Demon's Bride

Chapter 2

“The Devil?” Leo felt his mouth curl. “Your master’s usually more discreet with his name. Last we were informed, he preferred to be known as ‘Mr. Holliday.’”

The geminus smiled. Or rather, Leo had the sense that the thing smiled, for try as he might, he had never once truly beheld its face. It was always ... blank, and Leo’s gaze kept sliding away from it, as though trying to find purchase on a slick incline.

“He cannot resist a moment of theatricality, my master, and I am always obliging.” The geminus eyed the three other Hellraisers. “Good sirs, this is a rare occasion to be summoned before the entire company.”

“Not the entire company,” said Bram tightly.

At this, the geminus made a clicking sound of displeasure. “Our prodigal. Lord Whitney.”

“Thus my presence here, and not at my own wedding.” The sounds of revelry could be heard only faintly through the door to the study, like vestiges of memory. “We need intelligence—the whereabouts of Whit. What can you or your master tell us?”

“Very little,” said the geminus.

“Bloody nonsense.” Cerebral as John usually was, he also possessed a temper of quick and biting ferocity, and it snapped from him now like a whip. “We’re to believe that the Devil himself—a being of unimaginable power—he and all his minions have not the means between them of locating one damned man?”

“His Gypsy girl, too,” added Edmund.

“Without a lick of magic between them,” Leo said.

“Lord Whitney did surrender his power to manipulate chance,” the geminus conceded. “The Gypsy, however ...” It shrugged. “She can still manipulate fire. Her ability did not come from my master. The one who bestowed that ability on her is also the one who shields Lord Whitney’s location from my master.”

“Damned mad Roman ghost,” muttered Bram.

Its tone belying the studied indolence of its pose, the geminus pressed, “Has Valeria Livia Corva appeared to any of you of late?”

All of the Hellraisers, including Leo, answered, “Nay.”

“Can’t say as I miss her presence,” said Leo. “Hovering at my bedside, babbling at me to turn my back on the Devil and renounce my magic.” As though the words of an insane specter could possibly induce Leo to give up his gift of precognition. “I make my damned fortune investing in the future. And she thinks I’ll willingly give up my ability to see that future? She is mad.”

“Power,” said John with a cutting smile. “No greater gift.”

“Aye.” Leo had dreamt about power, obsessed over it. And the Devil had given it to him. “And because of that, here I am, with the elite of Society celebrating my wedding to a peer’s daughter.”

Like hell would Leo willingly give up that power. To keep it, he would do anything.

“The ghost has been absent, however,” noted Edmund. “Her strength’s diminished.”

“My master senses that she is but gathering her resources after she depleted them in Manchester.”

“You were there,” said Leo, turning to Bram.

“Witness to part of it, nothing more.” Bram’s voice was as dark as the shadows. “Whit and his Gypsy wench, they destroyed a gaming hell belonging to Mr. Holliday. Whit and the girl barely escaped with their lives. I saw a chance, a final chance, to bring him back to the Hellraisers. Talked to him. But the bastard remained adamant. Wanted all of us to give back our magic, and to join him in the fight against the Devil.” The scorn in Bram’s words left no question as to how he felt about Whit’s entreaty.

“You should have used your gift of magic,” John snapped. “Persuaded him to return to us.”

“Don’t you think I wanted to?” Bram fired back. “But I’d used it on him in Oxford, when he gave Leo that souvenir.”

Leo’s hand rubbed at his shoulder. The scar from the rapier blade had faded, but it would never disappear, nor the memory of the Hellraisers fighting Whit outside the Oxford tavern. The final break in their friendship, cauterized by the Gypsy girl’s fire and Whit’s steel. “You didn’t have to force him to fight us. He didn’t want to.”

“Whit either stands with us, or he’s our enemy. There’s no middle ground. No possibly, no perhaps. Not when it comes to being a Hellraiser, and the power we have.”

“Yet you didn’t use that power on Whit in Manchester,” John persisted. “It could have allied us once more.”

Tightening his jaw, Bram glared first at John, then the geminus. “I can only use my ability once on someone. A limitation of which I had not been informed.”

