“Yes, darling.” I smiled, and he raised my hand to his lips. I leaned forward and kissed him, and he cradled my face in his hands.

“Stay with me this evening?” I said archly. I had my own bedchamber—I’d insisted on it!—and Marcus never presumed without my invitation, but I allowed him regular access. These little shows of affection kept him happy, and my bills paid.

“My pleasure. After I’ve told Sabina her bedtime story.”

Sabina, always Sabina. He doted on that stupid child. I sometimes wondered if having her hadn’t been a mistake. It wouldn’t do to be replaced in his affections by my own daughter, would it? But I smiled and murmured, “What a good father you are,” and kept on smiling until his footsteps had faded off into her room, and then I poked my tongue out in his direction.

I stamped off to my bedchamber, regarding my reflection in the polished steel mirror as Iris stripped the pins from my hair. The rose-red gown suited me. I had the complexion for red, and not many girls did. Even the Imperial Lady Julia had looked sallow under her red bridal veil. My bridal veil, now . . .

My wedding day had been an enchantment. The white gown, the crimson veil, the procession, the sacrifice at the shrine—everything was perfect. Well, except for Marcus; he just looked old. Still, I found I could ignore him quite easily. At a wedding, the bride is the star. I even had a pair of gladiators to duel in my honor.

No, not the Barbarian. He’d been whisked away by his lanista on a tour of the provinces. Afraid of me, no doubt, and what I’d do if he dared show his face in Rome. Well, he should have been afraid. I would have thrown him to the lions without a moment’s hesitation, and I still would. If he’d dared show his face at my wedding—!

Well. It was a marvelous day. Simply marvelous. But the night . . .

Marcus by rights should have carried me over the threshold, but he was too old and feeble. Paulinus carried me instead, and then everyone bowed out and left me alone with my new husband in the dark bedroom.

“Your hair—?” As I slid my red veil off, Marcus had gestured to the tumble of short curls that it had taken Iris and her hot tongs most of the morning to create. After Arius sheared me, I’d kept my head carefully covered until the hair grew a little.

“Oh, I got dragged off into a dark alley by a very nasty old woman with shears.” Artlessly. “My hair is probably adorning some bald matron’s wig at this very moment.” That was the story I gave my father, too, when I came home from the gladiator barracks with my hair chopped within an inch of my head. Oh, I could have gotten Arius thrown to the lions, but I’d have had to explain to Father why I’d gone to his room in the first place, and even Father’s indulgence had limits . . . No. Better to deal with Arius in my own time.