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letting her study him, “that you enter into this union with full understanding.” Black-gloved fingers ran over the silver handle of the walking stick he held. “As you are to be my wife, it would be foolish of me to try to keep my appearance from you.”
    He spoke with such equanimity that she could only gaze in amazement. A memory flickered before her eyes like a flame caught in a draft, a vision of a different man, in a different place. A man who also hid in shadows, whose gloriously strong body had haunted her dreams for months afterward, made her want things she hadn’t the name for back then, things that made her skin heat on many a cold night. It had shamed her, the way she had coveted the dark stranger. But it could not have been Lord Archer. The stranger had a voice like shadows, rasping and weak, not like Lord Archer’s strong, deep rumble.
    “Look sharp, Miss Ellis!” The walking stick slammed on the stone floor with a crack, and she jumped. “Do you still intend to proceed?” he asked with more calm.
    She stepped forward, and the man went rigid. “Who are you? An actor of some sort?” Her temper swelled like fire to air. “Is this some joke Father has concocted to bedevil me, because let me tell you—”
    “I am Lord Benjamin Archer,” he said with such acidity that she halted. His eyes flashed from behind the mask. “And it is no joke I play.” The hand on the walking stick tightened. “Though there are days I wish it to be just that.”
    “Why do you wear that mask?”
    “Asks the woman whose beauty might as well be a mask.”
    “ Pardon me? ”
    The immobile black mask simply stared back, floating like a terrible effigy over broad shoulders.
    “What is beauty or ugliness but a false front that prompts man to make assumptions rather than delving deeper. Look at you.” His hand gestured toward her face. “Not a flaw or distortion of line to mar that perfect beauty. I have seen your face before, miss. Michelangelo sculpted it from cold marble three hundred years ago, his divine hand creating what men would adore.” He took a step closer. “Tell me, Miss Ellis, do you not use that beauty as a shield, keeping the world at bay so that no one will know your true nature?”
    “Bastard,” she spat when she could find her voice. She had been beaten once or twice, forced to steal and lie, but no one had left her so utterly raw.
    “I am that as well. Better you know it now.”
    She gathered up her train, but the heavy masses of slippery fabric evaded her grip. “I came of my own free will but will not abide by cruel remarks made at my expense,” she said, finally collecting herself. “Good-bye, Lord Archer.”
    He moved, but stopped himself as though he feared coming too close. A small gurgle died in his throat. “What will it take?”
    The tightly controlled urgency in his voice made her turn back.
    “If you find my character and appearance so very distasteful,” she said through her teeth, “then why ask for my hand?”
    His dark head jerked a fraction. “I am the last of my family line,” he said with less confidence. “Though I have love for Queen and Country, I do not desire to see my ancestral lands swallowed up by the crown. I need a wife.”
    The idea that she would procreate with the man hadn’t entered her mind. It seemed unimaginable.
    “Why not court one of your nobles?” she asked through dry lips.
    He lifted his chin a fraction. “There are not many fathers who would give their marketable daughters up to a man such as me.”
    It irked her that his words made her chest tighten in regret.
    Lord Archer tilted his head and assessed her with all the warmth of a man eyeing horseflesh for purchase. “Your appearance may matter little to me but when the time comes for my heir to enter into society, your stunning looks will help a great deal to facilitate him.”
    She could not fault the sensibility of his plan. Even so…
    “Why do you wear that mask?” she asked