“You would do that—pay calls, wrangle invitations—for me?” He sounded bewildered, a man little used to kindness.

“We are married now. If we do not take care of each other, who shall?” It was more than matrimonial duty, however. She had heard the hurt throbbing beneath his words last night, the wounds that pained him still, despite, or because of, his pride. And pride Leo had in abundance. Not unlike the lion with which he shared a name.

Here was something she could provide for Leo. Something he could neither be born into nor buy. She discovered she wanted to give him something. For all the abundance of things in his home, his clothespress full of expensive garments, even those Hellraisers he called friends, he had very little truly his own, bestowed on him simply for the gratification of giving.

“I ...” He searched for words, perplexed. And then, “Thank you.”

Her cheeks heated, her pleasure intensified by the simplicity and honesty of his language.

With slow ceremony, he took her hand in his. Turned it so that her knuckles faced up. His gaze held hers, and she felt herself planted firmly where she sat, unable to move or even breathe. Then, unhurriedly, he bent and pressed his lips to the backs of her fingers.

It was not an unmannerly kiss. Not lascivious or coarse. Yet for all that, the touch of his firm, warm lips to her fingers sent dragon coils of hunger twisting through her. A contraction of want tightened between her thighs.

“I would say that you’re too good for me,” he said, his breath its own caress on her skin, “but I want good things.” With equal leisure, he released her hand and straightened. At the very least, the tightness in his jaw revealed that the courtly gesture had affected him, too.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, spinning the fine threads between them into something stronger.

“I do have a request of you,” he said finally.

She nodded, eager.

His gaze shifted away and followed the thorny convolutions painted upon the wallpaper. “Ever since my father made his fortune and sent me away to school, I developed ... well ... one might call it an odd habit. A compulsion, you might say. I’ve become a collector. A collector of coins.”

“That does not sound very odd. Many men collect coins—ancient coins, or from other countries.” Her own father had been too lacking in resources to have anything remotely resembling a gentleman’s cabinet of curiosities. Rather than accrue small treasures, antiquities or animal bones, her father collected letters demanding payment. Occasionally, those debts would be paid.

“The coins I collect aren’t rare,” said Leo. “They’re quite ordinary. Except for the fact that they belong to other people.”

“I do not follow.”

Leo dipped his hand into his pocket and produced a handful of change. He set the coins upon the counterpane, arranging them beside her leg in a neat line. Commonplace currency: farthings, pennies, shillings.

“This.” He pointed to a sixpence. “Belonged to Lord Huyton. This.” He nudged a ha’penny. “Lord Feering’s.” Leo saw the question in her eyes, and answered, laughing, “I didn’t steal them. Merely asked for change and it was given.”

“But ... why?”

He shrugged. “It’s hard to explain. I suppose having something that was once so difficult to obtain is part of it. Now I have coin in profusion, but I like owning something that belonged to one of the gentry. Something so mundane, but important.” Leo gave a wry smile. “Now I sound like I should be in Bedlam.”

“No, it makes sense.” And it did, in a peculiar way. “Both you and these gentlemen having use of coins. Despite everything that they say, all their prejudice, the need for coins makes you equals. It confirms what they might never acknowledge.”

His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “Something in an aristocratic girl’s education must make them astute. Yet,” he added thoughtfully, “I suspect it isn’t the education, but the girl that makes the difference.”

“Living one’s life dependent on others’ goodwill, one learns to make a close study of one’s environment.” She had seen hardly anything of the larger world, but that which she knew, she understood very well.

“I congratulate myself for making such a wise decision in my choice of a bride.”

“By all means,” she replied, “take credit for my perspicacity.”

He chuckled, but his gaze drifted from her face back down to the coins. And then she understood.

“You would like me to collect some coins for you,” she deduced.

“There are certain men whose coins I want.”

At first, Anne thought to refuse. She could not fault Leo for his idiosyncrasies. Almost everyone had them, including herself. Yet his was a mania altogether private, something between himself and his desires.

