Nola clung to the edge of the bed, as far away from her new husband as she could possibly manage to get without ending up on the floor – not that she objected to sleeping on the floor, but she’d already tried that and had only managed to earn herself another of his monumental spankings instead of any sort of freedom from his nightly pawing of her person.

Her bottom was still throbbing from the one he’d given her this morning for resisting his advances. She snorted softly to herself in her mind. It wasn’t as if she’d planted a fist in his face and run out. He was too damned big for that and easily managed to subdue her embarrassingly feeble attempts to escape, growling in that horribly low, almost animalistic way of his, “Didn’t I tell you to stay put, little lady?”

If there was anything she hated more than the sarcastic way in which he said those last two words, Nola didn’t know what it was. But then he reminded her, rudely: being spanked. She was twenty one years old, long in the tooth to get married by everyone’s standards but her own, and much too old to be put over anyone’s lap for a paddling.

But that was exactly what her new husband had done, and without so much as a second’s hesitation, she found her nose buried in the celery green and cream velvet bedspread that darkened rapidly as he reached over to her nightstand and lifted the heavy mahogany hairbrush off the silver hand mirror and applied it so quickly and liberally to her nearly bare bottom that she had no time to catch her breath between the painful, stinging splats. She had so much hair that her brushes were custom made, wider and heavier than most, solid mahogany through and through, dammit. And her relatively thick flannel nightgowns that covered her neck to toes, weren’t permitted in the marriage bed, she’d been boldly informed night before last, when they’d first come together as man and wife.

A first, he had refused to let her wear anything to bed – the past two nights he’d ripped each of her gowns from neck to waist in one brutal motion. The only thing that had saved her was that last night had been chillier than usual, and he couldn’t have missed the way she was shivering on her side of the bed, so he’d risen and given her a shirt of his own that ended most obscenely mid thigh. But it was better than nothing.

So the only thing covering – barely – her well rounded bottom was that thinnish dress shirt of his, which was no covering at all, really, especially against the wrath of her brush wielding husband.

She didn’t want to cry. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t from their wedding night, when he’d first spanked her for resisting him, and she’d been so shocked and amazed and humiliated to find herself over his lap that she had dissolved into tears immediately. It didn’t seem to make much of a difference to him one way or the other whether she tried to be stoic or dissolved into a humiliating morass of weeping and wailing – it didn’t lengthen or shorten the spanking in the least, regardless of what she did.

But it was damned hard not to cry. The man had to be some sort of deviant expert at spanking women or something, although she certainly had never heard of any such acceptable profession.

He didn’t need a profession, anyway. He was Brandon Sawyer, of the Baltimore Sawyers, and his father had parlayed some seed money from his grandfather’s gold strike in the mid-eighteen hundreds into enough money that no one in the family would ever have to work for a living again – not that Brandon was a member of the idle rich. He wasn’t – not in any way. Under his stern hand, the family fortunes had grown to truly astronomical proportions, and yet he’d completely resisted every single simpering maid that had been dangled beneath his nose – and sometimes even between his sheets, depending on how desperate the poor girl’s father was.

He’d turned up his nose at absolutely every female paraded before him – often much less than politely. His father and grandfather despaired of him. He was the last of the line, in his late thirties, and had absolutely no interest in providing them both with the heir they coveted. Hell, he hadn’t even had a by-blow bastard whose background they could overlook in favor of the blood ties.

Until he saw Nola.

She wasn’t even supposed to be at that ball. The only reason she was there was because she was friends with Wilde Everest, the famously effete author/poet, who begged her to accompany him to the annual New Year’s Masquerade Ball thrown by Sawyer’s aunt Lydia. This year the ball was to be even more spectacular than usual, since they were saying goodbye to the nineteenth century and hello to the twentieth.

Despite all of the hubbub surrounding the ball – drawing of the possible gowns the hoi polloi would be wearing had appeared in the newspapers, along with bold speculation about who might be escorting who and what the favors for that particular year might be – Wilde, as usual, was whining about having to make an appearance, although if he hadn’t been invited he would have been completely crushed. He declared to Nola with a dramatic sweep of his lily white hand that if she didn’t accompany him he was going to have a dreadful time and no doubt contract a sick headache from the sheer boredom that would lay him low for nigh onto a month.

Nola had to break into a broad smile as she’d considered her histrionic friend where he perched on the genteelly worn settee in their relatively modest parlor. He looked like a particularly exotic bird taken from the jungles of Africa and set on display in a Woolworth’s somewhere. A true gem among rags – the exact opposite of how she felt when she let him drag her to these things.

