thrust my hands—not in anything resembling fists—into the pockets of my trousers, and considered her.
I should have been outraged. I told myself I was.
But the truth was, there was something about her that tempted me to smile. And I was not a man who smiled easily, if at all.
I told myself it was the very fact that she had come here, when our wedding was not until the morning. It was the fact she seemed to imagine she could put herself between her grasping, snobbish father and me when these were matters that could not possibly concern her. Daughters of men like Dermot Fitzalan always did what they were told, sooner or later.
Yet here she was.
It was the futility of it, I thought. My Don Quixote bride with her wild hair, tilting at windmills and scowling all the while. It made something in my chest tighten.
“I will answer any questions you have,” I told her magnanimously, trying my best to contain my own ferocity. “But you must face me.”
“I’m looking right at you.”
I only raised a hand, then beckoned her to me with two languid fingers.
And then waited, aware that it had been a long time indeed since I had been in the presence of someone...unpredictable.
I saw her hands open, then close again at her sides. I saw the way her chest moved, telling me that she fought to keep her breath even.
I learned a lot about my future bride as the seconds ticked by, and all she did was stare down at me. I learned she was willful. Defiant.
But ultimately yielding.
Because when she moved, it was to the spiral stair that led her down to the stone floor where I stood.
Perhaps not yielding so much as curious, I amended as she drew near, folding her arms over her chest as if she was drawing armor around herself in order to face me.
I took a moment to consider her, this bride I had purchased outright. This girl who was my revenge and my prize, all in one.
She will do, I thought, pleased with myself.
“I suppose,” I said after a moment, in the cool tone I used to reprimand my subordinates, “you cannot help the hair.”
Imogen glowered at me. Her eyes were an unusual shade of brown that looked like old copper coins when they filled with temper, as they did now. It made me wonder how they would look when she was wild with passion instead.
That lust hit me again. Harder this time.
“It is much like being born without a title, I imagine,” she retorted.
It took me a moment to process that. To understand that this messy, unruly girl had thrust such an old knife in so deftly, then twisted it.
I couldn’t think of the last time that had happened. I couldn’t think of the last person who had dared.
“Does it distress you that you must lower yourself to marry a man so far beneath you?” I asked, all silk and threat. “A man who is little more than a mongrel while you have been deliberately bred from blood kept blue enough to burn?”
I could not seem to help but notice that her skin was so fair it was like cream and made me...hungry. And when her eyes glittered, they gleamed copper.
“Does it distress you that I am not my sister?” she asked in return.
I hadn’t expected that.
I felt myself move, only dimly aware that I was squaring my shoulders and changing my stance, as if I found myself engaged in hand-to-hand combat. I supposed I was.
“You cannot imagine that the two of you could be confused,” I murmured, but I was looking at her differently. I was viewing her as less a pawn and more an opponent. First a knife, then a sucker punch.
So far, Imogen Fitzalan was proving to be far more interesting that I had anticipated.
I wasn’t sure I knew where to put that.
“As far as I am aware,” she said coolly, “you are the only one who has ever confused us.”
“I assure you, I am not confused.”
“Perhaps I am. I assume that purchasing my hand in marriage requires at least as much research as the average online dating profile. Did you not see a picture? Were you not made aware that my sister and I share only half our blood?”
“I cannot say I gave the matter of your appearance much thought,” I said, and I expected that to set her back on her heels.
But instead, the odd creature laughed.
“A man like you, not concerned with his own wife’s appearance? How out of character.”
“I cannot imagine what you think you know of my character.”
“I have drawn conclusions about your character based on the way you allow yourself to be photographed.” Her brow lifted. “You are a man who prefers the company of a very particular shape of woman.”
“It is not their shape that concerns me, but whether or not other men covet them.” This was nothing but the truth, and yet something about the words seemed almost...oily. Weighted. As if I should be ashamed of saying such a thing out loud when I had said it many times before.
Though not, I amended, to a woman I intended to make my wife.
“You like a trophy,” she said.
I inclined my head. “I am a collector, Imogen. I like only the finest things.”
She smiled at me, but it struck me as more of a baring of teeth. “You must be disappointed indeed.”
Though she looked as if the notion pleased her.
I moved then, closer to her, enjoying the way she stood fast instead of shrinking away. I could see the way her pulse beat too fast in her neck. I could see the way her copper eyes widened. I reached over and helped myself to one of those red-gold curls, expecting her hair to be coarse. Much as she was.
But the curl was silky against my fingers, sliding over my skin like a caress. And something about that fell through me like a sudden brush fire.
If I was a man who engaged in self-deception, I would have told myself that was not at all what I felt.
But I had built my life and my fortune, step by impossible step in the face of only overwhelming odds, on nothing short of brutal honesty. Toward myself and others, no matter the cost.
I knew I wanted her.
She reached up as if to bat my hand away, but appeared to think better of it, which raised her another notch or two in my estimation. “You have yet to answer the question. You can marry anyone you like. Why on earth would you choose me?”
“Perhaps I am so enamored of the Fitzalan name that I have hungered for nothing but the opportunity to align myself with your father since the day I met your sister. And you should know, Imogen, that I always get what I want.”
She swallowed. I watched the pale column of her neck move when she did. “They say you are a monster.”
I was so busy looking at her mouth and imagining how those plump lips would feel wrapped around the hungriest part of me that I almost missed the way she said that. And more, the look on her face when she did.
As if she was not playing a game, any longer.
As if she was actually afraid of me.
And I had dedicated my life to making certain that as many people as possible were afraid of me, because a healthy fear bred respect and I did not much care if they feared me so long as they respected me.
But somehow, I did not wish this to be true of Imogen Fitzalan. My bride, for her sins.
“Those who say I am a monster