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  “You don’t believe in demons?”

  “I understand there are things in this world we can’t prove. But an incubus? And why me?”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  I stared at her. Such a simple question, really, and yet I had no answer. I opened my mouth, but no sound emerged.

  She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. “Believe in this. Like those other women, something in you has welcomed him. An incubus can only feed off someone who allows him inside. He knows your weaknesses. He thrives on them. A part of you, no matter how small, wanted this. And you won’t be able to fight him until you confront your personal demons.”

  I couldn’t remember what else she said to me. I was too caught up in the notion that I’d somehow asked for this. The very idea repelled me. It sounded like the sort of logic that blamed rape victims for their attacker’s crimes.

  And yet I had invited something in.

  I wanted to dismiss the whole notion. To tell myself Margaret had been working at Dawlish Manor, and had surrounded herself with books, for too long. She’d lost touch with reality. Sure, she could conduct one heck of a tour, but she was obviously crazy. Having had bats in my own belfry for a time, I recognized the condition in others.

  Even still, I held the copies of Hugh’s writings close to me as I left the house, feeling as if I should guard them with my life. As much as I wanted to convince myself Margaret suffered under some sort of delusion, any presumed mental defect on her part did nothing to explain why I’d dream about the former owner of the manor.

  Once at the inn, I didn’t have the heart to read the journal. Not yet. Instead, I occupied myself with some shopping in the high street and catching up on emails. When that no longer interested me, I indulged in a romance novel, the sort with pirates and lusty maidens and treasure. Come evening, I wandered through the village, avoiding the booklet in my room at the inn. By the time I went home, had dinner, and bathed, I’d almost convinced myself I’d forgotten the journal.

  I spent the rest of the evening going over my notes from rehearsal, determined to sing better tomorrow morning. As I reviewed the notes, I glanced at the desk in my room, where I’d set the booklet. I must have glanced at it ten times before I stood and began to pace.

  I drew closer, moving slowly, as if the very papers were things to be feared. I didn’t know why I’d be so scared to read Hugh’s own words. Perhaps it was because I’d already formed an image of him in my mind, and didn’t want the image tarnished.

  Margaret had called him an incubus. I’d once read a novel featuring an incubus, a foul demon who raped unsuspecting women in their sleep. I didn’t want to think of Hugh this way. I preferred to think of him as my personal sex angel.

  “Oh, hell. Listen to yourself. Sex angels. You’re just as batty as the old woman.” As I continued to chastise myself, I picked up the journal in a show of defiance, sat on my bed, and turned to the first page.

  Yes. I’d read his story and I’d prove Margaret wrong.

  »»•««

  May 25, 1820

  God in Heaven. Tonight, I met with an angel.

  My friend William De Courcy persuaded me to the opera this evening, to a production of Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte, or il Flauto Magico, as it is known in Italy. I admit, I have no tolerance for another ridiculous translation of the original German, and sat stone-like in my box at the Shanley Opera House.

  De Courcy sniffed. “Good God, Dawlish. You are the only man alive who gives a damn about the music. The rest of us are here to sample the delights of the artistes.”

  “De Courcy, you scandalous libertine.”

  “You are no better, my friend.”

  I laughed in remembrance of our adventures. “I admit I have demonstrated a lack of judgment at times, but we are men of a certain stature and ought to endeavor to display it. Besides I would rather not catch the pox. James Singleton has it, you know. Even the whores will not touch him now.”

  “A pox on the pox.” He sighed in dramatic fashion. “Do you understand how bored I am of these village girls with their provincial tricks? This opera company will bring us a new bevy of luscious females, just waiting to be plucked. And, to boot, they are Italian. From Venice, in fact! Everyone knows Venetian women are experienced in the ways of lovemaking. Recollect, I haven't had an Italian since that pretty, little dancer last year.” He opened the opera program. “A Miss Lancieri will play The Queen of the Night. Miss Bertinetto will play Papagena. And a Miss Sebastiano will perform the role of Pamina. They all sound enchanting.”

