by Adele Clee
“Climb into the water. When you’re warm, I will assist you with your ablutions.”
After kissing her once more on the lips, he obeyed her command. He was so tall he had to bend his knees to submerge his feet. Juliet grabbed her robe, slipped into the garment and then returned to kneel beside him.
“I spoke to Mrs Barbary a moment ago about your grandmother Charlotte,” she said.
Devlin relaxed back as best as a man of his size could in such a confined space. “Did you ask her about the letters? I seem to recall that Mrs Barbary was once my grandmother’s lady’s maid. If anyone can shed any light on her private affairs, it is our housekeeper.”
He said our as if they were equals in every regard.
Juliet had spent her whole life dealing with some form of inadequacy—she’d lacked a father growing up, lacked a mother much later, and consequently lacked love.
And yet the love she felt for this man was ready to burst from her in a tidal wave of emotion. She would tell him soon. Once she’d bolstered her courage.
“I asked, but Mrs Barbary knows nothing about your grandmother’s correspondence.” Previously, the housekeeper had mentioned that the mistress read her letters on the bench by the brook. Was that an important clue?
Oh, Juliet’s mind was in a muddle.
“Despite the fact she had a close relationship with my grandmother,” Devlin said, “Mrs Barbary is in her sixties. Too young to have born witness to the letters your father seeks.”
“That doesn’t mean she wasn’t aware of their existence.”
“Granted. Perhaps she thought you were prying. She was always quite protective of my grandmother.” Devlin shivered visibly. “My shoulders are numb. Do you think you might warm them until the blood flows freely again?”
“Of course.” Juliet scooped the warm water into her cupped hands and poured it over his shoulders, repeating the action numerous times. “There is something that bothers me about your grandmother.”
“And what is that?”
While Juliet’s palms pulsed as she rubbed her hands over her husband’s shoulders, the sudden pang in her chest stemmed from an apprehension to speak her mind.
“Do you not find it odd that your grandmother died around the time Ambrose broke his engagement to Hannah? Is it not odd that he died so shortly afterwards?”
A frown creased Devlin’s brow. “She was old. Perhaps her passing forced Ambrose to reconsider all that is important in life. He wrote to inform me of her death, but by the time I received his letter he was dead, too.”
“But knowing that my father seeks old letters changes things, do you not agree?”
Juliet’s hand came to rest on his chest, covering his heart. The organ thumped hard against her palm. Evidently, he found the questions troubling. Had he heard the unspoken words? Was he open to the possibility that his grandmother died by a villain’s cruel hand? Was he willing to accept that her father might be the one responsible?
“The word coincidence springs to mind, but Dariell would chastise me for my foolishness. He believes that one’s destiny is not decided by a series of random events. There is no such thing as luck or chance.”
Juliet wasn’t sure she believed that. Had luck not played a part in Devlin winning the wager? Was she not lucky that Hannah refused to sacrifice her life to settle their father’s debt?
“I should like to meet Mr Dariell. He sounds like an intriguing fellow.”
“He is.” After a moment’s contemplation, Devlin said, “And you will meet him. Shall we invite him to dinner? Valentine will come, too, and Greystone and Lydia.”
“Oh, I would love to meet your friends. And what of Lockhart?”
Devlin cleared his throat. “Lockhart is in hiding. No one must know he has returned home, for reasons I shall explain later.”
Heavens, no wonder Devlin had spent so long abroad. When surrounded by such fascinating gentlemen, one would never suffer from boredom.
“Juliet,” Devlin said in a tone that meant he was about to throw water over the fire of excitement burning in her chest. “My purpose for inviting them is not just so they may meet you, but I thought we could extend the invitation to family. I thought we could invite the baron and Miss Bromfield.”
In an instant, her happiness sizzled and hissed as the fire inside died. “But why? They would shame me in front of your friends. Oh, Devlin, the thought of having them here makes me want to cast up my accounts.”