The geminus said, bland and mild, “The gifts my master has bestowed on each of you cannot be without boundary, else you may do yourselves a terrible injury.”

“Considerate of your master,” drawled Leo. His own magic had its particular constraints, but he learned them quickly and made the necessary adjustments. In truth, Leo could not be overly critical of Mr. Holliday, for though there were restrictions to Leo’s ability to see the future, the benefits far outweighed the limitations.

Leo knew one benefit: his wedding celebration happening at that very moment. He thought of Anne, his pretty, genteel bride, a woman he would never have had the temerity to talk to, let alone court and marry. Leo had grown up amidst the smell of leather and a single, smoky brazier filling a cramped little house. A saddler’s son. But Adam Bailey had possessed ambition, and his son had even more.

The Demon of the Exchange. Even before he had received the gift of foreknowledge, Leo had earned this name. Fearless, ferocious, and uncompromising in his investments.

He made the wealthy peers shake in their silver-buckled shoes. Just as he desired.

His bride was afraid of him, too. He saw it in her eyes, the look of a woman confronting an animal she wasn’t sure was tame.

He wasn’t certain he wanted a wife who feared him. It seemed a petty, mean way of conducting a marriage, the sort of thing a bully desired—exerting one’s might over a creature that constituted no threat.

Anne could not possibly hurt him. But there were others who could.

“How much danger does Whit pose?” he asked the geminus.

“If any of you gentlemen see Lord Whitney, do not engage with him. Summon me or any of my gemini brethren immediately, and we shall attend to the matter.”

It won’t tell us precisely how dangerous Whit is. Nor that we should come into direct contact with him. Which means it’s truly afraid.

“I’m keeping Rosalind,” said Edmund, fierce. “Whatever’s necessary, I’ll do it.”

“Whitehall is almost mine,” John said. “Almost. But if I can’t read others’ thoughts, it could all be lost, like that.” He snapped his fingers, the noise sharp in the quiet of the study. “I’ll be no closer to a ranking Cabinet position than a damned pig farmer. I cannot have him, or any of you, compromise that.”

Tension thickened in the room. Everyone glared at one another. Hell, they’d start scrapping with each other in a moment.

“When the time comes, all of us shall do what is needed to protect our magical gifts.” Leo smoothed the scowl from his expression, and made himself smile. “For now, lads, be at ease. This isn’t merely a counsel of war. It’s an offer of thanks. For with assistance”—he nodded in turn at Bram, Edmund, John, and the geminus—“I was able to speed the process of my nuptials along, and bring sooner this happy day.”

Bram’s ability to persuade anyone to do anything had enabled Leo to get a special license rather than go through the lengthier process of having the banns read. Edmund had used his wife’s distinguished connections to sufficiently pad the wedding feast with the wealthy and the powerful. John’s contribution had been the reading of Anne’s father’s thoughts, which, combined with Leo’s own intuitive ability to gauge people, enabled Leo to say precisely the right things to secure the hand of Lord Wansford’s daughter. And, of course, it had been the gift of magic from the geminus’s master that increased Leo’s fortune.

His wife knew none of this, naturally. She had no understanding of his double life, nor the world in which she had now stepped.

Recognizing the joint efforts to hasten Leo’s marriage, the hostility between the men slowly seeped away.

Though Edmund had not the ability to read minds, he seemed to know the train of Leo’s thoughts. “How will you explain your markings to your bride?”

Leo’s hand drifted to his back. “Markings?”

Bram snorted. “No need for coyness, Master Bailey. You know we all have them.” He tapped his chest, just over his heart.

Edmund absently rubbed at his hip, and John pressed his knuckles to his ribs. Each of them, it seemed, carried the mark in different places upon their bodies.

The Devil’s mark. Images of flame drawn upon his skin. They had appeared on Leo’s back the day after he and the other Hellraisers had received Mr. Holliday’s gifts. The mark had been much smaller then, confined to the area between his shoulder blades. Day by day, however, it had grown. Increased by an unseen hand. Fortunately, Leo’s valet knew not to ask questions. Spinner was the only person who ever saw the markings. Leo was at all times careful not to bathe in the presence of others.

