Demon's Bride Read Free Page A

government. There had been undercurrents of something tight and edged in the voices of her family, something she might identify as fear, but it had been more tone than actual words spoken.
    How could such a bookish man also be a profligate and a political threat? Surely she must have misheard, and the reports in the papers were scurrilous.
    She curtsied her greeting, murmuring pleasantries.
    “Here we have Sir Edmund Fawley-Smith,” continued Leo.
    “You illuminate the room, Mrs. Bailey.” Sir Edmund offered her a very charming bow, and she could not help but smile at him. He was a very pleasant young gentleman, of shorter stature than the other Hellraisers, with kindly eyes and a rather rumpled appearance. Certainly he could not be a rake.
    “And lastly, this is the extremely dis honorable Abraham Stirling, Lord Rothwell.”
    Anne turned to the final member of the group, fully anticipating that she would find him as undeserving of a rake’s reputation as the other men. But that was not the case at all. She had actually seen caricatures of Baron Rothwell in a few news sheets, usually depicting him with his arms around whole seraglios of women, and Anne had believed the illustrator to be exercising a good deal of artistic license when it came to Lord Rothwell’s appearance. Surely no actual man could be so darkly handsome, with a blade-sharp profile, black hair, and vivid blue eyes. Yet the illustrator had not exaggerated. With the exception of Leo, Anne had never beheld a man so physically arresting.
    The only thing marring his masculine beauty was the large, ugly scar that traced from just beneath his right ear to disappear beneath the folds of his stock. It looked as though someone long ago had tried to cut Lord Rothwell’s throat, and very nearly succeeded.
    That Lord Rothwell stood before her now, bowing, proved that not only had the attacker not succeeded, but it was highly likely that Lord Rothwell had dispatched the assailant. Killed him. Looking into his glacial eyes, Anne could easily believe him capable of violence.
    Violence, or seduction. Doubtless both.
    “You have done England a great service, Mrs. Bailey,” he said, straightening from his bow. Anne had to tilt her head back to look at him, for he was even taller than Leo.
    “How so, Lord Rothwell?”
    “By marrying this villain, you have removed a great danger from the London streets.”
    Leo scowled as Mr. Godfrey and Sir Edmund laughed. “I’m no more a danger than you, Bram.”
    Lord Rothwell spread his hands. “Thus you prove my thesis.”
    “ Quod erat demonstrandum ,” said Mr. Godfrey, grinning.
    Anne made herself smile, for though she did not understand precisely what the men discussed, she knew it would serve her well in married life to ingratiate herself as best she could with her husband’s friends.
    Still, something, or rather, some one seemed missing.
    “Is Lord Whitney here?” she asked. The scandal sheets had been very specific in naming five men as Hellraisers: the four who stood before her now, and James Sherbourne, the Earl of Whitney, or Lord W—y . Wherever one of the Hellraisers went, the others were certain to follow.
    She may as well have dropped a moldering carcass in the middle of the room. Whatever lightheartedness the men might have been feeling disappeared immediately. Everyone looked grim, and something very like grief flashed in Lord Rothwell’s eyes.
    “Oh, dear,” Anne stammered. “He isn’t ... that is, I didn’t know ... has Lord Whitney passed on?” Mortified, she wanted to sink into the ground. “I’m so ... sorry.”
    “Don’t apologize.” Leo patted her hand, but the gesture did not soothe her. “Whit ... Lord Whitney is alive. Last I heard.”
    “Have you seen him lately?” Lord Rothwell put the question to her with surprising keenness, verging on an interrogation.
    Four pairs of eyes fixed on her, all of them sharp and demanding. And her husband’s gaze was hardest of all. Anne had to