Still, it was such a small thing. And if it helped forge a stronger bond between her and Leo, she knew her directive.

“If you write their names down for me,” she said after a pause, “and if they’re married, I’ll gather coins for you.” She was not particularly adept at making idle, pleasant conversation, and had not the slightest understanding how she might obtain these coins, but she had faith in her wits. A solution might present itself.

“The coins must come from the men themselves. Not their wives or children or servants.”

Here was an added complication, and frankly, one even more eccentric than she had anticipated. “If that’s what you wish.”

He seemed surprised that she agreed. “Truly? You’ll do this?”

“It might be an enjoyable challenge.”

He moved so quickly, Anne had no chance to react. One moment he stood beside the bed, and the next, he leaned over her, his large hands cupping her head, tilting it back. He kissed her. Not the tentative exploration of the wedding night, but a full, sumptuous kiss, demanding and carnal. His lips were ravenous on hers.

For a moment, she could do nothing but let it happen, stunned into immobility. Then instinct and need guided her. She slid her hands up his arms, to hold tight to his hard shoulders. Her lips parted, inviting him in, and he took the kiss deeper.

This was ... extraordinary. Beyond any kiss she had ever received, the few times she had gotten them. Not just two mouths meeting, but a complete submersion into sensation. Only his hands and his lips touched her, yet she felt him, felt him everywhere. In the rush of her blood and softness of her flesh. Most especially between her legs and the tips of her breasts, now achingly sensitive. Leo kissed as he lived: without compromise, without quarter.

His tongue swept into her mouth. She touched it with her own, and Leo groaned.

She could not stop her response, the primal surge of desire. But fear sharpened the edge of that desire. It was too much. She was overwhelmed. He’d devour her, and she would not only be powerless to prevent it, she would present herself on a silver charger, the willing animal eager to be feasted upon until only bones remained. She already sat in bed. It would be easy, very easy, for him to pull her down and put his weight atop hers. Claim her fully.

A sound escaped her, a moan partway between arousal and terror.

At once, he pulled his mouth away.

His gaze, bright and hot, held hers. He looked as stunned as she felt. As though neither of them could comprehend what had just happened.

For a moment, he seemed on the verge of taking her mouth again. His fingers tightened in her hair. Abruptly, he let go, yet she felt the strength in him it took to do so. He stepped back, until a respectable distance of several feet separated them.

“I’ll write that list up for you.” His voice had hoarsened, and she caught the trace of a rough accent. The saddler’s son emerging from beneath a carefully cultivated luster.

He turned and strode to the door and opened it. There, one hand braced on the frame, he paused. He did not turn around. “Expect me home for dinner.”

Then he was gone, closing the door behind him. Anne’s only company was the coins, their blank metallic faces staring up at her, offering not a single answer.


The carriage waited for him outside, and he leapt into it. At his nod, the footman closed the door and called up to the coachman, “Drive on.”

They clattered their way east toward Exchange Alley, but Leo did not see the familiar streets of High Holborn, Chancery Lane, nor any of the others. His mind was with Anne in Bloomsbury, and his body wanted to be there, as well.

Hell, what had come over him? His intentions to take things slowly with her had burned away. He hadn’t even planned on kissing her mouth at all, for it had been enough to kiss her hand. Yet impulse and need had taken over. Once unleashed, it became a battle to rein it in again.

She had thrown him. He prepared himself always for eventualities, outcomes, options. The Devil’s gift showed him the future, and there he often dwelt. Even without this gift, Leo could chart what was, what would be. Yet Anne continued to defy his expectations.

At first, he’d regretted telling his wife about his past, his father, fearing it made him vulnerable. But it had drawn them closer together, revealing unexpected similarities, as if the tide ebbed to uncover a hidden house beneath the waves.

Yet he knew that if he revealed his magic to her, everything they had been building together would crumble. There would be no warm acceptance, no understanding. Only fear. Perhaps even disgust.

No—he must keep his secrets.

He planned to use their strengthening connection by slowly building toward physical intimacy. It seemed the best, soundest plan.