over. That life was finished.
She could make herself over completely into one of those Sloane Rangers she’d never quite had the money to wholly emulate, flinging herself in and out of Harvey Nicks with a charge card in her hand and nothing more important on her mind than her next lunch date. She could even become one of those fixtures on the London charity circuit, forever attending this or that ball, draped in fabulous gowns and envy-inducing jewels, mouthing platitudes to every reporter she encountered about the great philanthropic work she was doing in all her couture. She was newly rich, and had married a pedigree. She could choose any life she wanted, surely. She could buy it, come to that.
And only contend with her husband—she still wasn’t used to that word, and wondered if she’d ever be, if it would ever simply be a term she used instead of something more like a bomb—on the odd occasions they crossed paths. Which, if she knew anything about busy men with great amounts of wealth, a subject she had studied in some detail for some time, as it happened, would be increasingly rare as time wore on. That was how these marriages worked, no matter what claims Rafe might have made about how unmodern he planned to be.
She folded her hands together in her lap, and only then remembered that she now wore a ring on her formerly bare finger. Once she noticed it, it was impossible to ignore the alien feeling of metal and stone on her hand, digging into her flesh. For the first time, she looked down at her hand and really took a close look at the ring he’d put there.
It was stunning. As was, she reflected, every single thing of his she’d seen, from his suits to his car to his lovely town house. Of course the ring was gorgeous. The man, clearly, had exquisite taste. He was far too good for the likes of her, Angel knew, and the truth of that seemed to twist inside of her in a new, unpleasant way. She concentrated on the ring instead.
A large dark blue, square-cut sapphire rose above a bed of gleaming diamonds and platinum. One ring of diamonds circled the blue stone, while two other rings of diamonds sat on either side, though lower, each circling another, bigger diamond. The dark blue center stone glittered softly as Angel turned her hand this way and that, and something about it seemed to echo deep inside of her, hitting hard at that same well of sensation Rafe seemed to arouse in her so easily.
“It suits you,” Rafe said, breaking into another surge of panic—surely it was panic this time, and none of that far more dangerous desire—that was rushing through Angel, making it hard to breathe. She was almost grateful.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, unable to look at him. Too afraid of what he might see if she did.
“It was my grandmother’s.” There was something in his voice then, some kind of emotion. She didn’t know how to respond to it. She didn’t know why she wanted to, with an intense and sudden surge of that same protectiveness as before. “I’m glad it will finally be worn again.”
“Do you have your mother’s ring as well?” Angel asked.
She didn’t realize that was, possibly, an impertinent question—impolite, at the very least, when she’d only meant to make a bit of conversation—until his silence made her glance over at him. His face was shadowed. Dark.
“Sorry—” she began, but he shook his head.
“My mother gave her wedding rings to my older brother,” he said after a moment, his voice entirely too calm. And distant. “They had a similar aesthetic, while my sensibilities were always more closely aligned with my grandmother’s—my father’s side of the family.”
Angel had the sense he was choosing his words carefully. Then she focused on the most important word.
“Had?” she echoed hesitantly. She was conscious, suddenly, of that same urge she’d felt in the registry office. She did not want to cause this man pain. Even with an innocent question.
“They both died some time ago,” Rafe said matter-of-factly, any emotion she might have sensed gone as if it had never been, hidden away beneath his scars. He shifted slightly in his seat, turning to better face her, the stern set to his mouth discouraging any further comment. “Is it really the time to discuss our pasts, Angel? We are already married. Perhaps it would be better to let them lie.”
There was a kind of menace in the air then, simmering in the close confines of the backseat. Or was it simply a kind of warning? Either way, Angel ignored it.
“I insist that you tell me about your former lovers,” she said expansively. She felt that she had to dispel the strange tension that seemed to hover between them, as dark as the day outside the car, or sink into it without a trace. “All of them. I want to know everything, so if we run into any of them at any point in time, I will have access to all their salacious details while I am pretending to be polite.”
“I am fascinated that you assume my former lovers are the sort of people we will be running into at all,” Rafe said in a dry voice. “I don’t know whether to be complimented or insulted.”
“And yet you show no interest in mine?” Angel shook her head. “That is certainly no compliment.”
That brow arched high. “My interest in your former lovers is directly related to your medical records,” he said. “Had they been anything less than pristine, we would have had a very different discussion.”
In a different marriage, Angel thought, eyeing him, she might have been tempted to loathe him for that remark. But he was only being practical. Depressingly, insultingly practical.
“I am most definitely insulted,” she said. “And not about medical records.” She waved a hand in the air. “It’s about the appropriate level of flattering jealousy, Rafe. I do require a little bit of it. It’s only polite.”
He gazed at her until her smile faded slightly. Then his hand moved, slow yet sure, and he reached up to brush a thumb across the curve of her jaw, the swell of her lips, sending a slow, sweet burn spiraling through her.
“You work so hard to be provocative,” he murmured, his eyes so dark, his ruined face so intent. “What if I were to take the bait, Angel?”
She pulled in a ragged breath, finding it harder to gather herself than it should have been, and still his hand traced patterns against her skin, dousing her in his particular brand of fire.
“I would wonder why you were so easily provoked,” she replied, her voice as uneven as her breath. His dark gaze was consuming, connecting hard and hot to something deep inside of her, making her feel as if she was melting. She could feel him—as if they were already naked, as if he was already inside of her, that powerful body moving over hers, driving her right over the edge—
“I will assume, as any gentleman would, that you are entirely untouched,” he said. He dropped his hand back to his hard thigh. His dark brow rose again, mocking her. “To be polite, of course.”
“Gentlemen and their virgins,” Angel said, as if the topic were one she had discussed endlessly and been bored by years ago. “What vivid fantasy lives you men have.”
“It is less the fantasy life and more the fragile ego,” Rafe replied, amusement gleaming in his dark gaze. “I think you will find the history of the world far easier to comprehend when viewed through the filter of male insecurity.”
“That is certainly true of my personal history,” Angel said dryly.
“You are a virgin bride,” he reminded her
