The Man Behind the Scars

Angel held the phone in her hand, the sleek mobile hot to the touch, and pretended her heart hammered against her ribs as it did because of the ghastly London traffic on the streets all around her. Because of the traffic, and not this mix of fear and expectation, anticipation and—she could scarcely admit it to herself, she could barely allow that it was true on any level—desire.

She thrust that from her mind. For the rest of the drive she braced herself for the impact of seeing him again—and was not at all prepared for the rush of disappointment she felt when she didn’t.

He wasn’t there to meet her. He wasn’t there at all.

That first day, and every day that week, she met with a team of solicitors. At least eight of them, gathered around the large, gleaming, probably ancient and frighteningly expensive table in the elegant dining room of Rafe’s extremely fashionable town house in a neighborhood of central London so impossibly wealthy that hereditary fortunes seemed to hang in the air, like ripe fruit on bountiful trees.

Angel had felt distinctly underdressed and unworthy simply exiting the sleek silver car when it rolled to a stop at the curb. As if the pavement itself rejected the likes of her. As if the neighborhood was judging her as she stood there, trying not to gape about her in awe and a kind of anticipatory wonder; as if the desperately lofty Georgian town houses that ringed the famous and well-photographed square, with their impressive facades and storied, monied histories, were looking down their figurative noses at her and her grand plans to rise so far above her station.

She knew that was all in her own head. She was equally certain, however, that the forbidding and encompassing censure of the assembled collection of solicitors was not.

“I thought I was meeting Rafe,” she said when she took the seat she was waved into with something just short of actual courtesy, and looked around at the blank wall of uniformly condemning male faces. She was only happy that her voice remained steady.

“We are the earl’s legal team,” the most visibly disapproving, most outwardly judgmental one said from his position at the head of the scrum. “We are here to represent the earl’s interests and, naturally, to protect yours.” His fine, patrician nose let out a single, pointed sniff, a veritable masterpiece of judgment swiftly and irrevocably rendered. “Miss Tilson.”

Angel smiled thinly, feeling far more raw and exposed than she should. More raw and exposed than she’d ever allow herself to show these haughty, self-important men.

“No need to say my name as if it hurts your mouth,” she said sweetly, leaning against the stiff back of the chair to brace herself, knowing full well it would look casual and assuming to the men frowning at her. “It will be Countess soon enough.”

Upon reflection, it did occur to her that a comment like that no doubt cemented the entire legal team’s already low opinion of her in one fell swoop. But there was no taking it back, and she told herself it was better to get on with the whole of the inevitable judgments and the snide glances from the start. The excruciatingly chilly reception of the solicitor brigade was, after all, a pale shadow of the reaction she could expect from the press. From the world. Like mother, like daughter, and so on.

So she simply accepted it. And signed.

And signed.

There were reams upon reams of documents. Towering stacks of them. Many, many duplicate copies. There were contracts to go over clause by mind-numbing clause, and then question and answer periods for each one of them. Yes, she understood the meaning of the word dependant. No, she did not foresee any issues arising from compliance with rider B, clause 8. And on. And on. There were a thousand little details before the Eighth Earl of Pembroke could marry that, apparently, had to be raised and then handled accordingly by a fleet of trained professionals assigned to each separate, extremely overanalyzed minor point in question. The definition of adultery. The consequences thereof. The schooling of any and all heirs. The discharge of debts.

Her debts, to be clear.

Cheques were written to Chantelle’s credit card company, and to the letting agency that rented Angel her flat. Angel was required only to sign where bidden to sign, and to divulge all the information requested when asked for it. Her entire financial as well as personal history, for example, while the phalanx all around her took copious judgmental notes and requested additional documentation.

It was all so practical, so cold-blooded, Angel thought, on something like the eighth day, sipping at the tea that was perpetually at her elbow, always steaming hot, and always accompanied by a tempting array of small, perfectly formed pastries. The constant perfection of the tea and pastries reminded her why she was doing this, should the wall of dreary dark suits all about her tempt her to forget. The tea and pastries represented the perfect, carefree life she was about to start living, for which this purgatory of papers was no more than a necessary precursor.