  “Calm yourself, De Courcy,” I teased. “For all we know, they’re hideous crones.”

  He glared. “Say what you will, but I shall attempt to teach more than one of our Venetian lovelies the art of English lovemaking.”

  Despite the enjoyment I had at Will's expense, something tingled at the base of my spine, as if urging me to be vigilant. As the stage curtains were drawn and the orchestra played its first notes, I remained on guard, waiting for…something. Someone.

  The sensation plagued me into the first act, but I barely heard a word sung by the men playing Tamino and Papageno. It was not until the second scene, when the soprano playing Pamina was dragged in by the sorcerer Sarastro’s slaves, that I was able to concentrate on something other than the ominous clamor in my gut.

  I heard her before I saw her.

  Her ethereal soprano voice cut through the noise of the theater. The most exquisite sound I had ever heard, commanding yet sweet, her voice managed to cut through the remaining din in the playhouse, even silencing a set of old women gossiping in the stalls. Every gaze flew to her.

  Her voice made my heart ache.

  Standing downstage, illuminated by gentle light, stood a dark-haired beauty. Embodying the character of Pamina as no singer had ever done, she held her head high with an air of calm resolve. Her plaintive singing had me leaning forward in my seat, eager not to miss a single note. Such purity of tone, such emotion. It was all I could do not to let out a gasp.

  “Well, well,” Will commented, clearly appraising the soprano’s obvious charms. “She is delightful.”

  “Look elsewhere for your tawdry entertainments, my friend. She’s mine.”

  Call it sorcery. Call it fate. As I listened, I knew I had to have her. I had never seen such a creature. Dark-haired with the voice of a siren and seemingly-black eyes that beseeched. Her beauty called to me in a way I did not understand. My head had been turned before but this feeling seemed new. Indeed, my unexpected ardor had me rustling in my seat, clenching and unclenching my hands with the need to touch her. When the character of Tamino professed his love for her, it was all I could do not to vault out of the box, run toward the stage and pummel the man.

  When the last note of her solo spiraled into soft nothingness, several women in the audience let out sobs. Indeed, my own breath seemed to catch in my throat. Possessed by a strange fear, worried I'd never see her again, I flipped open the program, desperate for a name. In the flickering gaslight, I found it, and my heart ceased its mad galloping.

  Claudia Sebastiano.

  I smiled to myself. To see her name held the promise of intimacy with her. When she glided off the stage, disappearing into the wings like a sprite, I did not feel quite so bereft. I would know her.

  By my mother's grave, I swore I would know her, or die trying.

  May 26, 1820

  I must see her again. It was my first thought upon waking and my sole motivation the entire day. So much so I have booked a spot in the audience for the next three performances. If I were a poor man, I would find a way to attend, even if it meant foregoing my next meals.

  May 29, 1820

  Tonight, in answer to her siren call, I made my way backstage after the performance. Weaving through the maze of wigs, sets and racks of costumes with efficiency thanks to previous assignations with actresses. Enjoyable dalliances, but none of which had left me trembling in anticipation as I did now.

  I had no i
dea why I should feel so nervous. I was not the sort of man to tremble before a maiden, but something about this one had me checking my appearance before leaving the manor.

  A stagehand led me to Miss Sebastiano’s dressing room. With a knock on her door, he called out, “Signorina, there’s a gentleman here to see you.” He passed my card under the door. The stagehand winked at me and then he disappeared down the cluttered hall.

  I knocked again and paused at the door before entering her room. Thinking I heard a response from inside, I opened it a crack. Through the opening, I watched her for a moment.

  She stood in the corner of the room at her vanity table, adjusting some trinkets on the tabletop. She still wore her stage make-up and costume but her natural beauty shone through, even under all the artifice. Even garish stage makeup could not disguise it. I swallowed with some difficulty as I admired the contours of her face. With eyes downcast, she appeared the personification of modesty.

  I mustered up my best Italian accent. “Signorina…”

  “Go. I want no visitors tonight.”

