"My spectacular beauty, of course," she said in very nearly the same matter-of-fact tone he'd used before. She might have been discussing show horses herself, she thought. Teeth to hooves. "I'd be an excellent trophy. And as we all know, rich men do love their trophies."
"Indeed." Again, that wicked brow. Arrogant. Powerful. He was not, she thought belatedly, a man to be trifled with. "But as we all also know, even the greatest beauty fades in time while wise investments only multiply and grow. What then?"
Angel had not anticipated actually having this conversation, she realized then. She certainly had not imagined being quizzed on her potential contribution to the marriage of convenience that was meant to save her. Possibly because she hadn't really expected that her brilliant plan, dreamed up in coach class over an insipid plastic cup of vodka orange, would go this far, she admitted to herself. Had she been kidding herself all along?
But no, she thought firmly. What, exactly, were her options? She might be enjoying this conversation with Rafe McFarland, Lord Pembroke, Earl of Great Wealth, far more than she'd imagined she might when she'd first seen him-but whatever the outcome, she was fifty thousand pounds in debt. And while her unreliable mother was the one who had got her into this, Chantelle was unlikely to be any help in getting her out. Sadly, she knew Chantelle entirely too well.
This was up to her to solve. On her own. Like everything else in her life.
"I am delightful company," she continued then, emboldened by her own panic.
She forced herself to smile as if she was perfectly at ease-as if she routinely rattled off her résumé to strange men as if she was up for auction. Which she supposed she was, actually. Not a cheering thought.
"I'm very open-minded and won't care at all if you have a sea of mistresses," she told him.
She meant it. She'd seen that in action with Bobby and her own mother, hadn't she? And it certainly seemed to work for them, as they'd been married for years now. Who was Angel to judge the way they conducted themselves and that marriage if they themselves professed to be happy?
"In fact," she continued, trying to pretend her mother's marriage didn't make her feel dirty by association, somehow, "I'd expect it. Rich man's prerogative and all that. I have very little family, so there will be no tedious holiday functions to suffer through and you won't have to lay eyes on them at all, should that be your preference."
She thought of the great, raucous Christmases with loving if careless Bobby and all the Jacksons with a sharp twinge of guilt. She thought of her stepbrother Ben's quiet concern and determination to be there for her whether she liked it or not, just as a brother would, she imagined, with another searing pang. Allegra's unobtrusive but steadfast support. Even Izzy. But she cast it all aside.
"I have a great many opinions and enjoy a good debate," she said, trying to think of the things an earl might want in a wife, and able only to picture those endless period dramas on the BBC, all petticoats and bodices and everyone falling all over their titles in and out of horse-drawn carriages, none of which seemed to apply to this situation. "But I'm also perfectly happy to keep my own counsel if that's what you'd like. I can be endlessly agreeable."
"You make yourself sound like some kind of
marionette," Rafe observed. Not particularly kindly.
"If by that you mean the perfect companion and wife," Angel replied sweetly, "then I agree. I am."
She searched his face again, but saw nothing new. Nothing that told her if she was swaying him one way or another. Nothing that explained why she was suddenly so very determined that she should succeed in this. Only that strange, curiously him mixture of violent ruin and male beauty, so striking and imposing and impossible to look away from. Only that cool, measuring gleam in his dark gray eyes. She pulled in a breath, prepared to launch into another list of all she had to offer, whatever that might be, but he reached over and put a finger on her lips.
Bold. Hot. Shocking.
Something kicked deep inside of her, hot and low. She felt his touch like flame. Like a blazing light that seared through the darkness and made her shine too. Her head spun around and around, even after he dropped his hand back to his side.
"You can stop," he said mildly. Almost casually. "I'll marry you."
* * *
He didn't know what he expected her to do. Squeal with joy? Weep with gratitude? Naturally, Angel did neither. She only watched him for a beat, then another, and he had the distinct impression that she was shocked. Stunned?
While he simply wanted her. Any way he could have her. If it would take a healthy application of his money, well, he had plenty of it, and he needed a wife besides. He told himself it was purely practical. And yet that want pulsed in him.
Still she gazed at him, as if trying to work something out.
Perhaps, he thought darkly, his money was not quite dirty enough to ensure her blindness to his scars after all. It hadn't yet prevented him from seeing the truth of himself either, and he knew more of that truth than she ever would. He could hardly blame her.
"Come," she said then, surrendering her empty champagne glass to a passing waiter and then holding out her hands. She did not smile, though her too-blue eyes began to gleam. "Dance with me."
Rafe did not dance. But then, he also did not propose marriage, however offhandedly, in crowded ballrooms to perfect strangers, much less those who had just shamelessly announced they were in the market for a rich husband-any rich husband, presumably. When he thought about it in those terms, he couldn't think of a single reason why he shouldn't sweep this odd, arresting woman into his arms as if they were lovers and perform the steps to a waltz he hadn't executed since the lessons his mother had insisted upon a lifetime ago.
But he would take any excuse he could get to touch her, wouldn't he? What, he wondered, did that make him?
She was graceful, warm and deliciously curvy in his arms. The small of her back curved enticingly beneath his palm, the fingers of her other hand were delicate in his, and she smelled of fresh flowers with a kick of spices he couldn't identify. She tilted back her head to look at him, and for a moment he only gazed at her. So pretty, he thought. And so surprising, when nothing had surprised him in far too long. It made her dangerous, he knew, dangerous to him, but he shoved the thought away with his customary ruthlessness.
"Out of curiosity," he asked, need and desire making him hard, making him fierce, "how many other men have you asked to marry you tonight?" He studied her face as he guided them across the floor. "I only ask in case there is some kind of battle for your affections I should prepare myself to fight."
"Not at all." Her expression was very nearly demure-and therefore wicked by implication. He felt the impact of it move through him, making him burn. Want. "You are my one and only." He was fascinated by her. And by his reaction to her. "But aside from my obvious charms, which, let's face it, no man could possibly resist, why do you want to do this?"
He let himself look at her for a long moment. The sharp blue eyes. The pretty face. The lush mouth so at odds with the quick, disarmingly honest words that came out of it. And her short, choppy blonde hair that, he realized, he wanted to drag his hands through as he angled that mouth of hers to fit his. He wanted that with an intensity that surprised him anew. He wanted it all.
He hadn't let himself want anything in years. But he wanted her.
And best of all, there was nothing hidden. No artifice. No murky agenda. No great pretense. She was in debt. She needed money and, he suspected, the security of knowing that there would always be more. Meanwhile, he needed a wife he did not have to woo. A wife who would not want things from him that he was unable to give-things that most wives would expect from a husband, but not this one, not if he bought her. She might see the monster in him, over the course of their time together, but she would be paid well to ignore it.
It was anything but romantic-and that was precisely why he liked it. And her.
He told himself it was just that simple.
"You are the first woman in years who has approached me as a man, instead of a desperate charity case before whom they might martyr themselves for an evening," he said quietly. He might know there was no man beneath his monstrous face, but she did not. And still she treated him like one. How could he resist it? "More often, they do not approach me at all. And I must marry after all. It might as well be a woman with no expectations."