The Scandalous Collection. Кейт Хьюит
Rafe said in that cool way of his, as if he did not care one way or the other, but was simply reciting the facts. “I promised you I won’t rush you into the physical part of our arrangement, and I’ll keep that promise.” She felt his voice like another slap, so cold and sure when she was coming apart, when she was fighting so hard to keep from falling to bits all over the floor of the car. “I have no problem maintaining separate addresses in future if that is what you want, but not until the question of heirs is settled. And I apologize if this distresses you, but until then we will live at Pembroke Manor, with only occasional forays into Glasgow and even fewer trips down to London.”
Too many thoughts whirled through Angel’s head then, making her feel slightly sick. There was a heat behind her eyes that she was desperately afraid might be tears, and she knew that if she unclenched her hands they would shake uncontrollably.
And none of that even touched the storm that raged inside of her. It didn’t come close.
How could she have forgotten the truth about this relationship? How could she have tried to protect this man, tried to shield him from hurt, when she should have known he would not do the same? Because why should he? This was a cold and calculated arrangement, not a love match. Not even a like match—as they’d hardly known each other long enough to tell! Why had she let herself lose sight of that for even a moment?
Why was there a part of her—even now—that wanted it to be different when it so very clearly wasn’t and would never, could never, be?
He did not want her by his side at all times because he was swept away in emotion, which might have been forgivable, no matter how confining. No, he demanded it for the oldest reason in the world—because he wanted to make sure that any heirs that might turn up were his, and he had no particular reason to take her word on that subject or any other subject, because they were total strangers to each other. And she had no right to complain about that, or even about the fact he was whisking them off to Scotland in the first place, because this was the deal. This was what she’d signed up for—literally. She got access to his money. He got to make the decisions.
She hadn’t imagined how difficult it was going to be to swallow those decisions when he handed them down. You fool, she chastised herself with no small amount of bitterness. You pathetic fool—what did you expect?
“And what if I can’t do it?” she asked, not surprised to hear that her voice sounded like a stranger’s. So far away. So thin. Desperate, she thought. She didn’t look at him, but then she didn’t have to. He still occupied twice the space that he should have done, all that power seeming now to pollute the air around them.
“You can leave any time you like,” Rafe replied evenly. Angel noted that he did not sound unduly concerned about that possibility, though she thought she heard a faint undertone of challenge, even so. “But I feel compelled to remind you that should you choose to do so, you leave only with what you brought into the marriage. Your debt will remain intact, but instead of owing a credit card company fifty thousand pounds and any accrued interest, you will owe it to me.”
He made that sound distinctly unappealing.
“I think I’d prefer to take my chances with the institutionalized usury actually, when you put it that way,” Angel managed to say, with some remnant of her usual tone.
“As you wish,” he replied, as he had once before, his tone very nearly mild. She hated him for it. “You need only speak up and we can end this arrangement right now.”
She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to! But that would be cutting off her nose to spite her face, so Angel said nothing. Rafe, meanwhile, shrugged with utter unconcern, as only a wealthy man who would never have to make such decisions could, and then he pulled out his mobile again and began to scroll through his messages. Dismissing her that easily.
Leaving Angel to fight a sudden war with herself, to keep those tears from spilling over her cheeks. To keep from flinging herself out of the car to appease the syrupy panic that kept growing ever tighter inside of her. To keep herself right there in her seat, beginning—too late, of course, she was always too late—to understand exactly what it was she’d done.
It was long after midnight, and Rafe stood out on the small rise some distance above the manor house that nestled between the thick woods on one side and the loch on the other, separating the Pembroke estate from the mountains that dominated the land by day. He could only sense them now in the stillness of the night, great masses hovering high above the land, as only the faintest wind moved through the sky above him and shivered its way through the trees.
He loved this land. He loved it with a desperation and a certainty that knew no equal, that allowed for no comparison. He felt that love like a fact, an organic truth as relevant to his existence as the air he pulled into his lungs, the hard-packed earth beneath his feet. He remembered well his early childhood in these woods, Pembroke land as far as the eye could see, backing up to national parkland along the northern border. He’d spent long hours with his beloved father as they walked this land together in those happy years before his father’s death, silently exulting in each pristine step they took into fresh snow in winter, or pausing to note the full burst of bright yellow gorse in spring.
Those days had been the happiest of his life. They’d been before. Before he learned the truth about the rest of his family, and how little they had cared for him. Before he’d lost everything that had mattered to him in the army. Before he’d accepted the dark truth about himself.
His gaze moved from the inky black woods around him and the night sky crowded with stars above to the manor house below him. For a moment he looked at the still-lit window of the countess’s chamber, once occupied by his own mother, as it had been by every Countess of Pembroke before her, and the wives of the lesser lords the family had boasted before they’d been elevated to the title. He wondered what she was doing, his reluctant wife, in that room he’d avoided for years now, ever since his mother had died. He wondered if Angel would ever forgive him for dragging her, so urbane and sophisticated, to a place she must consider the worst backwater imaginable. A thousand miles from nowhere.
He wondered why he cared. He had not married her to please her. Quite the opposite, in fact—he’d married her to please himself. He was not at all comfortable with the notion that one might be dependant upon the other.
He shoved the uncomfortable thoughts aside and focused instead on the east wing of the manor. Or what was left of it.
“How amusing of you to fail to mention that when you spoke of your manor house,” Angel had said in that dry way of hers upon their arrival, stepping from the car to frown up at the house before her, appearing impervious to the Scottish chill with the force of her impertinence, “what you really meant was part of a manor house. You may wish to disclose that little tidbit to one of your future wives before you present them with the great ruin they are meant to call home.” Her smile had been touched with the faintest hint of acid. “Just a thought.”
“I’m glad to see you’ve regained your spirit,” he’d replied in much the same tone. “And that sharp tongue along with it.”
“I certainly hope the roof holds,” Angel had continued in that razor-sharp tone, magnificent in the cold light, her blue eyes piercing and the prettiest he’d ever seen. “I neglected to pack my carpentry kit.”
It was not a ruin to him, he thought now as his mouth curved slightly at the memory of her words, and would not be until the last stone crumbled into dust. Nonetheless, he could not argue the point. Scaffolding had just been raised, but it couldn’t mask the fact that an entire wing of the manor house was a burned-out husk of what it had once been. All of those centuries, gone in an evening. Priceless art and objects, to say nothing of some of Rafe’s best memories—of lying in his father’s study on the thick rug near the fireplace, reading as his father worked at the wide desk that had dominated the far wall. All of it so much ash, scattered into the woods, the wind.
He would build it again, he vowed, not for the first time. He would make it right—he would make it what it should have been.
He