"The devil you say."

Adam Dagenham, Marquis of Daventry, settled his long, lean body more comfortably against the pillar at the edge of the dance floor and smiled indolently at the man who had spoken. "The devil I do say, sir. You asked the identity of that 'glorious hoyden in the sea-green gown' and I replied: 'my wife'. Now, do you run off, terrified of my wrath, or linger to offer your condolences?"

"My felicitations would be more likely," the gentleman replied in his deep, melodious voice, bowing most formally to Daventry. "Allow me, if I might, to introduce my blundering self. I am Burnell. Edmund Burnell. Late of points south and east, all of them most forgettable, and for the moment residing in London with my dear aunt, the Lady Gytha Jagger. The woman, I might add, who suggested I approach you for my answer when I first inquired as to the identity of -- well, of your wife. I imagine she thought she was being amusing."

"Ah, Lady J," Daventry said, shooting a quick glance to the rank of dowagers. He spotted the hatchet-faced old woman waving one gloved and heavily ringed hand and favored her with a slight inclination of his head, acknowledging the hit. "Dear, dear, old bitch. She does enjoy her fun, doesn't she?"

Daventry took one last look toward the dance floor and at his wife. He saw the sparkle of her smile, the overbright glitter in her green eyes, more than a hint of slim ankle as she lifted her skirts and moved with the dance.

Yes. That was his wife all right. Charlotte Victor Dagenham, Marchioness of Daventry. Sherry. His Sherry. And he was her Adam. For their sins....

He lazily, belatedly, introduced himself, then pushed away from the pillar and looked more closely at his new acquaintance, this Edmund Burnell. Tall. Blond. Quite handsome in both his face and dress. Charming smile. Laughing blue eyes. Intelligent blue eyes. Likable. Interesting fellow. Very interesting. Well, diverting, at least. God knew Daventry needed a little diversion.

"Crushing bore, this ball, isn't it? Probably the flattest of this short Fall Season. At least of some of us," Daventry said, shooting his cuffs, looking at the man, assessing him even as he smiled. "Burnell? I was just about to go drown myself in some of Lady Petersham's best brandy. Do you care to join me?"

Edmund Burnell frowned slightly, his gaze flitting swiftly to the marchioness of Daventry before he smiled at his new acquaintance. "You'll leave her here? Unprotected?"

Daventry threw back his dark head and laughed. "Unprotected? My wife? You have it the wrong way round, friend. I leave London unprotected. Now, come. We'll drink, perhaps find ourselves a deck of cards. You do play, don't you?"

"Oh, yes," Burnell replied smoothly, following after Daventry, his cool blue gaze still on the marchioness. "I always enjoy a game."

Sherry stood in front of the glass, watching her husband's reflection as he prowled the bedchamber, wanting to leave, knowing he would not. Could not.

It would be better if he did leave. She could scream then. Tear at her hair. Throw herself across the bed and weep until she slept. Dreamed. Woke sobbing.

How handsome he was, even when his face wore the dark scowl that had become so familiar, too familiar. He was angry with her again, of course. He was always angry with her. Disappointed in her. Perhaps even sickened by her.

It hadn't always been this way. Once, he had been amused, intrigued. Once, she had been the world to him. Or so he'd said. But that had been before. Sherry thought of her entire world that way.

Before...

And, now, after...

"Darling?" she said, forcing lightness into her voice, a smile to her lips. "Emma has wandered off somewhere, as usual, and it would be fruitless for me to ring for her. Could you come help me with my gown?"

Adam's head came up as he stopped his pacing, looked in her direction. "She's done another flit? I don't know why you keep the woman, Sherry. She's worthless."

Sherry lifted her hands to fumble ineffectually with the heavy diamond clasp of the Daventry family pearls, her head bowed so that he couldn't see her face. "She's the only one who can make some manageable sense of this infernal mop on my head, darling. Besides, she -- she amuses me."

"Oh, well, if she amuses you," Adam said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "Far be it from me to suggest you part with anyone -- or anything -- that amuses you. Here, let me get that, before you have six generations of Dagenhams spinning in their graves as you rip the string and beads go flying into mouse holes in the corners."

He used to be able to tell when she was lying. Had he lost that talent, or had she begun to lie better these past months? Or perhaps he simply didn't care anymore. Sherry bit her lip as she lowered her arms, watching in the mirror as Adam stepped behind her, his fingers brushing her neck with fire as he neatly rescued the pearls.

His hands lingered against her skin, searing a light, fluttering pattern she'd feel for hours. In a moment, her fastenings were open, and her gown hung loose from her shoulders. He then moved his attention to the combs in her hair. She watched as the mass of living fire slid from its pearl-encrusted anchors, cascading down, a heavy waterfall of bright color reaching nearly to her waist.

Her skin looked so white against the blaze of hair. So white against the tanned perfection of her husband's hands as he drew her hair away from her shoulders, as his fingers made their way along her skin, pushing the gown from her shoulders so that it puddled in a soft green foam at her feet.

No. He wasn't about to leave her. Everything else had been lost, irrevocably broken. But there was still this, God help them both. Maybe it had been all they'd ever had.

