse rose more than a notch, and he resisted the urge to storm into the study and take a letter opener to the lord’s throat.
“But it would be unwise to shackle yourself to me,” Miss Duval continued. “I have nothing to offer a gentleman of your elevated status, nothing to bring to the marriage.”
The lady might not have money, but she had something far more valuable—integrity. To Devlin, that was worth a king’s ransom.
Miss Duval glanced nervously back over her shoulder as if expecting the evil baron to jump out of the shrubbery. “I have seen the wicked glint in my father’s eyes when he mentions your family name and must advise caution.”
It wasn’t the lady’s concern for his welfare that stunned him. It was that sh
e thought her father had the power and the means to intimidate him. Yes, Devlin might not look so threatening when seated on the stone bench, but could she not see the brawn and muscle that made him a man to fear? Could she not see the darkness in his eyes, the ugly bitterness radiating from his soul?
“Perhaps I do have a reason to shackle myself to you,” he said.
Now was the moment to explain that he planned to ruin her sister’s reputation. Now was the moment to tell Miss Duval that she would prove useful to him in this game of vengeance. A lady possessed of such rectitude deserved honesty.
And yet he could not bring himself to utter the words.
Miss Duval studied him. Suspicion flashed in her eyes. “And what possible reason might you have, Mr Drake?”
Devlin searched his mind for some semblance of the truth. “I think we will suit.”
She had the courage to look him in the eye. That was a good start. Once away from her family, all signs of timidity had dissipated. She spoke with heart and feeling, with a depth of passion he’d never seen. An excitement for life radiated from every fibre of her being, and he wanted to feel it flowing through his veins, too.
“I admire your strength, Miss Duval,” he continued. “I admire the fact that you seem not the least bit intimidated by what some would regard as my beastly countenance.”
“Oh, I am not intimidated, sir, though I will admit to being unnerved.”
“Your honesty is perhaps your greatest asset, Miss Duval.” Along with her vibrant red hair, sweet lips and green eyes that had somehow managed to shine a little light into his tainted soul.
“The fact that you see it as such tells me all I need to know of your character, sir.”
Devlin inclined his head. “Then shall we marry? Can you bear to leave your family behind and take your place as mistress of Blackwater?”
“Blackwater?” Her bottom lip trembled. She remained silent for a brief time. “Yes, Mr Drake. I believe I might bear it very well.”
Chapter Four
Blackwater, Hampshire
The travelling chariot rattled along the narrow country lane, heading to Blackwater.
Since leaving London a little after dawn, the tension inside the confined space proved suffocating. For the entire three-hour journey, the baron had watched Juliet intently from the seat opposite, one long-fingered hand resting on his knee, the other gripping the silver top of his cane for balance. Hannah occupied three-quarters of the seat next to Juliet, her pelisse spread wide to prevent creasing.
Though it had been hard to say goodbye to Mrs Wendell, Nora and all the other servants who’d made life bearable these last six years, Juliet couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement at her new prospects.
“Remember what you must do.” Her father’s cold voice sliced through the silence. How could she forget when he’d made the original demand with such vehemence? “You have three days, and then I expect to receive word of your progress.”
Juliet nodded. The baron wasn’t the only one capable of deception. While she had agreed to do her father’s bidding—be his spy, his thief—she had no intention of delivering on her promise. Besides, once a lady married was her loyalty not to her husband?
The imposing figure of Devlin Drake entered her mind.
Never had she met a man whose countenance conveyed such strength and power. And yet Juliet found nothing sinister behind those obsidian eyes. Oh, they were dark—so dark. So dark it was as if a thick shroud covered the windows to his soul to prevent anyone who dared to peer inside.
“Three days,” her father repeated. “I think I deserve some reward for permitting you to marry the blackguard.”
“Must you be so vague?” Juliet asked, intrigued to know the reason behind his odd request. “If I’m to find a letter, am I not permitted to know of its contents?”
The baron banged the floor with the bottom of his cane. The dull thud made Juliet jump.
“God damn, girl, can you not simply do as I ask without all the unnecessary questions?” The baron’s eyes brimmed with frustration rather than anger. He inhaled deeply and added in a calmer tone, “I shall be the one to determine its value.”
The whole situation was odd, highly suspicious.
Had Hannah documented her vile diatribe in a letter to Ambrose? Did the baron fear it might serve as evidence in a case of libel? So why insist Juliet search the house for all letters written in a feminine hand?
“Must I remind you where your loyalties lie?” the baron continued in a glacial tone.
Hannah snorted. “This conversation is pointless.” She cast Juliet a disdainful glare. “Do you honestly think a man like Devlin Drake would marry someone like you? This is all a ploy to prove a point, to claim some sort of victory. I guarantee we will not make it over the threshold.”
