Demon's Bride

“Perhaps, but 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 stu

“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 ...

A

I have fallen in love with my husband. But, God help me, I do not trust him.

People came and went across the stage. The dancers flung themselves around with more flamboyance than grace. A man came out and belted comic songs, earning him roars of approval. Then painted backdrops of Italian gardens were propped against the back wall of the stage, and a clot of actors pranced out, mouthing words of intrigue.

Many times in the past, A

Now she sat in one of those boxes. She could see everything, everyone. And she felt herself utterly removed, as if she were encased in glass. She could not smile or laugh. There were only the thorned vines knotted around her heart, piercing her with every breath.

Yet she was not alone in her disquiet. Throughout the theater, the crowds stirred, restless, ill at ease. The theater was never a calm place, but this night, it felt volatile. Voices from the crowd came too loud, people shoved one another. Tears from women, angry words from men, as if everyone tapped into a font of bitterness beneath the floorboards.

“There’s Bram and John,” Leo murmured.

She glanced across the theater and saw the two men come into a box. Heads turned at their entrance, and no wonder. They were striking men, both tall, commanding attention by their presence alone. John escorted a lady in a low-cut yellow gown, and Bram ushered in two women. Courtesans, clearly, by their gaudy laughter.

As A

Can he hear my thoughts? Does he know what I think, even across the expanse of the theater?

Leo raised a hand in greeting, but kept his seat.

She was glad he did not want to join his friends in their box. For at the Hellraisers’ entrance, the crowd grew yet more restless. The actors could barely be heard, bawling their lines above the growing din.

“An ill feeling tonight.” Leo frowned and leaned forward, sca

A

Two orange sellers struggled. One of the girls had her hands wrapped around the throat of the other, whilst her opponent gripped her hair. Men close by tried to separate the orange sellers, but the girls could not be pulled away. They struggled with each other, knocking into the people around them. Like a pebble dropped in a lake, their violence rippled outward, as men in the pit began to fight one another. Elbows and fists were thrown. Someone drew a sword.

Several men threw a bench onto the stage. The actors scurried back, and shielded themselves as more benches came flying up. The actors fled into the wings as men clambered onto the stage.

Women in the amphitheater screamed. The galleries erupted. People strained to reach the exits, their progress impeded by brawls. What had been, moments earlier, simply a theater now became a scene of chaos. Even the boxes exploded into violence.

“Goddamn it.” Leo wrapped an arm around A

A man’s hands appeared at the railing of the box. He began to haul himself up, his eyes glassy and wild.

Leo released A

In an instant, Leo was with her again. Grim-faced, he guided her to the back of the box. He paused next to the door.

“Do not leave my side.” He drew a pistol from inside his coat.

A

Leo checked to make sure the gun was primed, then returned it to his coat. Lips compressed into a tight line, he eased the door open. The narrow corridor was full of people, some ru

“We ca

“I am getting you out of here.” Resolution hardened his voice.

Intuitively, A

He cleared a path, shoving aside those who got in his way. Around her churned insanity, the thin veneer of civilization shattered like the wood and broken glass beneath her feet. She could scarce believe that these people, many in damask and lace, brawled like beasts. But there was Lady Corsley raking her nails down Mrs. Seaham’s face. And there was Sir Fredrick Tilford, trading punches with a top government minister. These were only the people A