Demon's Bride

by Zoë Archer

  “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.

  Chapter 3

  He’s going to kiss me. They had touched lips only once, impersonally, at the conclusion of the marriage ceremony. But this was to be a real kiss. A kiss between husband and wife. She felt as though she had been waiting for this moment forever, and wanted it, hungered for it, even as she was numb with anxiety.

  She closed her eyes, and the sound of her blood in her ears was a rushing gale.