Demon's Bride by Zoe Archer

and she quickly brought her gaze back up to his face.
    A frown formed a deep line between his brows. The tightness in his jaw revealed an inner struggle.
    Was he angry? With her? Why had he stopped? Too uncertain, Anne could say nothing. She felt awkward and gauche, lying beside him, her hands still splayed on the counterpane as she balanced precariously, midway between desire and terror.
    At last, he broke the silence. “My parents married for love.”
    Of all the things for him to say, this was least expected. She struggled to align her thoughts, for they’d scattered in every direction like pins, and her body only now began to calm in its frantic trembling.
    It took a moment for her to find her voice. “I didn’t know.”
    Still staring at the canopy, he shook his head. “No reason why you would. She was a dairymaid, and she flirted with him when she passed the saddlery every day. He said she spilled so much milk from her pails—all her pretty curtsies—that every cat in the neighborhood sat on his roof. The cattery, he called his shop.”
    It seemed sweet and charming, far more so than the ways in which brides were contracted for amongst the gentry, with calculated discussions of marriage portions and family connections.
    “There’s an advantage to being part of the lower orders.” He turned his head and gave her a wry smile that did not fully warm his eyes. “Some apprentices marry their masters’ daughters, but for the most part, we marry on the basis of what our hearts tell us. We have the privilege of time. Of nurturing the seedling of affection into something lush and verdant.”
    “That sounds ... lovely.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, and a strange ache set up in her heart.
    “It is. Or,” he amended, “it would be. I am not a saddle maker and you are not a dairymaid.”
    “An impoverished baron’s daughter and a self-made man.” And they were already married.
    Leo sighed, ran a hand over his jaw, then stood. The thick upright shape of his erection had begun to diminish. He walked to the clothespress and removed a long nightshirt. He eyed the garment with reluctance, then took it with him into the closet. A moment later, he emerged from the closet wearing the nightshirt, his banyan draped over his arm. The nightshirt was thinner than the banyan, and she watched the long, solid shapes of his limbs as they moved beneath the fabric. She saw the mass and shape of his manhood—that most fascinating and terrifying part of him—though his arousal had faded.
    Slowly, he moved through the chamber, dousing the candles. She could not stop herself from staring at the taut forms of his buttocks as he crouched before the fire to bank the flames. When shadows shrouded the room, he padded over to the bed.
    Anne quickly slid over when he got into bed. He filled it with his large, solid body, and she held herself rigid, trying not to roll toward him. She wanted to feel his body beside hers again, yet dreaded it, too. When he snuffed the bedside candle, the chamber went almost entirely dark, save for the lambent glow of the fire.
    Perhaps they were going to take up where they’d left off a few moments ago. She wondered if she was supposed to do something. Disrobe, perhaps? Yet when she reached for the hem of her nightgown, his hand stopped her.
    “Go to sleep, Anne.” His voice was gruff in the darkness.
    Did that mean they weren’t going to ... “I have displeased you.”
    “No. You please me fine.” He let out a sound partway between a sigh and a growl. “But I’ve decided I can’t behave as the gentry does, not when it comes to marriage. We barely know each other, and if I were to take your maidenhead on only truly a few hours’ worth of acquaintance, then that makes me as cold and heartless as them.”
    She was gentry, but was far too stunned by his declaration to take umbrage. “Are we to have a chaste marriage?”
    His laugh was rueful. “God, no. But I think it’s for the best if