Juliet had to agree that theirs was an unlikely pairing. And yet when sitting with Mr Drake in the garden, she had felt a tingle of awareness. A connection existed between them though it was as fine and fragile as a spider’s web.
“It would have served our purpose if Drake had remained abroad indefinitely. Somewhere too far away to pry,” the baron moaned. “For your sake, Hannah, you must hope he welcomes your sister with open arms.”
So this was about Hannah’s recklessness.
Juliet hoped she did find the letter. Nothing would please her more than to wipe the arrogant smirk off her sister’s face.
As the chariot suddenly slowed and turned in through a set of majestic iron gates, Juliet lowered the window and leant out, eager to glimpse her new home.
The sight stole her breath.
They passed through an impressive tree tunnel of the most vibrant array of autumnal colours she had ever seen. Slivers of sunlight cut through the canopy to cast the long drive in a warm amber glow. At the end stood a square portico wide enough to serve as a shelter for a carriage on a rainy day.
“Close the window,” Hannah complained. “I’m liable to catch a chill, and I have the Loxton ball on Thursday.”
Juliet ignored her. Hopefully, in a little more than an hour, she would never have to answer to Hannah again.
As they neared the house, Juliet’s thoughts turned to her wedding. Hope burst to life in her chest pushing away all her doubts and fears. At heart, she was a loving, loyal person. Surely she could make the marriage work. Despite being a stranger, Devlin Drake must have seen something good in her to encourage him to make the offer.
When the chariot rumbled to a stop beneath the portico, the butler appeared at the large oak door, one sturdy enough to keep an army at bay. Silas, the baron’s groom, climbed down from his perch, opened the door and lowered the steps.
The baron climbed out.
Hannah pushed forward and exited next.
“Good morning, my lord. I’m Withers. Welcome to Blackwater.” The butler—a plump man of average height and with a dour-looking face—inclined his head. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”
The baron whipped his watch from his pocket and examined the face before thrusting it back into his coat and releasing a huff of frustration. “We did not come all this way to stand on the doorstep making idle conversation. Where’s Drake?”
The butler’s expression remained impassive. “At the chapel, my lord. He asked that someone escort you there upon your arrival.”
“Then make haste, man. Let us get the matter over with.” The baron attempted to shoo Withers into the house.
“You can access the chapel via the path, my lord.” Withers gestured to the left of the house. “A footman will escort you there at once.”
“Only a heathen like Mr Drake would expect you to walk a mile to your own wedding,” Hannah complained as they sauntered behind the footman.
They followed the gravel path down past the lush green lawns and crossed a small stone bridge over a babbling brook. Her father pressed the footman to hurry, chiding the servant for his slow, doddery pace. While Hannah chased their father’s heels—for she despised being
the last to arrive—Juliet ambled behind.
Nerves pushed to the fore.
Many women married for status, for convenience, to keep them from the workhouse. Most had no choice. Most were miserable and indulged in hobbies to replace the lack of love. The Blackwater Estate was vast. Running such a property would easily fill Juliet’s days.
But what about the long, lonely nights?
Would Devlin Drake come to her bed? Would he be as forceful as the rogues her mother warned her about? Or would he be kind and understanding of her situation?
They arrived at the chapel, a quaint building set amongst the trees that looked hundreds of years older than the house. Being late October, there was a bitter nip in the air, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The tiny panes in the stained-glass windows shone and sparkled as the sun’s rays bounced off the surface.
If Juliet searched the length and breadth of the country, she doubted she would find a prettier place.
The footman came to a halt at the church entrance. “Mr Drake awaits you inside, my lord.” He raised the latch, pushed open the arched wooden door and gestured for them to enter.
Neither her father nor Hannah thought to ensure Juliet looked presentable. Neither had bothered to provide her with a dried posy or some other frippery to indicate she was the bride. Neither offered words of encouragement or comfort or hope.
Loneliness breezed through the cracks in Juliet’s armour. Her chest constricted, squeezing her heart. Many times she had longed to feel her mother’s warm embrace, but no more so than today. Juliet closed her eyes and conjured an image of the sweet lady who always cupped her cheeks and kissed her with genuine affection.
“Stop dawdling.” Hannah’s less than polite nudge in the back dragged Juliet from her reverie. “Your ogre awaits.”
Years spent biting her tongue culminated in the sudden urge to speak the truth. “As I no longer need to appease you, Hannah, let me give you a word of warning. Lay a hand on me again, and I shall make it my life’s mission to inform every lady I meet what a spiteful hag you are.”