Nola’s family – the Hughes – were made well enough to do by the sweat of her father’s brow as he worked in a livery at first, then ended up owning the place and several more like them scattered across the West. But Sawyer money made theirs look like a true pittance, despite the market boom and her father’s cautious investing.

But the annual ball on the Vanderbilt estate – complete with a luxuriously appointed, Vanderbilt owned train to carry everyone out from the city to the Hudson Valley – was well out of Nola’s social strata. It was out of Wilde’s, too, but that was overlooked since he was the darling of New York society, and considered to be a witty and amusing addition to any party by the ladies who set such standards – despite the fact, or maybe because of it, that he rarely accepted any such invitation.

This ball, however, was not to be sniffed at, and he was desperate for Nola to come with him, promising her the world if she’d just agree to appear on his arm for a mere hour of her time – which Nola knew would become no less than eight to ten hours, at least, if she was lucky. Wilde protested too much, however – he adored all of the attention he was going to garner simply by setting foot in the place.

It was very hard for her to turn Wilde down. He was just too much fun, and would pull such faces that he had her giggling until she couldn’t breathe for it, so she finally agreed. Her mother, of course, had seen his invitation as much more than it really was, and had gone all out, commissioning a dress from the same dressmaker that Louisa Vanderbilt herself used – supposedly.

All Nola knew was that she was heartily tired of the constant fittings and shopping. She would have much preferred to be out riding or writing, but, as her mother was fond of saying thousands of times a day, neither of those pursuits was going to get her a husband.

Nola had assumed – even as time went on and no one caught her eye – that she would be allowed to make her own choice about whether or not to get married, and she was most distinctly leaning towards “not”. Most of the men in her social set were either fops or rakes, and she’d never had a liking for either of those types. In fact, she’d never had much of a liking for any particular man, perhaps because her father was such a thorn in her side.

But apparently she was wrong. Her mother had always harped at her, of course. That was what mothers did. All of her friends’ mothers were exactly the same, but of course, all of them were already married, and most had had the coveted grandchildren. Her father – despite how much they clashed on everything else, from women’s suffrage to women’s rights – had never said a word about her unmarried state.

They had made a grand entrance, having arrived fashionably late and eschewing the free train ride, despite its many temptations. When Wilde had mentioned his distaste for the inevitable crowds, her father had offered his best carriage with four matched, pure white horses, along with the livery and coachmen to staff it to the hilt, as if they were European royalty instead of a raffish writer and the daughter of a man who got his start shoveling shit.

If there was one thing her mother did well, it was show off her daughter. Her gown was of the palest pink satin overlaid with the finest, paler pink lace, making the dress appear almost white with the slightest of blush about it. Its off the shoulder design was paired with white lace gloves, which differed from the current kid fashion but matched the dress nicely. A set of gossamer wings had been attached to the back darts of the dress, and she carried a restrained but elegant pink mask on a long pink holder, approximating some sort of fairy or nymph. She wore only the best jewels her mother owned – soft, pink teardrop sapphires in her ears with an elegantly simple, matching teardrop nestled just above her cleavage.

But it was her hairstyle that caused a murmur to run through the crowd. The luxuriously thick length of her deep russet hair wasn’t swept up in the current fashion, but rather its outrageous natural curls were played up and placed enticingly over the bosom the s-shaped bodice created.

Since she had no concerns or worries about attracting a husband at this crowd, and her mother had always considered her hair to be her best asset, they had agreed that her unusual hairstyle – on top of its unusual color - couldn’t hurt. And Nola was only too happy not to have the weight of it piled on her head all evening in some intricate – and undoubtedly uncomfortable – do.

Wilde, of course, adored it. He loved anything unusual, anything guaranteed to set society on its ear. He came as Lord Byron, in complete costume – wig, tights, and all. They were a pair, the two of them, and the gasps they generated rippled across the ballroom floor.

Wilde escorted her right out onto the dance floor as the musicians struck up a waltz. He whirled her around the floor for a few minutes before others decided to join in, grinning from ear to ear the entire time.

Nola hit him on the shoulder with her mask. “You’re enjoying this entirely too much, you realize.”

The grin only got bigger. “Sometimes they need something to set them all on their ears.” His eyes met hers. “And you look absolutely ravishing this evening. If I had it in me, I’d propose right now.”