But soon his wife would see him unclothed.

“What say your courtesans and opera dancers when they see your markings?” Leo asked Bram.

His friend offered a careless shrug. “Nothing, of course. They are too well paid to offer opinions. And those that do venture to speak believe the markings to be some vestige of my time amongst the Natives in America, a primitive means of adorning the body. I do not bother to correct them.”

“Your new wife may act as my Rosalind does,” said Edmund. “She has seen the markings on me, naturally, but is far too decorous to speak of them.”

Following Bram’s example, Leo shrugged. “In a way, Anne’s compliance has been purchased, like Bram’s opera dancers. If I give her no explanation at all, she must be content.”

“A sensible way to conduct a marriage,” said John approvingly.

“As though you would have any experience on the subject,” Edmund said with a shake of his head. He held his glass of brandy aloft. “As the only other married Hellraiser, I welcome Leo to the blessed state of matrimony.”

“Better you than I.” Yet John smiled, and also lifted his glass. “Felicitations.”

Bram did not raise his glass, however. “Does this mean you shall become as dull as Edmund?”

“The dullard in question is every bit a Hellraiser,” Edmund said, scowling. “Merely because I refrain from sticking my cock in every available quim doesn’t signify I am any less of a Hellraiser.”

“What’s the point of being a Hellraiser, then?”

“Freedom,” said Leo. “And from that freedom, power.”

“The groom speaks good sense,” John said. “And with that, I urge a truce between Bram and Edmund. We cannot afford any more dissention in our ranks.”

Leo and the other men murmured in agreement.

“Then lift your glass, Bram,” said John, “and wish Leo happy.”

With a grudging smile, Bram did so.

Leo turned to the geminus. “The other glass is for you.”

“You are all kindness.” It bowed. “But the gemini do not partake of mortal food or drink.”

“Just take the damned glass,” growled Bram, “and join us in a toast. Don’t have to drink a bloody drop.”

“Of course, my lord.” The creature was all solicitousness. “I am most eager to bestow my congratulations.” It took the remaining glass.

“To Leo,” said John.

“And Anne,” added Edmund.

“May you each receive precisely what you deserve.” This, from Bram.

“Good God,” said Leo, “what an ominous toast.”

Edmund hastily amended. “May you grow rich in wealth and happiness.”

Leo grinned. “I am rich.” In money, at any rate. Happiness would come ... later.

“Richer, then.”

The geminus had its own offering. “My master’s favor upon you and your new bride.”

“To the bride and groom, Mr. and Mrs. Bailey.” With John’s words, everyone brought their glasses together. The sound chimed through the room like a brittle dream.

As the brandy was downed by everyone but the geminus, the creature asked, “My master would like to know when you anticipate returning to the Exchange.”

“Bloody hell,” sputtered Edmund. “The man is but hours newly married. Mr. Holliday cannot expect him to work. Not so soon.”

Leo raised his hand. “Peace, Edmund.”

“But you haven’t even left for your bridal journey—”

“There isn’t going to be a bridal journey.”

“Why ever not?”

Leo shrugged. “Anne never asked for one, and I am disinclined to be away from business for so long.”

Shocked, Edmund turned to Bram and John, looking for reinforcement.

“I am happily wedded to politics,” said John. “The bachelor state is all I shall ever know.”

Bram’s mordant look made plain his feelings about the nature of matrimony.

Lacking support, all Edmund could do was splutter his indignation. He shook his head and poured himself more brandy.

“Why should the Devil care whether or not Leo is at the Exchange?” John asked the geminus.

Again, Leo felt rather than saw the creature’s cold smile. “The further building of Mr. Bailey’s fortunes is always a concern of my master. And,” it added, “my master does enjoy it greatly when Mr. Bailey compromises the fortunes of others.”

“On that matter,” said Leo, “your master and I are in agreement.” For the pleasure in amassing wealth paled beside the lurid glow of bringing down those who held themselves superior to him. He could buy their estates and have surplus in his coffers, yet all the aristocracy saw when they looked at him was tannery dye staining his fingers. No matter that he’d scrubbed the discoloration away over a decade ago. No, he was nothing but a laborer, a saddler’s son, and thus undeserving of the honor of their approval.

