Demon's Bride (20 page)
This.
This private joy, this secret pleasure. It belonged to them alone. No one and nothing would take that from him.
This private joy, this secret pleasure. It belonged to them alone. No one and nothing would take that from him.
He teased, he delved. Hands spread over her thighs, he kissed her intimately, sucking and licking. She dug her heels into the small of his back. Her elbows gave out as she splayed across the bed, fingers woven into his hair. And when he drew her clit between his lips, she pulled him tight against her. He sank his fingers deep.
She bowed up and cried out her release, a long, liquid sound that filled him with wild pleasure. Yet he was not satisfied, not until he brought her to the edge and over again, and again.
At last, she fell back, gasping, arms outflung, legs spread.
“More,” she panted. “I want more of you.”
“Yes.” He began pulling off his remaining clothing—stockings, gaping waistcoat—but when he reached his shirt, he paused.
His marks. He could not show her, especially now, with Whit’s poison in the air. But he had to feel her bare flesh against his. Craved it.
He strode to the fire and banked it, extinguishing every last glowing ember, until it was nothing more than charcoal. Not a gleam of light shone. Still, the chamber was not dark enough. He paced to the windows and tugged the curtains closed, cutting off the wan moonlight and faint glow from London’s streets.
Turning back, he was satisfied. The chamber lay in utter darkness, black as the depths of the ocean.
He found her through sound, the soft rustling as she removed the last of her garments. Inflamed through sound alone, Leo tore off his clothes, shedding them like regret. He pushed through the darkness until he found himself at the bed. He touched the counterpane, the rumpled sheets, and then her, kneeling in the center of the bed.
On his knees, he moved over the mattress, feeling it dip beneath his heavier weight. He edged toward her, and when their bodies pressed against each other, length to length, finally, utterly stripped, they both moaned. God, the feel of her breasts against his bare chest, her curved belly to his flat abdomen, the whole of her—he was dizzy and demanding, aflame with need.
He gripped her buttocks, urging her even closer. His cock was thick and nestled tight against her. Unashamed, she cupped her hips to his, and her mouth opened to his when he claimed a kiss.
The edges of fear crept into sensation. He could lose this. Lose her.
No—he was a born ruffian. He fought for what he wanted. Anne was
his
.
his
.
With rough tenderness, he tipped them both, until she lay back on the bed and he stretched over her. Sight was gone, and all he knew was touch, sound, scent. As he stroked her everywhere, with her own hands bold in their caresses, he submerged himself in sensation. Her skin, her fragrance.
He positioned himself between her legs, hooking one over his arm. Her breathing came in fast, shallow gulps, her hips angling up.
Leo rubbed the length of his cock along her opening, coating himself with slickness. Then surged into her.
He lost himself in pleasure. Everywhere was her, tight and hot and wet, gripping him. He pulled back, then slid forward, sheathing himself. She moaned his name.
His will and his body wanted the same thing: her. He thrust, his hips moving, and sweat filmed him as he gave his entire self to this, to her. Anne made luscious, lascivious sounds, as lost to pleasure as he. He wanted to keep her here, where nothing existed but them and the communion they shared. Minds, bodies. All.
Fierce demand wanted everything. Abruptly, he withdrew, and she mewled a protest. Yet when he turned her over so she was on her stomach, her protest dissolved. He urged her hips up, gripping her, but kept one hand on the middle of her back.
They had experimented over the past week with different postures, even this one, but not until this moment had the position been imbued with such animal need, such raw hunger. He had usually gone into her gently, tenderly. Yet now, his control slipped. He was desire and want.
He surged inside her. And again. His thrusts were rough, and she met him stroke for stroke, pushing her hips back into his, gripping him tightly from within. Desperation marked their movements, as if they could demolish fear and uncertainty through the pleasure they created, as if the heat of their bodies could raze the twisting spirals of doubt, of mistrust. A foolish hope, but one they both chased as they gave themselves to each other.
But even this could not last. He felt his climax near, could not stave it off. So his hand left her back and glided down, over her stomach, until he found her bud and stroked it. Tight little circles that drew gasps and moans from her, straining eagerly. And then she cried out once more in release—a sound that drove him directly into the teeth of his own climax.
It tore from him, hot and unforgiving, excruciating pleasure. He poured into her, her name on his lips, on his heart.
Only when the very last of his release faded, only when she was lax and supple, only then did he withdraw. He pulled back the blankets and covered them both, his arms around her waist. They lay together, bodies slick, hearts pounding. He brushed his mouth back and forth across her damp nape, delicate hairs soft against his lips.
Neither spoke. Silence lay as thick as the darkness. He’d never made love to a woman the way he had just loved Anne. He’d never felt such a storm of emotion, frantic and furious. He’d never needed anyone as he needed her. If the Devil’s magic was ripped from him, he could suffer any financial loss, knowing he could regain what was taken. He could never regain her. And that filled him with a panicked savagery, the likes of which were unknown to him.
Yet he could speak none of this. Instead, he held her close, as close as two people could be, damp flesh clinging, limbs intertwined, and still he felt the chasm between them widen.
“This way.” One hand on the small of her back, Leo guided Anne up the stairs of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. They passed women in wide, sparkling gowns, men in jewel-hued satin coats. Powder, sweat, and perfume scented the air. Everywhere was talk, talk. So many voices. All of them bright and sharp as shattered crystal.
“One more flight,” Leo said.
She moved up the stairs, threading through the crowds. They passed the lobby for the pit, and then the first gallery. There were clothes of every variety, all mingling together as everyone searched out their seats. From stained frieze, worn every day, to gleaming moiré silk, perhaps donned for the very first time this night.