Luckily – despite her mother’s long held hopes - they both knew he didn’t have it in him. Wilde didn’t have much use for most people – women especially. And he had a very distinct, very taboo use for most men, although the two of them only spoke about it in the most round about of terms, usually when he’d left a lover, or a lover had left him and he was distraught.

She was in the middle of a giggle when a strange man, who was much too big and physically imposing for polite society, tapped Wilde on the shoulder, then replaced him without so much as a word to the other man, or missing a step of the waltz.

Nola tried to disengage from him, not wanting to continue with this oafish man, who held her with all too much familiarity, especially for someone to whom she’d never been properly introduced.

But he plain and simple wouldn’t let her stop – much less go - and Nola wasn’t of a mind to want to create a scene that might end up in the gossip section of the papers, ending her mother’s life right then and there from the scandal of it. So she went along, praying for the end of the song, and boldly glaring at him for his effrontery.

He merely raised an eyebrow back at her, but said nothing, throughout the entire dance. He didn’t try to introduce himself, which would have been the least impolite thing to do. He didn’t try to engage her in small talk. They stared at each other until the music stopped, when he turned her loose and stepped back, bowing slightly, then leaving.

Feeling somehow bereft, and not knowing why, Nola found herself being gasped at for the second time in less than ten minutes. She made a beeline for Wilde’s side, which was quite unlike her. She wasn’t such a vulnerable flower that she felt like she had to cling to her escort the entire evening – that was another reason why Wilde often favored her with invitations.

He had a full cup of liberally spiked punch for her, which she drank gratefully while trying desperately not to reach out and clutch his arm.

Wilde knew her well enough, though, bless his heart, that he reached out and took her hand himself. “My, my, my. I think my little reclusive rose has been singled out of the herd by the tiger. Let’s hope he waits a suitable amount of time before going in for the kill.”

Nola frowned fiercely at her companion, never more thankful that she didn’t have to strain her neck to do it, since he, unlike that loathsome ape who had appropriated her for what should have been their dance. “Would you mind elaborating on that metaphor for those of us who don’t usually circulate in these lofty realms?”

Wilde chuckled into his own punch. “You mean you don’t recognize him?” Nola shook her head, unable to keep herself for scanning the crowd for his face again, despite how much she’d instantly disliked the man. Tsking loudly, Wilde informed her, “I thought you read the papers? That man is Brandon Sawyer, of the gold mine Sawyers, bachelor at large extraordinaire. And if your mother ever gets wind of the fact that he singled you out for a dance . . .” he let the sentence trail off dramatically.

“Really? Why?” she asked blithely.

Wilde rolled his eyes. “Because, my dear girl,” he loved to use that expression, even though they were born only months apart, “he is the most sought after bachelor in the City. In America. Probably in the entire world. His family has buckets and buckets of money, and he’s knocking on forty and has never been married. He never comes to these things – Lord knows why he’s here now, probably some sort of family pressure – and if and when he does, he just broods alone in the corner like a big, dark lump, declining any and all invitations for social intercourse.”

Gossip was another sideline of Wilde’s, and in this case, Nola was only too happy about that particular proclivity. She didn’t know what it was about that man, but she did know she had disliked him on sight. And yet she was dying to know everything she could about him, for some strange reason.

“And yet he still gets invited to balls by the Vanderbilts?” she asked, surprised that anyone would bother to extend a second invitation to the likes of him.

She’d never heard Wilde snort. It was kind of cute and made her smile as he answered her. “My love, the Sawyer fortune makes the Vanderbilts look like they just stepped off the boat. Besides, his Aunt Lydia married a Vanderbilt.”

Nola’s eyes went wide. That was pretty impressive. But then her mouth twisted wryly. “Money might not buy happiness, but apparently it buys a certain amount of acceptance.”

“Don’t believe it. Money definitely buys happiness – or at least a reasonable imitation thereof.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, and she couldn’t help but laugh. Wilde was much better at being unrepentantly brash than she was, especially in public – although to her mother’s horror, she did her best to be a lot like him.

Although she felt eyes on her occasionally throughout the rest of the dance, there were no further incidences. Nola didn’t know very many people who were there – and even fewer men – but she did know some of the women, and Wilde’s presence opened a lot of doors for the two of them. They were generally accepted into any clique they approached, and several emissaries from different clutches of women even came to them as they stood talking quietly by an ornately wallpapered wall.