His body felt the familiar charge of energy when he contemplated whom he might destroy and by what means. Better to be the Demon of the Exchange than the Upstart Peasant.

He had money. He had an aristocratic wife. And he had magic bestowed upon him by the Devil.

And when the noblemen who sneered and spat came crawling to him on their bellies, pleading for loans, for mercy and compassion ... he would laugh and kick them away, his boot in their faces, and tell stories to his father’s headstone.

We’ve beaten them, Da. It was beautiful to see. Beautiful.

He would not waste precious time on something as inconsequential as a bridal journey. What was a tour of the Lake District compared to the destruction of a thousand years of privilege?

Anne anxiously scanned the drawing room. Still no sign of Leo. He had been sequestered in his study with his friends, and the guests began to notice. Of greater concern to her was his expression—dark and preoccupied. Something weighed on him. But what, and why on this day? She asked no one for answers and none came.

Falling back on years of schooling, Anne made herself circulate through the wedding feast, smiling and murmuring nonsensical pleasantries. A great deal of wine had been drunk, and the guests grew boisterous as the night deepened.

“Where’s that blasted husband of yours?” Lord Runham stumbled into her path, red-faced and expansive. “’Sabout time to put you two to bed. Unless he don’t fancy the job.” He reached for her, this man old enough to be her father—who, in fact, was her father’s friend. “Volunteer myself for the position.”

Anne took a step back to evade Lord Runham’s grasping hand. Then a lean, solid form stepped between her and the drunken baron. She had an impression of wide shoulders covered with golden velvet.

“No need. This is a duty I happily reserve for myself.” Leo’s words were affable but his tone was biting steel.

“To be sure.” Lord Runham chortled, more in fear than merriment. Anne could not blame him for his alarm. The tension in Leo’s posture and hardness in his voice left little doubt that he was but a hairbreadth away from violence. Almost as though he welcomed the opportunity.

“Pray, enjoy your wife’s company,” said Lord Runham. “I shall merely—” He didn’t finish his sentence, but rather trundled away as quickly as his legs would allow.

Leo turned to face Anne, and she resisted the impulse to look down at her clasped hands. He was too imposing, too handsome, too ... everything. How could she find him so attractive and so intimidating at the same time? Yet, sainted heavens, she did.

“Are you well?”

Her eyes widened at his heated tone. For a moment, she thought he might be angry with her, but then she saw that his anger was at her defense. It warmed her, though she could not be entirely comfortable in his presence.

“Other than a surfeit of iced cakes, I am perfectly well.” She made herself smile. “I trust your ... meeting was successful.”

“Tolerably.”

He seemed disinclined to say any more on the subject, and she was reluctant to press further. After all, their names were still drying on the parish register. She could not make demands of her husband so soon. According to her mother, at any rate. Throughout the day, Anne had received much advice from married women, most of it contradictory.

Be at all times silent and agreeable, else your husband will think you a termagant and shun your company.

Never allow your husband to dictate your actions or he will consider you weak and trifling, and shall not esteem you. Nothing ruins a marriage faster than lack of esteem between a man and his wife.

Which was it? Anne’s head spun with words, so many words, sly winks, and knowing smirks. Up to this day, she had passed her life in relative anonymity. Now it seemed the whole of her existence became the fodder for dozens of opinions, scores of eyes. She felt rather like a newborn vole forced out into the light, naked, blind, wriggling. Ideal prey.

From across the overheated chamber, Anne’s mother and several of her female relatives began walking toward her and Leo. The knowing smiles on their faces left little doubt as to their intention.

“I believe it is time for them to put us to ... bed.” Good Lord, she could barely get the word out, and she felt by turns hot and cold. The man standing beside her was about to join his body to hers in the most intimate way possible—and though she found him attractive, she barely knew him.

“This distresses you.”

She did not want him to think her unwilling to perform her marital responsibilities. After all, she had been taught that therein lay a woman’s primary function: the easing of a man’s desires and the bearing of children.

