The Man Behind the Scars(13)

       
           



       

"It may not seem so to you," he said gruffly, "but I am seeking to protect you as much as me."

"I am the woman who marched up to you at a ball and asked if you'd be so  kind as to let me marry you for your money," Angel replied, letting her  smile deepen, shoving the lurid images of a possible wedding night  aside. She let her smile grow infectious. Very nearly merry. She didn't  understand the part of her that longed-there was no other word for it,  to her confusion-for him to return it. "I don't think I really need  protection from you. From myself and my insane little scheme? Very  possibly-yet here you are going along with it against, I am sure, all  legal advice." She raised her brows. "Maybe I should ask your

battalion of attorneys if you need protection from me. I suspect they think you do."

* * *

Rafe had thought of very little but this woman.

He was a busy man. He came to London as seldom as possible-he hated this  dirty, sprawling city as much as his disreputable brother had loved it,  with all of its ceaseless noise and all of those pitying, prying  eyes-which meant he had to cram as much business as he could into the  short span of time he was actually in town.

But business was nearly impossible to conduct when all he could think  about was Angel. That clever gleam in her too-blue eyes and the  answering, knowing sort of curve to her wicked mouth. That perfectly  curvy body that today made a pair of denim jeans into a blessing,  clinging to her hips and outlining her beautifully shaped legs. It took  him long moments to drag his attention to the drapey sort of black  sweater she wore, the sort that usually seemed to require endless  fiddling and arranging. Not that Angel was doing either. She merely  watched him.

He worried that she saw far too much. Or not nearly enough. He couldn't  decide which was worse. She was marrying him for his money, and he was  marrying her because she'd done such a good job of pretending he was not  the monster he knew full well he was. And because he could not seem to  help but want her-so much so it consumed him. It ate at him.

It made him wish that things were different-that he was different. It made him hope.

He'd expected her to back out of this, as any sane person would. And  every day she did not-he hoped a little more. And that hope was more  dangerous to him, more treacherous and insidious, than anything else  could be. He knew it.

But he could not seem to stop it.

"I am more than adequately protected," he said shortly. Far more shortly  than was necessary. "As the number of attorneys present in your  sessions should indicate, I have no intention of losing my family's  wealth and consequence. For any reason."

"And certainly not to a gold-digging tart like me," she said in that dry  yet amused way, though her blue eyes were suddenly unreadable. "I hope  you found the results of my physical examination to your liking."

He knew there was a reprimand there. He could sense it, despite her light tone of voice and her easy, open expression.

"Do you expect an apology?" he asked softly.

"Not at all," she said at once, though he didn't quite believe her. But  she smiled in that way of hers, that made him want to respond in kind,  that made him feel things he was determined he could not feel. That he  certainly shouldn't allow himself to feel. "I was presented with your  relevant medical records this morning. Allow me to congratulate you on  your good health, Lord Pembroke. Long may it last."

"If you want an apology," he said evenly, feeling more solicitous of her  than he should, than was wise, when he knew he had nothing inside of  him, nothing to give, "you need only ask for it. I may or may not tender  one upon demand, but you should know that I certainly don't appreciate  the passive-aggressive approach. Ever."

He imagined he could hear her heart beat then, loud and fast in the  hushed quiet of the hall, or possibly he only wanted to believe he  affected her in such a way. That she reacted to him at all. He took far  more satisfaction than any kind of good man would have in the faint  color that stained her cheeks.

"I think this is our first argument as an engaged couple," she breathed,  and he had the sense that she was far angrier than she was letting on.  That she was hiding all manner of things beneath that tough exterior of  hers. It should have concerned him-but instead, he found he only wanted  to see what was underneath. "A milestone."

He wanted to see what was behind her breezy manner, her seemingly  effortless confidence. He wanted to see her. He wanted to see her in a  way he'd never wanted anything, not in more years than he could recall.  He hardly knew what to make of it. Maybe that was how he found himself  moving from the doorway and into the hall, until he was standing much  too close to her.                       
       
           



       

And it was still not enough.

"I told you how little interest I have in masks," he heard himself say.

"We all wear masks, Rafe," she replied. Was that temper in her  breathless voice? Or was she warning him that she already saw through  his mask of scars to the far

uglier parts of him that lay beneath? "Some of us have better reasons  for that than others, but the most you can expect is that people try to  be honest with you despite whatever things they might need to hide  behind. Or you might find you have to explain your own mask."

He didn't want to talk about masks, especially not his own. Her blue  eyes seemed to darken the closer he stood to her, and once again he had  the near-uncontrollable urge to bury his hands in her short, choppy  blonde hair and drag that mouth of hers to his. He wanted to take and  take. He wanted to glut himself on her.

Hell, he just wanted her. However he could get her.

He had been furious at himself for that since that night at the Palazzo  Santina. He was no less furious now. He wondered what, exactly, showed  on his face, because she swallowed then, and he had the sense she forced  that cocky little smile of hers.

"I'm speaking figuratively, of course," she said softly. Lying. He was  sure of it, and he couldn't seem to care as he should. He wanted her to  participate in this dance, this delusion. He wanted her to be a part of  it too. "The

figurative you. Not the actual you."

"What a great comfort," he said, his own voice dry.

He wanted to reach over and pull her into his arms. He wanted to strip  away her clothes and test the perfection of her curves with his palms.  He wanted. He was all too aware that she was prepared to fulfill certain  obligations in this cold-blooded marriage of theirs-and that none of  those obligations had anything at all to do with this need that rolled  through him, distracting him and infuriating him. He contented himself  with the smallest touch, just the finger of one hand, tracing the bloom  of color against her cheekbone. He felt her slight shiver, quickly  checked, like a dark triumph deep inside of him.

"And is that what I can expect then, Angel?" he asked quietly, his voice a low rasp. "Your honesty?"

"Of course," she said, her voice little more than a whisper, her eyes wide and locked to his.

He wanted that to mean more than it did, more than it could. He wanted  that faint shiver he felt to be all of the things it could never, would  never, be. She treated him not like a monster, but as a man, and he  found that was more dangerous, more potentially ruinous than all the  other women who had recoiled in horror at the sight of him. They'd been  fooled by the ugly surface into thinking that was what made him  monstrous. But Angel ran the risk of learning the truth.

He should never have let this get so far. He should end it now.

But instead, he traced a pattern along her cheek, and pretended he was whole.

"I'm sure I signed something to that effect," she said.

Those perfect brows arched high. Again, that easy, insouciant smile that  captivated him far too easily. That made him believe in all manner of  things he knew better than to trust. That made the little flare of hope  light anew, small but sturdy. And brighter all the time, heaven help  him.

She smirked. "In triplicate."

* * *

Angel Tilson married Rafe McFarland, the Eighth Earl of Pembroke, a man  she wondered if she knew less now than she had when she'd met him, if  that was even possible, on a gray spring day that was wet and dark and  the precise color of his cold eyes.

It was precisely three and a half weeks since the day she'd met him at  Allegra's engagement party in the Santina royal palace. She wore a dress  of deep, midnight blue, like the summer night sky far in the north, far  away from this quick, quiet ceremony in a London registry office. It  was the least bridal, least gold-digging sort of garment she'd been able  to come up with from her closet, having declined numerous offers from  Rafe's staff to find her something appropriate to the occasion. Angel  had been determined to go to her wedding, at least, in a dress that was  entirely hers. As nothing else would be when this day was over.