It was important to make all of that clear from the start. He wanted a marriage that was shot through with the cold light of reality. He wanted duty and obligation, responsibilities and rules. That would keep the monster in him at bay. That would curtail the inevitable damage.
He was doing this because it was more honest, he told himself. He was not promising her anything. She was not pretending to be in love with him. They would both get exactly what they wanted out of this, and nothing more. Surely that would keep her safe, if nothing else.
He put his hand against the windowpane then, letting the cold glass seep into his skin, reminding him. Who he was. What he could do. What, in fact, he’d done. The cold turned to a numbing kind of pain, of punishment and penance, and still he held his palm there, determined.
This was not about hope. It was about need.
All he had to do was remember that.
* * *
It was Friday when Angel saw an unexpected picture of herself in one of the horrible tabloids, tucked up next to Rafe as they’d headed toward his car after the engagement party on Santina. It crystallized her thus far shaky resolve to finish this thing before it really started. To call it off, as she’d been closer to doing every day. That was, she’d decided, the only sane thing to do.
She stood staring at the grainy photograph for far too long in the aisle of her local off-license, as if she expected it to divulge the secrets of her own heart right then and there. As if it could.
The girl in the picture had her head tilted invitingly as she gazed up at the dark, dangerous face of the man next to her. Even in a cheap and sleazy tabloid, Rafe was impressive—too much so—and Angel looked, she was embarrassed even to think, entirely too much like her money-grubbing, social-climbing mother, a connection the tabloid was quick to make itself. It made her cringe in shame, and then redden with deep embarrassment. And it brought home the unpleasant reality of what she’d set out to do.
What she was, in fact, doing.
The entire world would know that she was marrying Rafe for his money, just as Chantelle had married Bobby for his money before her. And they would be right. They would call her all those terrible names, like opportunist and the far nastier gold digger. And they would be right. She might as well simply give in now and accept that she was her mother, after all these years desperate to be anything but.
And the truth was, she didn’t think she could live with that. With herself, if that was who she became, no matter her reasons. She pushed her way out of the shop, making her way back down the street toward her flat, blinking back the emotion that rushed through her so unevenly and threatened to spill out from behind her eyes. She was a mess—she could feel it in every cell of her body—but she still refused to let herself cry. She refused. How many ways could she betray herself before there was none of her left?
A phone call from Ben, her would-be big brother, only made it worse. Her steps slowed as she answered, and she forced herself to adopt her usual flippant tone. It was harder to do than it should have been, and she didn’t want to think about why that was.
“What are you doing with the Earl of Pembroke?” Ben asked directly, in that way of his that reminded Angel that he did, in fact, worry about her. And about all of the many Jacksons, as if worrying was his foremost occupation, in place of his usual world-conquering.
It made her stomach clench in shame, around another bitter surge of panic. What would she tell him? How could she face him again if she did this crazy thing? Ben had never wanted anything but the best for Angel, however unlikely that seemed, given the cards she’d been dealt and the choices she’d made. This would disappoint him, deeply, as he was one of the few people who Angel had ever let get somewhat close to her. Because he had, despite her best efforts, she opened her mouth to tell him what was really happening.
But she couldn’t bring herself to do it, to tell him the truth. She realized she couldn’t quite bear to say it out loud. Not to Ben. Not to someone who would care, and would be so very sad for her. That made it all so squalid. So desperate and pathetic, somehow.
She mouthed something careless and shallow instead, hardly aware of what she was saying. What did it matter? When she got home, she would call Rafe and end this madness, and none of this would signify.
“Be careful, Angel,” Ben said. It made her throat feel tight. As if he could see. As if he knew. But he didn’t, she reminded herself. He couldn’t. He’d only seen that terrible photograph, which didn’t even show Rafe’s scars, and certainly didn’t show Angel’s true, mercenary colors. It was, in all the ways that mattered, a lie.