The Man Behind the Scars

Not to mention, deciding such things for himself. After all, he was bringing far more to this devil’s bargain than she was. It was difficult to imagine, standing by herself in the middle of a flat in a neighborhood she doubted he’d ever visited or could locate on a map, why a man like him—an earl, of all things—would bother. There had to be any number of willing would-be countesses scattered about the country, no matter what he thought. Angel couldn’t possibly be his only option, the way he was hers.

She hated how that made her feel. So … needy. Desperate. Two things she’d never felt before, not about a man. There was nothing about the feeling—itchy and unpleasant—that she liked.

She moved restlessly around her small, serviceable flat, her gaze skipping over all the detritus of this life she’d been so desperate to call her own, that she was now equally desperate to get rid of. All the books she’d hoarded, kept away from Chantelle’s hoots of derision as she’d called Angel Lady Muck—each of them an escape, a fantasy, the education she’d denied herself. Surely wanting to leave the life she’d made, whatever might have become of it, spoke of deep deficiencies in her character. It had to. But then, what part of her behavior over the past few days did she think offered a counterargument?

“Not at all,” he replied coolly, snapping her back into the conversation. “But it is, of course, a period for reflection and research. I suggest you avail yourself of it.”

“Reflection and research?” she echoed, and then laughed. Keep this light, she reminded herself. Easy. She ran her fingers over the spine of one of her favorite books, an old classic involving titled gentlemen, intricate revenge plots and all manner of epic adventures. “I think you’ll find I’m an open book. Written in very simple and easy-to-read sentences.”

“But I am not,” he replied, with what might have been dark humor, had he been another man. There was a pause, and she wondered where he was. What he was doing. What sort of room he stood in, having this bizarre conversation with a woman he hardly knew. Did he regret this already? Did she? Why couldn’t she tell her own feelings where this man—this situation—was concerned? “You may live to wish you’d taken this more seriously, Angel.”

“Yes, yes,” she said dismissively, her voice far more blasé than she actually felt. “Marry in haste, repent at leisure. Etcetera. I promise to think hard and deep about the ways in which your money could alter my life for the better, for as long as you think it necessary.”

“You do that,” he told her in his serious way, his voice all cool command and dark authority over the phone. And, she thought, somewhat disapproving too. She didn’t like how much that bothered her. “I will send for you on Monday morning. We’ll discuss the ramifications of this arrangement then, in detail and with my solicitors.”

“And what if I want to speak to you before then?” she asked, more to see what he would say than from any current burning desire to have access to him. And in any case, it was only Tuesday morning now. Monday was a long way away. It was going to be difficult, she thought, to have a savior in hand yet still out of reach. To be still smack in the middle of her life, with her problems, while the new and far better, far easier life dangled just beyond her fingertips.

She might very well go mad.

“You seem remarkably adept at leaving extraordinarily long voice-mail messages,” he replied silkily, and she felt it like the sharp reprimand it was. “I imagine you will have no trouble whatsoever leaving more if you feel it necessary.”

She stood there near the front window of her flat, the phone in her hand, for a long time after he ended the call. She stared out toward the street, her heart beating hard and too fast, seeing nothing at all but the future she’d conjured up out of sheer bloody-mindedness, pure shamelessness … and her big mouth.

Maybe she’d taken this whole make-your-own-fairy-tale thing a bit too far.

She imagined that was a common enough reaction when you suddenly found yourself in an actual palace, stepsister to a real, live Cinderella. And when faced with Allegra’s happily ever after, complete with an island kingdom and a handsome Prince Charming, it was perhaps understandable that Angel had conjured up fantasies of modern-day princes who would dance off into bliss and happiness with a common girl like her, all choirs of tweeting budgies and swelling, rapturous soundtracks. But that was the shiny, happy Disney version, wasn’t it?

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