After being introduced to more people than she’d probably ever met in her twenty one years on Earth, and being whirled around the floor several times by various brothers, uncles, and cousins of the friends – new and old – she’d found so far, Nola stepped out onto the veranda, pulling her mother’s stole tight around her shoulders, crimping her wings badly, she was sure, but she needed a minute alone. Wilde was surrounded by a group of eager sycophants who were hanging on his every word.

In other words, he was in Heaven.

She was feeling the effects of a little too much punch, and way too many people, despite the size of the room, and loved the blast of cold winter air on her face as she gazed out over what she was sure were gorgeously manicured lawns, barely lit by the pale moonlight.

“You should go inside. It’s too cold out here for you.”

She whirled around cautiously, so as not to slip in her kid slippers, but couldn’t make anyone out. Nola didn’t recognize the voice – but she knew it wasn’t Wilde. In his current situation with all of those adoring eyes looking up at him, he wouldn’t have cared if she’d frozen to death out here.

But she didn’t like the idea of some stranger trying to tell her what to do. She had enough of that from her father. “I’m fine, thank you,” she replied, her tone as chilly as the air around her.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” the masculine voice detached itself from a pitch black corner of the portico, the end of a cheroot flaring for mere seconds before he carelessly flicked it away and confronted her. There was no other way to put it. He planted himself in front of her and grabbed her hand away from where it had been clutching her fur to her bosom and pumped it up and down several times.

It was the stranger who had stolen a dance from her hours before. It was as if he’d been lying in wait for her out here.

“My name is Brandon Sawyer. And you are Nola Hughes.”

Obviously, he’d done some intelligence gathering about her, but that didn’t impress her in the least. Neither did his manners, or rather the distinct lack thereof. She withdrew her hand from his with an icy stare, saying, a she turned to go back into the ballroom, “We still haven’t been properly introduced.”

A proper introduction was made by third parties - a mutual acquaintance, often a relative. They most certainly were not made by the individual themselves.

He snorted impolitely, but then she was coming to expect the impolite from him. “Oh, come now, Miss Hughes. Your companion is hardly the height of conformity, and you’re standing there wearing a completely scandalous loose hairstyle, and you remain stubbornly unmarried at the age of twenty one. You can hardly comment on convention without looking around for the proverbial bolt of lightening.”

Her face got tighter at his words, if that was possible. Brandon wasn’t really sure. He didn’t know her well enough to judge that – yet.

“Regardless, Mr. Sawyer. I bid you good night.” She dropped him the barest of curtsies, and tried to sweep by him, going so far as to lift her skirts to make sure they didn’t touch him as she passed.

Brandon wasn’t so socially inept that he didn’t know when he was being given the cut, but he had a hard time not breaking into a huge grin that this young upstart woman would do such a thing to him. Didn’t she know who he was? Could she truly not care that his family was powerful enough to completely crush hers and their upper crust pretensions with a mere flick of their wrists? A word here or there?

As she passed, his hand shot out and grabbed her forearm – an innocuous touch, as touches went, but a definite no-no according to polite society. Bachelor gentlemen didn’t touch unmarried women. Of course, they weren’t supposed to be out here alone under any circumstances, either, but here they were.

“I will be coming to call some time this week, dependant on my business.”

Not “may I come to call” or “I might like to come to call” but he would becoming, and it was quite obvious to Nola that he didn’t expect that she would decline the honor.

“I’m afraid I shall not be home,” she spit out, trying to reclaim her arm, but failing miserably. Finally, she simply stood stock still, staring at the doors to safety, heartily wishing she’d never come out there.

Partly because he wanted to, partly because he wanted to shock her out of the blasé façade that had settled onto her usually expressive face, Brandon used his leverage with her arm to tug her towards him, pulling her off balance, so that she landed flat against his broad chest. Then he stole a kiss as quickly and efficiently as he’d stolen the dance, planting his lips onto hers firmly, not letting her go until he was good and ready to do so, and making sure she realized that she couldn’t get away from him until he let her.

Her skirts kept her from being able to kick him, and even stepping on his foot didn’t garner so much as a grunt, dammit. There was nothing she could do but bear it. He couldn’t keep her out here forever.

She hoped.

But this man was a force of nature, completely unconstrained by convention, and she knew that if she managed to get back to the relative safety of Wilde’s side, it would only be because he was feeling somewhat benevolent. And Nola had the distinct impression that he and benevolence had never been fast friends.

And now, days after marrying him, she knew the absolute truth of that thought.