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.