“Not at all, sir ... Leo. Only, there are certain aspects of a marriage that are ... private. And this”—she waved her hand toward the advancing women—“makes it all so very ... public.”

“Then I’ll tell them to go to the Devil,” he answered at once.

A shocked laugh escaped her. “You can do no such thing.”

He raised one brow. “This is my house. You are my wife. I’ll do anything I bloody well please. And if it makes you uncomfortable to have the whole damned household shoving us into bed together, then it won’t happen.”

She stared at him. Many things he said astonished her. Not merely his rough language in the presence of a woman, but his willingness to flout convention. Gazing up into his cool gray eyes, Anne could see how such a man not only blazed a path for himself through the old, ancient forest of entitlement, but also how he had earned the name Hellraiser. A man who cared little for others’ opinions, who did as he pleased—the world was his to use or discard as he wanted. Without a backward glance for the smoldering devastation he left behind.

What a heady power that must be. And he was willing to exercise it on her behalf.

“Truly, I do not mind.”

“As you like.” He shrugged, the pull of velvet across his shoulders a testament not only to the tailor’s skill but the physicality of the man beneath the fabric. Pure feminine appreciation tugged low in her belly. What must he look like without layers of clothing?

She realized in a mix of panic and anticipation that she would find out very soon.

“Come, my child,” Anne’s mother sang out, nearing. “We must make you ready.”

A chorus of cheers and some rather lewd suggestions resounded. Anne wondered if she might reduce to a pile of embarrassed ashes within the cage of her whalebone stays.

“Head up, my lady wife.” Leo’s whisper feathered warmly across her cheek, and edged excitement surged within her at the sensation. “Show ’em your spirit.”

She tilted her chin up, determined to prove herself as brave as she wanted to be. For Leo’s sake—and her own. This day marked her entry into true womanhood, and she was intent on crossing that threshold with a firm and unwavering step.

As she put her shoulders back, Leo’s gaze gleamed with admiration. He gave her a small nod, and she drew courage from it.

Anne allowed herself to be led away by her mother and her giggling kinswomen. The musicians sawed wildly on their instruments, filling the chamber with raucous sound, and the coarse laughter of men pushed Anne toward the door. Before she left, she sent one final glance over her shoulder, toward Leo. Men surrounded him, including the Hellraisers. A good thing Leo had a strong body, else he would have been on the floor from the force of the pounding on his back.

His darkened gaze met hers. Breath caught in her throat. Wickedly handsome. Her husband. Her body belonged to him now. Who is he?

And then she was pulled from the chamber. He disappeared from her sight. The next time she saw him, he would be there to take not just her maidenhead but the last vestiges of her innocence.

The voices in the corridor drew nearer. Men laughing and singing. Anne could not make out the words, though the few words she had been able to distinguish through the door had made her face heat. Soon, the men would be at the door, bringing with them her new husband.

“I hadn’t expected this to be so ... medieval.”

Her mother ran an ebony-handled brush through her unbound hair, tugging hard enough to make Anne wince. “Traditional, Anne.”

“And will everyone be back in the morning to examine the bedclothes?” Pain. There was going to be pain, and very soon. Her heart felt ready to detonate within her chest.

Her mother made that soft grunting noise she always made when annoyed. “There’s no need for such vulgarity.”

“Since the men outside seem to be taking care of that well enough.”

Another grunt from her mother. “You might have spared yourself this. I have heard it is the modern fashion for newly wed couples to embark on a bridal journey immediately following the wedding breakfast.”

“Leo did not suggest it.” And as he was paying for everything else, from her garters to the wine, Anne had been loath to ask. Hearing the rowdy male guests approaching now, she began to question her diffidence.

“She looks beautiful, Eleanor.” Aunt Louise sailed over to where Anne stood in the middle of the bedchamber and idly toyed with the sleeve of Anne’s silk nightgown. “How I envy you, child. There are few excitements in a woman’s life like her first taste of her womanly duties.”

“And how many times did you first taste them, Louise?” asked Lady Byton from her position on a footstool in the corner.