“They will not dare insult you while I have breath in my body,” Devlin said, his tone brimming with conviction. He took her hand in his although the water had wrinkled his skin. “And my friends will not permit their disrespect. You will like Greystone’s wife. She is kind-hearted, and she loves him.”
Juliet sighed. She could not hide from the baron forever. And at some point, hers and Hannah’s paths were sure to cross.
“Then if I am to suffer the stress of dining with my family, at least tell me why it serves your purpose to have them here.”
“It won’t just be for dinner,” Devlin said, wincing as he spoke. “I hoped they might stay the night.”
“Stay the night? Oh, no, Devlin. I have spent six years sleeping under the same roof, don’t ask me to do so again.”
“Not even if it gives us an opportunity to trick your father into revealing more about the letters? We may learn something about what it is he truly wants. And as mistress of the house, your sister will have no option but to give you the respect you deserve.”
While the thought of putting Hannah in her place proved tempting, it was not in Juliet’s nature to boast or flaunt her good fortune. “I doubt they will come.”
“Your father paid a man to beat you, so you might provide the answers he seeks. Trust me. He will accept an invitation to spend the night in this house. The baron is desperate. Desperate men make mistakes.”
A deep sense of foreboding shook her to her core. “Then I shall make sure I sleep with one eye open.” And a blade hidden beneath her pillow.
“We won’t be sleeping at all. We’ll be spying on them, amongst other things.” Devlin brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a tender kiss on her palm. “I shall not leave you alone for a second.”
“Make sure you don’t.”
“Does that mean you agree?” He sounded hopeful.
Juliet nodded. “If you think it might help to solve the mystery of your grandmother’s letters and put these troubles behind us for good, then yes.”
He flashed a devilish grin. “You do know that I will do my utmost to embarrass your sister. It’s the least I can do for Ambrose.”
“She deserves nothing less.” In all likelihood, Hannah would refuse the invitation. But then she doubted the baron would enter the lion’s den alone. “Someone needs to knock her off that giant plinth. Hannah will never be happy if she continues to treat people with contempt.”
“Is there any soap?” Devlin asked, changing the subject.
“Just a minute.” Juliet hurried to the washstand and returned with the bar. She moved to hand it to Devlin, but he shook his head.
“You’ll need to wash me.” His seductive gaze swept over her. “I am too cold to see to the task myself.”
“Too cold? Then I had better do something to heat your blood.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Devlin leant back against the copper rim. “But there’s no need to hurry. You have all night to work on the task.”
Juliet dipped her hands into the water and then worked the bar soap between her palms. A faint whiff of cloves and lemon wafted past her nostrils. She lathered Devlin’s chest first, enthralled by the way her hands slipped over the hard contours, fascinated by the way his nipples peaked at the slightest touch. He was magnificent, all muscle and maleness.
“Does that feel better?” Juliet’s voice dripped with lust and longing.
“Much better. But I’m a large man, Juliet.” Those midnight eyes devoured her. “There are plenty of other areas vying for your attention.”
&n
bsp; “Any in particular?” she said, lathering the soap.
“Why not use your intuition?” His velvet voice slid over her skin to tease her senses.
Feeling far braver than she’d ever felt before, Juliet delved beneath the water. Her hand came to rest on the solid length of his manhood.
“I don’t think you have to worry about the cold affecting you here,” she teased as she wrapped her fingers around his shaft and massaged in slow strokes.
A pleasurable hum left her husband’s lips. “When it comes to chills, it is wise to take precautions.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Valentine, he has told me what happened at the gaming table.” Dariell stood at the window in the drawing room, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out into the darkness. He wore his usual blue tunic and relaxed trousers—the dress worn by men in hotter climates—his hair tied back in a queue.
Devlin swallowed a mouthful of brandy and leant back in the chair. “And I’m sure he told you about the fateful event that followed.”
“I didn’t need to tell him,” Valentine said from his fireside chair. “Apparently, you were never destined to marry Miss Bromfield.”