She tilted her head slightly, inviting his kiss against her throat. Longing for it. Praying for it. Offering up her soul in exchange for it.

She closed her eyes.

"There, that should do," Adam said, and she felt the cold evening air reach her as he walked away, turning his back on her, on his own desires. "I made a new acquaintance tonight, darling," he went on as he shrugged himself out of his jacket, tossed it toward a chair already piled high with Sherry's clothing -- clothing Emma should have picked up hours ago, put away. "A Mr. Edmund Burnell. Delightful chap. I think he's infatuated with you. But, then, so is the rest of London."

"Except for you," Sherry whispered under her breath. Pinning a bright smile on her face, she stepped away from her gown, remembering the times Adam had delighted in slowly, guided by kisses, divesting her of her undergarments. "How lovely," she then said, walking behind a Chinese screen, ruthlessly wrestling off her remaining finery before slipping her arms into a diaphanous dressing gown. "You should have introduced us, Adam," she continued, moving out from the protection of the screen once more as she tied the satin ribbons at her throat. She gave back pain for pain. "I'm always delighted to meet a new admirer."

She watched as her husband's deep brown eyes flickered betrayingly for a moment as he ran his gaze over her artfully concealed and revealed body.

He wouldn't leave. He wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to. She knew. But he wouldn't leave her alone tonight. Not after she had teased him so unmercifully at Lady Petersham's insipid ball. She had danced, whirled, flirted, enticed, invited. Dancing with everyone but Adam. Dancing only for Adam. Salome, without the veils. Bring me the heart of Adam Dagenham, she had chanted fervently as she smiled and danced and flirted and laughed. Bring me his love, as I've once known it.

He hated her for the way she acted, but he had left her no other avenue, no other way to fight, and she lacked the strength it would take to surrender. And, even if he hated her, he still desired her. As long as he desired her, she had hope.

"You're right, of course. I should have introduced him to you. Maybe next time," Adam said, reaching for his snifter of brandy. His ever-present snifter of brandy.

He had never drunk more than moderately when she'd met him, married him. She had pushed him into a bottle. Just one more sin he wouldn't forgive her.

She heard his next words through a faint buzzing in her ears. "Yes, I'll definitely introduce him to you. I wouldn't want you to think he's forbidden fruit. We all know your taste for that, don't we?"

Sherry lifted the back of her hand to her cheek as she turned her head from him, recoiling from the verbal blow he'd struck, stifling a sudden sob. "That's all in your mind, Adam. No one else's." Then, squaring her shoulders, she turned to glare at him. "Stop it, Adam. Just stop it, all right?"

"Ah, darling, if only I could," Adam said, putting down the snifter and advancing toward her once more. His own cheeks were flushed now, as if with fever. "Wasn't beauty enough, Sherry? Wasn't your every dream come true enough -- becoming the acknowledged queen of London Society? Wasn't my heart enough?" She watched, dying inside, as his entire body shuddered slightly, the involuntary movement almost indiscernible. "Why wasn't my heart enough?"

"It was -- it is," she told him, made stupid in her need, by the love that became so volatile when mixed with exasperation. "It's you who have turned away-- "

"I'm running for my life, Sherry," he told her quietly. "Even as I come to you, inside me, in my head, I'm running for my life. My sanity."

"Then go," she cried out challengingly, her heart aching, her arms empty. "Just go!"

It was his turn to close his eyes, to look away. "Dear God," he breathed quietly, the anguish in his voice tearing at her, giving her hope at the same time. He looked at her once more, his dark eyes glowing with heat, with want, with emotions she refused to understand. "I'm not that strong."

Against all of her instincts, Sherry backed up a pace, put her hands out to ward him off. For a moment she was the near child she'd been when he'd met her, loved her, changed her life forever. "No, Adam. Please. I'd thought -- but, no. Not this way. Please, not this way..."

But it was always this way. If not love, then need. If not his heart, then his body. It was all he had to give her. And she would take anything he would give her. Even shame. There had never been shame before, but they'd made love before, created love between them. She didn't know what it was they did now.

Her empty arms were filled with him. Her hands clung as he lifted her, carried her, placed her on the bed where she lay, eyes closed, waiting. The sound of clothing being all but ripped from his body shredded her nerves.

And then he was beside her. His mouth claimed hers. His hands found their way beneath her dressing gown, found her.

She was light-headed before his mouth left hers, traveled to her throat, her breast, robbing her of even the memory of breath. His hands molded her, shaped her to fit his every need, her every desire.

He kissed her. Kissed her breasts. Kissed her belly. He moved lower, became more intimate. Kissed her again.

"Adam." His name was a curse on her lips, a benediction. A plea for love or, if not love, at least physical possession. Now. Now, before she burst into flame, crumbled into ashes.

Rising as best she could, Sherry frantically beat on his back with her closed fists. Pulled at him, urged him upward, clasped him to her tightly even as he settled himself over her, buried himself deep inside her.

He rocked against her, in her, driving them both. Over and over and over again. Taking them higher, higher. Freeing them from words, from regrets, from memory.

They were together now. One now.

It was all they had left....