Before Aunt Louise could spit out a reply, Anne’s mother said, “They are nearly here. To the bed, Anne, with haste.”

Anne was herded to the bed, amidst much giggling from the women in the chamber. Her mother flipped back the heavy silk counterpane and pristine white sheets, and all but threw Anne between them. She arranged Anne’s hair so that it covered her breasts. Anne supposed her mother’s eagerness to see the marriage consummated stemmed from the desire to ensure no annulment. Once Anne became Leo’s wife, she was no longer Lord and Lady Wansford’s problem. The responsibility and cost of her upkeep fell to Leo.

Still, it was highly disturbing, contemplating her mother’s eagerness to have Anne couple with a man. And she could not help but feel like a sacrificial animal, tied to a stake and bleating its distress before the inevitable doom. Was it going to hurt very much?

The door to the bedchamber slammed open. A crowd of men shoved Leo forward, though Anne could not see any of the Hellraisers amongst their numbers. Leo managed to keep his footing, despite the crowd’s rough treatment of him. The song the men sang reached its conclusion, and between the presence of everyone in the bedchamber, the lyrics of the song, and the knowledge of what was about to happen, Anne had never blushed so furiously in her life.

Leo smiled and laughed, but Anne had the feeling he merely made the necessary adjustments to his face and voice so that people would believe him in a good humor. Yet even across the room, Anne saw impatience in his gaze. As though he merely tolerated these antique practices, and wanted to get on with the business at hand.

The business being the taking of Anne’s virginity.

“Your bride awaits you,” said Anne’s mother.

In the doorway, Anne’s father coughed.

At least someone was as discomfited as Anne. But it did not give her much solace.

Leo’s gaze moved to her, knowing and astute. She dropped her own gaze to her hands folded on the counterpane. She wondered if he could see her heart pounding against the silk of her nightdress, like a trapped moth. He would touch her soon. She would know the weight of his body on hers.

“My thanks, madam.” His deep voice sent tremors of fear and excitement through her. “And now, good night.” There was no denying it: her husband was dismissing everyone in the chamber as though they were servants.

There were a few mumbles of disappointment. Clearly, the guests wanted to draw out the rather public embarrassment a bit further, but Leo was having none of it. Anne kept her gaze on her hands picking at the coverlet, but she heard the sounds of many feet exiting the bedchamber, some more ribaldry, and feminine giggling.

Then the sound of the door closing. And locking. Music and laughter faded on the other side of the door as the guests resumed their revelry without the bride and groom.

Now, for the first time, she and Leo were truly alone. Silence stretched out, interrupted only by the popping sounds of the fire.

Just look at him, Anne. He’s only a man.

More than that, he was her husband. Therein lay the crucial difference.

Go on. Look at him.

Slowly, Anne lifted her gaze. She started a little when she saw that Leo stood at the foot of the bed. She hadn’t heard him move. Perhaps he had removed his shoes? She fought the absurd urge to peer over the side of the bed and see whether he was merely in his stockings or shod.

They stared at each other. More surprising than finding him standing so close was the glimmer of trepidation in his eyes. In the brief time she had known Leo, not once had he looked anything less than confident. It was a shock to see this extremely hale and potent man uncertain.

Was he ... as afraid as she?

He started to drag his hand through his hair, then stopped and stared at it in disgust.

“I hate powder.” He stalked away and through the door that led to a closet. Anne had seen the small chamber earlier, and noted it contained a copper bathing tub, a close stool, and a few other items for one’s toilette.

She now heard the unmistakable sounds of clothing being removed. Velvet coat first, followed by the embroidered waistcoat. Was that the rustle of his shirt?

All of this disrobing was being done without the assistance of a valet. But this detail was unimportant compared to the very real truth that Leo Bailey was undressing in the very next room. With the door open.

Heat suffused her face, her limbs. Good Lord, he was taking off his breeches. She tried to picture him, his arms and legs being revealed as each garment came away—and found that she couldn’t. Her mind simply shied away, protective. Anne had seen her brothers and their friends when they went for a bathe in the pond on their country estate. She had seen statuary and paintings, as well. She possessed a reasonable understanding of what the male body looked like without clothing. Like all girls, she was as fascinated as she was terrified by the idea.