As she and Leo climbed the stairs, they passed men who knew him. No one stopped to speak with him, only nodded with chary respect and moved on. She wondered: was it respect or fear she saw in the other men’s eyes? Fear of him. Her husband.
They reached a landing, and Leo directed her down a corridor lined with doors. He pushed one open and waved her in.
“We have arrived.”
Anne stepped into the box. Curtains hung on the walls, and a bench was pushed up to the railing. She swayed forward to stand at the rail. Chandeliers glittered from the high, ornate roof, and gilded sconces threw more smoky light into the echoing theater. People filled every available space: boxes, pit, galleries, orchestra. A seething mass that laughed and shouted and jostled with a hard recklessness.
Leo stood beside her. She did not need to gaze at him to know how cuttingly handsome he looked this night. In his dark gray velvet coat and breeches, his red lustring waistcoat embroidered with twisting vines, his tawny hair pulled back with a tie of black silk—no man compared with him. From her high vantage, Anne could see the many admiring glances he received from women in other boxes, even from the women in the upper gallery.
“That is where I usually sat.” She pointed to the rows of benches in the first gallery. Up there were the tradesmen, the professionals.
“Not there?” He nodded at the amphitheater, situated beneath the first gallery, where the fine ladies of quality fanned themselves and gossiped.
“Only if we came after the third act.” Later entry meant paying half price. When she wanted to see the earlier acts, she had to elbow her way into the first gallery instead, beside the ranks of the mercers and Grub Street scribblers.
The whole of the theater echoed the tight regulations of class, for no one ventured where they were not welcome. Young noblemen and officers kept to the benches of the pit, where they could strut, paw prostitutes and orange sellers, and enjoy all the privileges of sex and birth. Less rowdy nobility gathered in the amphitheater. Then came the galleries—the first for tradesmen, the second for servants and ordinary people. The varying price of the seats enforced hierarchy, but tacit understanding did far more to keep everyone apart.
“We didn’t go to the theater,” Leo said, watching the crowds assemble. “Even after my father had made his fortune. He thought it frivolous, a waste of time and money.”
“Then this is your first time in a box, too.” Only the very wealthy took boxes, visible to the entire theater, as much part of the spectacle as what transpired on stage.
He shook his head. “Bram always found us one.” He nodded toward a box across the theater, empty at the moment. “We all came together, after supper. They’re probably all at the Snake and Sextant now. John and Bram anyway.”
At the mention of the other Hellraisers, Anne felt the strings of her nerves tighten further. She attempted a smile, yet it was brittle and could not be long sustained.
Leo pushed back the bench in their box, and seated Anne before settling beside her. She noted the neat movement of his wrists as he flicked the long tails of his coat out of the way. In all things, he was eff icient, tolerating no excess or unnecessary showmanship.
“We are the subject of scrutiny.” Anne tipped her folded, ebony-handled fan toward the many faces turned in their direction. “You are notorious.”
“Perhaps, but
you
are the one who draws attention, not me.”
you
are the one who draws attention, not me.”
She glanced down at her ruby brocade gown, gold lace frothing at the sleeves and low neckline. Still, she had not acclimated herself to wearing such fine clothing. “Is something amiss with my dress?”
He smiled. “Only that you look stunning in it.
That
is what has everyone intrigued. They are all wondering about the identity of the beautiful woman, and how a knave like me could be so fortunate.”
That
is what has everyone intrigued. They are all wondering about the identity of the beautiful woman, and how a knave like me could be so fortunate.”
“Your skill with compliments grows daily.” She flicked open her fan and waved it, stirring hot air against her face.
“Only because I’ve reason to give them.”
Who were these people? These shimmering, shallow people she and Leo had become tonight? Words came from their mouths, but the words were empty, facile. Their emptiness echoed in direct opposition to what was not being said. For it lay between them, the river of doubt, that would drown them if they ventured even a toe into its waters. Fast and deadly, its currents, and so she and her husband stared at each other across the rapids, mouthing pleasantries over its roar.
After the performance at the Theatre Royal, they would proceed on to Ranelagh and its famed rotunda. She had never been, nor to Vauxhall with its Chinese temple and clockwork wonders, and felt no desire to go now, but Leo was determined to fill their hours with as many pleasures as possible—as if to distract her from the black abyss at the heart of their marriage.
The discordant orchestra silenced as a man strode onto the stage, shouting about the evening’s program.
“The performance is about to begin,” Leo murmured.
His breath upon her neck traveled warmly through her body, drawing forth memories of the night before, its furious passion. Only in absolute darkness had he finally stripped bare, so she knew him by touch alone. And in that heightened sensitivity, she discovered something upon the hard, solid muscles of his shoulder.
A scar. Thin, as if made by a rapier’s point.
Just as Lord Whitney had described.
Having a scar upon one’s shoulder did not constitute evidence that one was in league with the Devil. It meant only that, at some past moment, Leo had been wounded by a sword. And Lord Whitney knew about the wound.
And yet ... And yet ...
Anne gazed at Leo as he sat back to watch a flock of dancers in gauzy skirts take the stage. A chorus of hoots rose up from the pit. Long and sleek on the bench, Leo observed the dancers with a cool remove, as if indeed witnessing the behavior of a species of pretty, giddy birds. He watched the theatergoers with the same detachment. But when he looked at her, his wintry gaze warmed, and her heart responded with a painful, sweet throb.
I have fallen in love with my husband. But, God help me, I do not trust him.
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