The Scandalous Collection. Кейт Хьюит
of humming beneath her skin, that made him seem so much larger than life. So much darker, so much bigger, as if he could dwarf the world with his cold gray eyes alone.
“I had started to wonder if you were a figment of my imagination,” she said, speaking before she knew she meant to, automatically adopting that airy tone, as if the very sternness of his ruined face demanded it. “It never really occurred to me that there were so many practical matters to attend to. You always imagine it’s just straight from the romantic dance to the happily ever after, don’t you? No ten days of contracts to sign, just a cheerful song as the credits roll.”
He didn’t appear to move so much as a muscle. And still it was as if he moved closer, towered over her. She swallowed, hard.
“Have you convinced yourself this is a romance, Angel?” he asked in that dark way of his, that seemed to settle into her bones and shift like some kind of flu through the rest of her. Hot. Cold. And back again. “I fear you have set yourself up for a grave disappointment.”
She smiled. She had the strangest feeling that if she didn’t, if she showed even the faintest hint of the confusion or panic inside of her, he would call this all off. And she didn’t want that. It was amazing how much—how strongly and how deeply—she didn’t want that. Far more in this moment, she realized in some surprise, than before.
“If I had,” she said, so casually, as if she felt nothing at all but a lazy sort of passing interest in this conversation, “the past ten days would certainly have cured me of it, wouldn’t they? I assume that was the point.”
Another long, dark pause. His brows lowered. That grim mouth was set in an implacable line. Angel could not seem to stop reliving the feel of it against her own. She thought, suddenly, with a flash of searing heat, of their wedding night. Would they have one, in the traditional sense? Did she want to? Would she feel this man against her so soon? In her? Why did the prospect make her feel short of breath?
“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