He did not regret his gifts from Mr. Holliday, but something about the image of flames writhing across his skin made him feel sick dread.

His resolve strengthened never to let Anne see the markings, nor understand their meaning.

Which meant he would be forced either to make love to her in utter darkness, or to wear a damned shirt when he did. And though he had always slept nude, he had to endure wearing this sodding nightshirt like some doddering old man.

He turned away from the mirror. Sleeping in a nightshirt was a small sacrifice if it meant having Anne beside him. He quickly tugged the thing on, then took a fresh cloth and dampened it. After blowing out the candle, he returned to the bedchamber.

Anne stretched out atop the bedclothes, sleek and soft and delicious as she lay on her stomach. She had taken the last of the pins from her hair, and the mass of it spread around her in silken profusion. At his approach, she smiled. Something seized within him, something tight in his chest.

Wife. He felt he understood the meaning of the word now, its significance. By giving her his name, he had pledged to her his care, his protection. And he vowed it to himself now, more binding than any words spoken by a reverend.

Seeing the cloth in his hand, she reached for it, but he held it away.

“Let me,” he said.

As she turned over and leaned back on her elbows, the embers of desire roused. She was beautiful to look upon—her lush breasts tipped with coral, the curve of her belly, her pretty little quim, the suppleness of her arms and legs. Her body held more strength than one would have guessed, for she had gripped him hard. He was glad of it. Rather than pliancy, he wanted strength to match his own.

“I like how you look at me now,” she murmured.

His gaze flew up to hers. The stain of passion still tinted her cheeks, and she wore a timeless little smile. It pleased him, knowing he put that smile upon her lips, that she could be so free with him.

“I like looking at you.” He curled one leg under him as he sat beside her. Carefully, in slow, tender circles, he ran the cloth over her. He frowned at the smears of blood at the tops of her thighs. “It hurt.”

“Some. Less than I thought it might.”

“But it felt good, too.” The need to please her burned hotly through him—as strong as his need to build his fortune on the Exchange. Stronger.

“No new bride has less cause for complaint.” She placed her hand atop his. “Truly, Leo. It was ... a marvel. Sensations I could never have conceived.”

“You may conceive.” Finished with his task, he set the cloth aside and stretched out alongside her. He placed his hand over her belly.

Her lips curved. “That is the purpose of marriage.”

“Trying to make children has its own enticements.”

She wound her arms around his neck and smiled up at him. “In truth, I hope a child comes later. Much later. For I am selfish enough to want you all to myself.”

“Nothing wrong with self-interest.” He pulled her close, his hands cupping the sweet roundness of her arse. The fragrance of her skin enthralled him, sweet and musky with the lingering traces of sex. With their sex. He pressed his face into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, nuzzling. She murmured encouragement. Her limbs made a delectable rustling in the bedclothes.

He wanted her again. The time he had waited to consummate their marriage fell away in gathering desire. Each day he had come to know her better and better, so that, for the first time, when he seated his body within a woman’s, he felt not just the pull of animal need, but a deeper communion. It had been more than simple release. It had been a bestowing of pleasure, a joining.

His cock thickened. He thought perhaps it might be too soon, that she would be sore, but she cupped him close, her leg thrown over his hip.

“Leo.” Her voice was velvet.

“Mm.” He trailed his lips across her neck, and bit lightly on her earlobe. She shivered and burrowed closer. Her hands were bolder now, roaming over his arms, his back, even down to his buttocks. Against her skin, he smiled. She was indeed a tempest, too long confined to a teacup, but now released.

“A request.”

He did not hesitate to answer. “Anything.”

“When you take a mistress, don’t let me find out.”

His head lifted, and he stared down at her. “What?”

She did not look away, and her expression was grave. “Your mistress.”

“I don’t have a mistress.”

Her tension eased minutely. “But you will take one. All men of means have them.”

“Who the hell told you that?”

“My mother. And ... others. One hears things.” Her lashes lowered. “Every married man known to my family keeps women. Lord Haverbrook spends more time with his mistress, Mrs. Delphi, than he does with Lady Haverbrook. The Earl of Macclestone had his bastard son educated at Cambridge.”

Leo only stared at her.

“It’s how things are. The only recourse for wives is acceptance.” She raised her gaze once more, and a storm stirred within. Only a few days earlier, she would have been too guarded to reveal this much of herself, yet now things had changed, they had changed, and she spoke with strength. “When you do take a mistress, keep silent. I don’t wish for ignorance, but of this, it’s preferable to knowledge. Thinking of you, doing this”—she glanced down at their entwined bodies—“with anyone other than me is ... insupportable.”

Leo, who seldom found himself at a loss for words when finessing deals on Exchange Alley, discovered he could not speak. Not for a full minute. At last, however, he gained his voice.

“Mark me, Anne. I have no mistress. Never did, and never will.”

Her eyes rounded. “All men—”

“Not all. Not me.” When she began to protest, he would not allow her to continue. “My body is yours. Only yours. If that makes me a baseborn peasant, that’s what I am.”

“That is not how I think of you.”

He knew this, and it weighted his words. “You are my wife. I am your husband. We shall know the pleasures of no one else’s flesh but each other’s.” The very thought of touching a different woman made him feel sick. And the idea that she might have another man kiss her, let alone make love to her ... he’d never experienced such rage.

“Only you.” She held his gaze. “That is all I want.”

“Good,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers. He wanted their bare torsos pressed together, but knew it could never be. He had to keep his secrets. If ever she discovered the truth, he would lose her, and that he could not allow. “For I find that when it comes to sharing my wife, I’m damned miserly.”

Anne walked in a temple. It was a strange temple, its walls solid stone, and stone loomed overhead. Torchlight flickered, and she saw that the temple was actually underground. Or perhaps set within a hill or mountain. She did not know the where of the place, nor how she came to be there. One moment, she had been lying in Leo’s arms, warm, replete, her body tired and her heart full to bursting. Then she was here, in this place.

The stone floor chilled her bare feet, and she clutched herself close to stay warm. Columns had been carved into the walls. At one end of the temple stood an altar, surrounded by bronze lamps. Cautiously, she approached, then recoiled. A lamb had been sacrificed. Recently. Its body splayed across the altar, steaming, and blood dripped onto the ground.

“You see yourself there.”

Anne spun around. A woman stood a few feet away. She wore a tunic in the Roman style, with golden brooches pinned at her shoulders, and her dark hair was piled atop her head in elaborate curls. She stepped closer, the torchlight revealing her to be a woman of lustrous, aristocratic beauty, her gaze proud and cunning—and urgent.

“To what am I being sacrificed?” asked Anne.