How would such a body feel, so different from her own? Would it be soft? Hard? Certainly hairier. And the male body underwent ... changes ... in order to have sexual congress. A married woman would doubtless be witness to those changes.

But that had all been theory. This was real, and not twenty feet away.

The sounds of splashing water trickled out from the closet. He was bathing. A pulse of arousal throbbed through her, unexpected and sudden.

As she waited, Anne tried to distract herself, and studied the bedchamber. Painted red paper covered the walls, the design depicting thickly knotted and thorny vines surmounted with carnivorous-looking flowers. The fabric comprising the bed hangings and window curtains must have been specially made, for its pattern matched the wall coverings. Two wing-backed chairs stood before the fire, and there was a large mahogany clothespress and an escritoire. Everything in the chamber revealed itself to be the finest quality. Expensive, and new.

But as for hints of the man who slept in this room, who he was, what he thought, if he had any interests or pastimes. . . Anne found none.

Perhaps she might discover books in one of the nightstands. She often had several books by her bedside—though she would never sleep in her bed at her parents’ home again. She could not remember if she had packed those books in preparation for removing to Leo’s house. The thought panicked her. She hoped the books were here, somewhere. As though finding an unanticipated friend in a far-distant land.

But surely Leo had a book or two at his bedside. The need to locate one such volume overwhelmed her. If she could find one, then perhaps it might give her the smallest intimation as to who this man was, this stranger she had married.

She leaned over and started to open the drawer on the nightstand.

“What are you looking for?”

She jerked up, gasping. Leo stood beside the bed, wrapped in a banyan of green-and-black silk, his damp hair loose about his shoulders. Anne had but a moment to take in a few details—his long, bare feet, the hollow of his throat, a sprinkle of dark golden hair across his chest—before the anger in his gaze blocked out all other impressions of him.

“Nothing, nothing.” She didn’t like the panic in her voice, or the way she pushed back into the pillows propped against the headboard. “Books, in truth.”

He raised a brow. “Planning on reading?”

“I like to read before ... bed.” Her voice was thin, thready. Frightened.

Anger faded from his eyes. Replaced by something very like compassion. “This is all very strange for you.”

“I imagine it is strange for you, as well. Unless ... you have been married before?”

His laugh was unexpected, and genuine, and its warm contours helped soften the edges of her anxiety. “A new venture.”

She imagined that marriage might be one of the few things he hadn’t experienced.

The bed shifted as he sat down on the edge, his profile to her. He drew a breath, as if steadying himself. “Tell me, Anne. What do you know about what happens in the marriage bed?”

Don’t stutter. Don’t blush. He is a sophisticated man.

“I know the m ... mechanics of it.” Curse it, what did I say about stuttering?

He turned to her, a small smile curving his mouth. “Mechanics makes me think of grinding gears and pulleys. Though,” he added, mostly to himself, “some might enjoy that.”

She decided not to explore that last comment. “I know it can be very pleasurable for the man.”

“For the woman, too.” His smile warmed. “If done properly.”

Oh, dear. “So ... you’ve done it before.”

“Few men get to my age without doing it at least once.”

“When?”

“The first time, or the last time?”

She was uncertain she wanted to know the answer to either. Fragments from the scandal sheets jabbed into her thoughts, unsubtle suggestions about how the Hellraisers earned their reputations. Even Anne knew about those women. She had seen them at the theater, displaying themselves like gorgeous blooms in the hothouse of the private boxes, and the wealthy gentlemen that tended those blossoms, watering them with champagne and nourishing their soil with expensive trinkets. The women earned those trinkets, and Anne knew the means by which they did so.

Had Leo been one of those gentlemen? Did he know the company and bodies of courtesans? Would he continue to do so, even after their marriage?

Good God, attractive he might be, yet she really knew nothing about him.

She started at the touch of Leo’s hand on hers, and she met his gaze. He drew a breath, as if steadying himself, and then leaned toward her.

Anne could do nothing but brace herself for what she knew was to happen next.