Dariell turned and offered Devlin a knowing smile. “This is true.”
“Then why the hell did you not say so before?” During the last three years, Dariell had listened patiently to Devlin’s plans to ruin the harpy’s good name.
Dariell shrugged. “I gave you enough clues as to your destiny.”
He spoke of the mysterious ring, of his constant reminders that vengeance tainted the soul, that love would find him if only he followed his heart.
Lydia, Lady Greystone, placed her sherry glass on the side table and settled back into the sofa so that Greystone—who draped his arm over the back in a languid fashion—could continue stroking her neck.
“Thank the Lord you’re not married to that dreadful woman,” Lydia said, and it was evident by her disgruntled tone that Greystone had told her of Miss Bromfield’s slanderous lies.
“No one is more thankful than I.” Devlin glanced at the ceiling and sighed. That dreadful woman was currently occupying one of the bedchambers. Perhaps it was a mistake to invite the Bromfields. “Juliet is rather anxious about having them to stay.”
They had arrived late. Miss Bromfield complained about the road, the weather, the lack of notice. And then the snake’s eyes slithered over Valentine and she hissed with pleasure. Try as she might, she failed to lure him into a hypnotic trance. It took a damn sight more than a pretty face and full breasts to tempt Valentine.
Still, Miss Bromfield would slink around him for the duration of her stay.
The baron appeared less hostile though reeked of insincerity. Being acquainted with Valentine’s mother, Bromfield asked after the lady’s health, spoke briefly to Greystone about his interests in shipping.
Dariell had hovered in the background, silently assessing the scene. The Frenchman knew a devil upon sight. A corrupt soul leeched into the air, looking to cling on to the weak, eager to suck the life out of its unsuspecting victims.
“As your friend, I will not tolerate their disrespect.” Greystone’s words dragged Devlin from his musings.
“You may have to tolerate it to a certain degree. As I said, I need the baron to remain here for the night.” Be that as it may, Devlin would throttle the lord if he dared to insult Juliet. “What Miss Bromfield does is of no consequence.”
“You have willpower beyond that of any man I know,” Greystone said with a hint of admiration. “You want to murder the baron for the way he has treated your wife, want to shame Miss Bromfield for what she did to Ambrose, and yet tonight you will break bread with them both.”
“Juliet’s safety is paramount.” The thought of losing her chilled Devlin’s blood. “That blackguard will stop at nothing to get what he wants, and if I continue stumbling about in the dark, how am I meant to protect her?”
“The enemy at the door is easier to defeat,” Dariell said in the wise tone that made one stop and take note.
Valentine stood. He sauntered over to the row of decanters on the console table and refilled his glass. “We are at your command, Drake, and will do whatever we can to assist you.”
Collectively his friends agreed.
“I look forward to making Juliet’s acquaintance,” Lydia said, no doubt eager for female companionship in a room full of men.
Devlin inclined his head. “She will be down shortly. The modiste arrived with her wardrobe and insisted on dressing her this evening.”
Juliet’s inner beauty shone through no matter what she wore. The old dresses were fit for the bonfire, and he hoped she incinerated them along with all terrible memories of the past.
A knock on the drawing room door brought Withers who introduced the baron and his insipid daughter. They all stood to greet the guests. Much to his chagrin, Devlin poured them both a drink though Miss Bromfield complained that the sherry was a little tart for her taste.
“And where is Juliet? Is she lost?” Miss Bromfield sniggered as she glanced around the room. “Has she forgotten she’s to come to the drawing room and not the scullery?”
Spiteful witch!
“You surprise me, Miss Bromfield,” Valentine said in a voice as smooth as the finest claret. “I thought a lady of your standing would know that the mistress of the house is always last to make an entrance.”
“Of course I know. But what could be keeping her so long?”
“Most ladies of my acquaintance take an age to dress for dinner,” Valentine replied.
Miss Bromfield tittered. “Well, perhaps she is mulling over which shade of brown suits her best.”
