He gave her a droll look. “What does every man want? Prestige. More power. Access to the elite. There are still some investments and schemes almost impossible to achieve without a title behind your name and the blessing of the queen. Even Americans, as dogmatic as they are about their lack of nobility, are more likely to conduct affairs with a titled English gentleman, thus making my ventures overseas a great deal easier.”
“No one would ever mistake you for a gentleman,” Farah quipped.
That produced a dark sound from deep in his throat and a twinkle of amusement from his good eye. The Dorian Blackwell version of a smile and a laugh. “A full minute passed between insults. Does that mean I’ve succeeded in convincing you to reconsider your refusal?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Do you really need one?”
Perplexed, aroused, insulted, astonished, Farah couldn’t decide which emotion to land on. How could she make such an important decision in the bath of all places? A woman should at least be clothed appropriately upon considering a marriage proposal—command—or whatever this was. Blackwell was as persuasive as the devil, and just as tempting, truth be told. But she prided herself on being practical, didn’t she? Was there no other solution to the danger in which she found herself? She refused to accept that marriage to a criminal was her only option. What about her career? Her life? What about Morley? He’d be looking for her now. He might not have been too worried by her absence for tea on Sunday, as plans often changed, but when she didn’t show for work this morning, he’d already have started the search for her.
Could Morley not also offer her protection against someone who wanted her dead?
Perhaps, but despite her qualms regarding the Blackheart of Ben More, she couldn’t deny his merciless ferocity nor his intelligence or ingenuity. He ruthlessly vanquished his enemies; he could rid her of hers, as well.
But who would protect her from him?
Moreover, could she trust him to keep his word? What did he hold back from her? What angle of his hadn’t she considered? Farah knew Dorian Blackwell had his secrets, ones buried deep enough to be licked by the flames of hell. Could she be tied to them as his wife? Did she dare?
Ye canna marry anyone else, Fairy. Ye belong to me. Only me.
Her heart clenched and dipped, pulling the lids of her eyes down with the weight of an old and heavy burden. “This isn’t what he would have wanted,” she told herself in a wavering voice.
“You’re wrong.” Something about the hard words in a softer tone forced her to look at him, but when she opened her eyes, he’d turned away from her again. “Besides you, I was the only other person Dougan loved and trusted in the entire world. And, in turn, he was the only person who ever meant anything to me … because I had no Fairy to occupy my heart.”
Was that because he had no heart to occupy his chest?
Farah wished he would look at her. That she could see the coldness of his cruel features. That his frightening visage would chill the subtle warmth stealing into her chest, threatening to melt her resolve.
He remained facing the window, a swarthy shadow bathed in pastoral sunlight. For someone who sounded so English, he certainly seemed a part of this wild, sharp, treacherous landscape.
“What are you saying?” she prompted.
“Do you not think that had he lived, he would have wanted us to know each other? To get along, even. His closest friend and his beloved wife?”
His question rendered her speechless. The implications were something she hadn’t considered, something that could alter her entire perspective.
“I told you, he asked me to find you … Isn’t it a possibility that, in the event of his death, he might have granted a marriage between us his blessing? That, perhaps, he might have even wanted us to—care for each other?”
He made a disturbingly compelling point. “Care for each other? Is that possible?” she breathed, immediately wishing she had the presence of mind to keep her thoughts inside her head.
Dorian Blackwell’s silences had begun to be more meaningful than any words, and Farah’s mind whirled as he surveyed the emerald shores kissed by spring, and the clouds gathering in the distance.
Farah felt that with her age and experience came no small bit of self-awareness that the young rarely possessed. Most of her life, she’d considered her capacity for caring and compassion one of her strengths. Could she care for Dorian Blackwell? Of course she could. He was a person, wasn’t he? With needs and ambitions and—feelings. Though that last one might be up for some debate. The danger became, what if Blackwell transformed her ability to care so much from one of her greatest strengths into a profound weakness? If anyone would do something like that, it would be him, most likely without remorse or pity.
“Regardless of how we felt about each other, I would vow to take care of you. Could that not be a place to start?” He finally turned back toward her. In the sunlight, his scar looked whiter, deeper, somehow. Even in the light, a shadow lurked in his wounded eye, a shadow that hinted at a cavernous, abysmal rift that one could stare into and never find the bottom of. A reckless part of her wanted to try, and that had to be the most frightening impulse she’d had in her adult life.
Farah found herself wondering if anyone had ever taken care of him.
“I could allay a few of your fears,” he continued, obviously interpreting her silence as contemplative. “It would be a marriage in name and title, only. I would spare you the more—intimate duties of a wife.” He didn’t meet her eyes when he said this, and rushed on rather quickly. “Also, after we’d taken care of the threat to your life, I’d only require you to live with me here at Ben More Castle a month out of the year, and in London a month of the season. For appearances and what-not. Other than that, your time and fortune would be yours to do with as you wish. You could occupy one of your father’s residences, or any number of my own.”