“Really?”
“If you marry me.”
Her brows knotted. “Can’t you find someone else to marry?”
I could, but now, sitting here with her, I didn’t really want to. She pressed her mouth together, accentuating the little bump on the bridge of her nose and the peak of her lips just beneath the tip. They were attractive—more attractive than I was willing to admit.
“No, I chose to marry you,” I said.
“How old are you anyway?”
“You are forward.”
“Why? It’s a valid question.”
I leaned against the windowsill, putting my hands in my pockets. “I’m thirty-four. Thirty-five by the time we get married.”
Her jaw worked as she studied me and I wondered what was running through her mind. She had a quick, bold gaze that made it look like a million thoughts ran through her head at once. And they probably did.
“Why did you wait so long to get married?” she said.
I could tell her the truth, but the truth was boring and ugly. The truth was that I liked working and I liked beauty and I’d spent my twenties indulged in both. My grandmother had passed on her love of carving marble, teaching me until my work could rival the masters.
When she’d died, I’d immersed myself in my art, filling her ancient house with angels. My education, my work and training as a diplomat, and my obsession with marble had consumed my life for years. There had been little time for anything else, even women.
The other part of the truth was less palatable. That part had to do with the scar on my face and all the monsters in the back of my brain. It was the part of me that carved angels like it was a ritual that could cleanse the darkness from me. It was the part of me that would always be ugly no matter how many marble faces looked out from the shadows of my house.
“I was busy,” I said.
“Sleeping around?” Her eyes were daring.
I gave her a severe look that made her pull back.
“Don’t be aggressive, Lia, it’s in poor taste,” I said. “I suppose it’s good you’re marrying a diplomat because you need taught a few lessons in tact.”
She gaped at me.
“Close your mouth,” I said, enjoying her reaction.
She obeyed automatically and then frowned, seemingly annoyed by her reaction.
“So do you want my money or do you want to give up on your dream of going to the academy?”
I saw her struggle and for a moment, I almost felt bad for her, but then I banished my pity. She was a big girl and she knew the world she’d grown up in. She knew this was the way things were done, the way money moved in our circles. Her body was always going to be bartered for something, whether it was wealth or power.
“I’ll marry you,” she whispered.
“Good,” I said. “We’ll have a small wedding at the chapel with our families. Then you can start at the academy this fall semester and I’ll get half my fortune and we’ll both be happy. Shake on it?”
She didn’t move so I walked over to her and knelt before her. Her wary eyes followed my every move and she tensed inside her giant sweatshirt as I looked up at her. When I put my hand out, she hesitated, but shook it.
“All of that doesn’t sway me,” she said. “Just so you know.”
“All of what?” I feigned ignorance.
She glowered. “All of that—your face.”
I let my fingers linger over my scar. “You mean this?”