“Having had the pleasure of meeting Mrs Drake,” Valentine said, unruffled, “I can assure you she will look splendid in anything she wears.”
“Then you must have been chirping merry when you met, my lord,” Miss Bromfield countered.
Devlin remained rigid—his temper held in check by a flimsy thread. Once it snapped, he was liable to rip through the room in a whirlwind and destroy everything in his path.
“I can assure you, Miss Bromfield, that even in my cups, I am a man who recognises true beauty.”
“Indeed,” Dariell added. “Clothes, they do not make the man.”
Miss Bromfield’s eyes narrowed as she observed Dariell’s unconventional attire. She screwed up her button nose. “And judging by your odd dress, I imagine you have spouted that nonsense many times before.”
Dariell never lost his temper.
Nothing could rattle his composure.
“And I have another mantra you may find amusing.” Dariell did not wait for a response. “How people treat others is often a true reflection of how they feel about themselves.” Dariell inclined his head and smiled. “Is that more pleasing to your ears?”
“That is utter poppycock.”
“If you say so, madame.”
The baron cleared his throat. “And how is married life, Drake?” His mocking tone grated. “Do you find the girl agreeable?”
The girl? Could the man not bring himself to call Juliet his daughter?
Devlin forced a reply. “I could not be happier and can only express my gratitude to you for presenting me with a much more appealing prize.”
“You do strike me as a man who demands subservience,” Miss Bromfield interrupted rudely. “It is why we would never have suited.”
He would rather stab pins in his eyes than suffer her vile tongue each morning.
“You know nothing of my wants or needs, Miss Bromfield, though I happen to agree with your last comment. When it comes to you, incompatibility is in my blood. My brother found you disagreeable, too, I’m told.”
Miss Bromfield’s arrogant countenance faltered for a few seconds. “Your brother was less of a gentleman than your butler, Withers.”
Devlin bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. “He was gentleman enough to tell everyone you ended the betrothal when we all
know the opposite is true.”
Miss Bromfield’s cheeks flared red. She swallowed numerous times but struggled to maintain her composure. It was ungentlemanly of Devlin to mention the affair openly, but he didn’t care what they thought of him, and Miss Bromfield deserved her shame for the way she had spoken about Juliet.
Had they been anywhere else, the baron would have retaliated with a cutting quip, would have removed himself and his daughter from the house. Outraged. Insulted. The fact he said nothing only supported Devlin’s theory that the lord was desperate to remain at Blackwater.
“Greystone,” the baron said, clearly eager to change the subject, “I hear it won’t be long until you own your father’s shipping company in its entirety.”
Greystone stared down his nose. “Foolish men make it easy for others to succeed,” he replied in a tone sharp enough to slice through the baron’s facade.
The creak of the door drew everyone’s attention.
Juliet entered the room.
For a moment Devlin struggled to catch his breath.
Dazzling them in emerald-green silk that enhanced the hue of her eyes to perfection, his wife stepped forward. She smiled though he could sense her nerves. The soft curve of her breasts swelled above the neckline of her gown. With her vibrant red curls styled in a fashionable coiffure, it drew his eye to the elegant column of her throat, to the porcelain skin he longed to kiss.
“You appear to have married an angel,” Greystone whispered. “No wonder I’ve not heard from you this last week.”
“I have been busy.”
“Dariell is right. While her clothes enhance her beauty, it is her smile and honest eyes that are thoroughly captivating.”
“Dariell is always right.”
Greystone patted Devlin on the back. “You can close your mouth now.”
His wife looked ravishing, enchanting, and a host of other words that bombarded his mind, that made lust throb in his loins, that made his heart sprout wings and take flight. She deserved the best life had to offer, and he wanted to be the one to satisfy every dream, every desire.
“Good evening,” Juliet said in the kind voice that sent his head spinning. He wanted to reach out to her, take her in his arms and tell her not to worry. “I did not mean to keep you all waiting.”