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.

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.”