  Stunned, I remained in my spot. She hadn’t spared me a single glance. I could barely stammer an apology.

  I watched her, through less misty eyes. She began to put her stage jewelry into a plain box. Her shoulders hunched and she let out an almost-musical sigh. Her fatigue could not have been more plain and I longed to ease it.

  “I said go away,” she repeated, still without a glance in my direction. Her voice, so bright during her performance, cracked with distrust and pain.

  I bowed, grieved to upset her. “Please accept my apologies, madam. It was not my intention to distress you.”

  For the first time, she raised her gaze to me. Her lips parted with a gasp and her cheeks blushed a deep rose. “Scusi, signore. I did not look at your card. I thought you were someone else.”

  “May I introduce myself, signorina?”

  “If you wish.” She eyed me with clear suspicion as I stepped into the dressing room.

  “I am Mr. Dawlish.”

  “Dawlish. I have heard the name mentioned here.”

  “My father is Sir Reginald Dawlish.”

  “A baronet?”

  Surprised at her boldness, I let out a nervous laugh. “Why, yes, he is.”

  “I should have guessed. I have met a few of your kind.” She looked me up and down, and it was my turn to blush. “What is it you want?”

  “Merely, to make your acquaintance, dear lady, and to compliment you on your performance tonight. It was perfect.”

  “It was not, but I thank you.”

  I advanced another step into the room and my hands itched with the need to rake through her hair. “I had prepared to speak Italian, but your English is excellent. Your accent lends great charm to our language.”

  “I am a singer. It is my job to know your language.”

  With a distrustful flair of her nostrils, she expressed her desire for our conversation to end. The encounter was not progressing as I wished. I did not want her to think me a Stage-Door Johnny, even though I had been one in the past, and appeared one now.

  “Miss Sebastiano, I came here to let you know your singing moved me. I have never heard such a wonderful Pamina.”

  “Again, I thank you.”

  I smiled, hoping to break through her cold demeanor. Had she been any other woman, I would have already left the room, but her sweet face compelled me to stay. She intrigued me, this Italian who sang like a lark, but who had the wary attitude of an injured animal. “Will you be in Shanley long?”

  “Our company has been hired for a year, but I one day hope to make my debut at the Italian Opera House in London.”

  I beamed at her, happy she’d revealed even this minute detail and thrilled she’d remain in Shanley for such a long period of time. Our tiny, provincial playhouse could not rival the larger theaters in London, but I gave thanks it had drawn her here. “The London audience will adore you, as does our local audience.”

  She stared at me for what seemed to be the longest time, her dark eyes flashing in interest. From my short distance, I tried to determine their exact color. In every light thus far, they had appeared black and mysterious. As I took a cautious step toward her, I basked in their glimmer, a warm coffee brown. Her brows, similar in color, came together over her nose. I could see she didn’t know whether or not she could trust me. After moments of silent deliberation, she smiled, a quiet surrender. Her gaze softened, and I felt as if I had been granted the greatest gift.

  I searched for another topic, eager to continue our conversation. “You are from Venice, I hear. I have visited your charming city before.”

  “I miss it. England is very different.” She looked about the dressing room as if its walls were the very borders of England.

  “The last time I was in Venice it was for the carnival. It was like nothing I’d ever seen. Rich costumes, wonderful wine. Oh, and the food was glorious.” I had also been witness to debauchery and orgies but would not mention it. Venice during carnival was a licentious place. “Is your family still there?”

  She frowned and turned away from me.

  “I apologize, dear lady, for raising a subject that appears to grieve you.”

  In order to alleviate the mood, I asked if she would be willing to attend a dinner party at Dawlish Manor and sing one or two songs for the assembled guests.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Forgive me, sir. Other rich men have invited me to such dinner parties. When I arrived, I discovered I was the main course.”

  The thought made me want to glower. “Dear lady, I naturally assumed you would come with a chaperone.”

  After an awkward pause, she smiled. “Then I accept your kind invitation.”

  I excused myself and walked toward her dressing room door, as a sense of triumph made my chest swell.

  “Mr. Dawlish?” she called.

  I turned to her, only to find a strange look on her pretty face. “Yes?”

  “Other men have visited me after the opera,” she began, clearly choosing her words. “Their manners have not been as fine as yours. Thank you for showing me kindness.”

  With those words of gratitude, I was lost.

  I was hers.

  »»•««

  The bed felt different. After a few nights’ sleep, I’d grown accustomed to the lumps in the mattress at the Shanley Inn. For some reason, it now seemed softer, more of a cushion. With my arms flung over my head, I stretched out my legs and toes, sighing as the comfortable mattress moved with my body. I yawned and tried to move my arms back down to my sides.

  They wouldn’t move. Someone had tied them to the posts at the headboard.

  Frantic, I looked to my sides, but the room was too dark to discern any detail. I did notice gold threads glinting in the bedspread underneath me.

  Just as in Hugh’s bedspread at Dawlish Manor.

  After hearing Margaret’s incubus theory, my pulse sped up. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears in the silence of the room. I could almost hear his. It had been days since he’d appeared to me and I hadn’t been able to shake the sensation he’d been watching. Fearful anticipation made my breath catch in my throat.

  A slow creak sounded from the darkest corner.

  “You’ve been a naughty girl.”

  His deep voice set off a chain reaction of sensation in my body. Goose pimples covered my skin as I shivered in fear and morbid anticipation. My tongue felt thick with the need to taste him. And always, always, the yearning low in my belly. As I writhed, terrified at being restrained, moisture seeped into my panties. I’d never been so mortified.

  More creaks. He moved closer to me. I gazed into pitch black but saw nothing. As I waited, unsure what he would do with me, my chest grew heavy. It became harder to breathe. Mouth open, I sucked at each breath, wondering if he’d stolen them all from me. “Hugh. Please.”

  All at once he was on me, bathed in a golden glow, straddling my waist. A strong presence, made more astonishing by
his nudity. I gaped, taking in hard thighs and the hardness between them. He ripped open my collar, his face transformed by jealousy. He touched the love bites made by Finn and seethed, “How could you let that man…touch you?”

  “I’m sorry.” Tears flooded my vision and, for a moment, all I saw was the pain in his eyes. “I didn’t think you cared.”

  He leaned in closer, putting his face near mine. Tears made his own eyes shine. “Care? I adore you. How I yearn for you, oh, cruelest of women.”

  He rocked above me. The weight on my chest grew heavier, cutting off my breath supply. I wanted to move my hands to touch my throat, but couldn’t move.

  “Do you promise,” he said on a breath, “to remain true to me? To forsake all others?”

  I nodded, unable to speak, desperate to have my airways unblocked. Certain I was turning blue, I would have agreed to anything. As much as he terrified me, I still wanted him with a force that shamed me.

  “We can still be together, my love.” He shifted his weight and the pressure on my chest lessened. “You can still join me.”

  He moved atop me, pushing up my gown, pulling down my panties. I breathed in deeply, relieved to taste sweet air. He stroked his cock and I allowed my knees to drop to the sides. In one smooth thrust, he was inside me and everything else in the world fell away. Fear. Breath. Sanity. Nothing mattered when Hugh Dawlish loved me.

  His velvet cock scored me, shooting heat into all my extremities. With one hand on my tied wrists, the other pushing up my thigh, he fucked me hard. He might have been a drill, he moved with such precision. Although his power frightened me, I delighted in his control of my body and my entrance remained moist enough for him to take total possession.

  Possession.

  “My Hugh,” I moaned. “Yes.”

  “You belong to me, Renata. Never forget it.” To underscore his words, he kissed me with brutal need, as if he were dying of fever and I was a cool basin of water. “Salva me.”

  Just like that, I exploded in a wild orgasm that had me seeing new colors and hearing new sounds. Voices surrounded us, all of them screaming Hugh’s name. Sure I flew about the room, I clutched at the sheets to keep me grounded.