She gazed wistfully at his strong back as he placed the iron in the fire and smoothed out the first gown upon the chaise longue.

A man like this was even more dangerous than the sort who usually approached her, she realized in surprise. A man like this wouldn’t just take what he wanted. He’d make her want to give it to him of her own free will. Desire him. Long for his kisses. Plead for more.

She forced herself to look away.

She would not be like her mother. She had promised herself that the first time she’d seen her mother cry. Charlotte’s life would be different. She’d find a way to be respectable if it killed her.

Which meant keeping her distance from the tempting Mr. Fairfax.

She’d sworn to never so much as kiss a man, much less lie with him, until she was in love. She would only give herself once, to the right man. And the gentlemen she wed would be perfect. Some handsome, moneyed, landed, laird friend of her father’s.

Or at the very least, her husband would be above reproach. The rest was optional.

A knock sounded upon the door. “Miss Devon? It’s Mr. Garman.”

Frowning, she pushed herself out of the wingback chair. What could the innkeeper want at this hour?

When she opened the door, his expression was apologetic. “I’m so sorry to bother you, miss, but I have to inquire… Is Mr. Fairfax within this chamber?”

“I’m busy ironing my lady’s morning gown,” Mr. Fairfax called from somewhere behind Charlotte’s shoulder. “’Tis ever so relaxing!”

She pasted on a smile. “He’s here.”

“And, pardon me asking, miss, but it’s a matter of some importance. Is Mr. Fairfax your husband?”

Charlotte’s throat dried. It had been one thing to playact in the corridor, but now that the gentleman in question was otherwise unaccompanied inside her bedchamber… Scotland didn’t know her past. If she wanted to keep her reputation, there was only one possible answer. She just didn’t dare give it. One lie was enough. She wouldn’t involve Mr. Fairfax any more than she already had.

“Yes,” he called from somewhere near the fireplace. “Of course the lady is my wife. Do you think I extend my ironing services to all your guests?”

“Yes,” she echoed faintly, forcing herself not to clap her hands with relief. “I’m afraid Mr. Fairfax is indeed my husband.”

The innkeeper yanked a very expensive, very battered valise from the hallway to her doorway. He lifted his chin to project his voice over Charlotte’s shoulder. “In that case, these are the items we are certain your husband accidentally left behind in the bedchamber he forgot to pay for in the excitement of reuniting with his wife. I assume he’ll be down first thing in the morning to settle the bill?”

“Absolutely tomorrow,” her faux husband called back. “I have a whist appointment with Leviston after noon, and then I’ll settle everyone’s bills. I can feel my luck upon the wind!”

Several doors along the corridor cracked ajar, and various occupants peeked out, their gazes shamelessly curious.

The innkeeper cut Charlotte a flat look. “Given your husband’s reputation for forgetfulness in monetary matters, would you be so kind as to remind him tomorrow of his promise?”

“We’ll pay you right now,” she said quickly, lowering her voice to a whisper. “What’s the balance, including a full day’s meals?”

She counted out the sum from her winnings and sent the innkeeper on his way before every head under this roof was pointed in her direction. She despised being the subject of gossip.

Tomorrow morning, she would leave at dawn and put as much distance between herself and Mr. Fairfax as humanly possible. He was charming, but not as upper crust as she had presumed. She could not chance becoming an object of ridicule in Scotland, too.

Once the door was shut and locked, she stormed back toward the fireplace.

“You offered yourself as maid-of-all-work because you couldn’t afford to stay through the night,” she accused.

“I offered myself as a paramour to fulfill the lady’s every sordid desire,” he corrected with a playful wink. “You were the one who preferred I employ my talented fingers with an iron.”

She glared at him.

He blinked innocently. “I should mention that I am happy at any time to cease ironing and go back to the original plan of taking you to—”

“That was never my plan,” she groused. Undoubtedly it was her low upbringing that caused her to find his irreverence more charming than scandalous. But she could not let it show.

“Yes, my lady. Your indifference is quite clear.” He returned the iron to the fire and held up the first gown. “How am I doing with this one?”

She stalked forward, intending to yank it out of his hands—then stopped short when she realized the gown was absolutely impeccable. No wrinkles. No burn marks. Just soft, warm muslin.

“It’ll do,” she said grudgingly.

His smile was angelic. “Allow me to fold it and place it in your valise in such a way that when you arrive at your next destination, it will be just as perfect as it is at this moment.”

“I hope you’re not expecting to sleep, maid-of-all-work.” She returned to the wingback chair and rested her tired head against the side. “I have plans for you all night long.”

“Those are my favorite kinds of plans,” he assured her. “Ask anyone.”

She raised an eyebrow in silence.

“Normally the up-all-night activities are slightly different,” he acknowledged. “That’s your fault, I might point out. You should take this moment to think about your actions and the importance of better decision-making. I will be happy to meet you again tomorrow at the gaming table so you can attempt to correct this devastating mistake.”

She tried not to smile. “You can’t fool me. All you want is to win the money back.”

His eyes widened. “Not all I want. If an unfortunate turn of the cards were to force me to share your bed, I should have to do the gentlemanly thing and follow through. Luckily for both of us, rumor has it I’m even better at certain entertainments than I am at pressing gowns.”

 Her cheeks heated at the idea of finding out just how talented he might be. She gave him a scolding look. “I’m afraid we shall not have an opportunity to find out. I’ll be leaving at first light.”

“Ah, such is fate.” His tone was light, but his eyes looked genuinely sorry to see her go. “At least we’ll always have… Where are we?”

She pursed her lips. “Oxkirk.”

“Oxkirk. Of course.” He tilted his head. “Thus far, you are definitely my favorite thing about Scotland.”

“Thus far?” She gave him a mock frown. “Will you have a new wife tomorrow?”

“You shall not be present,” he answered primly, “and thus you needn’t be jealous.”

Needn’t be, perhaps. But she liked the idea of him charming the chemise off of some proper debutante much less than she ought.

She pulled a blanket over her shoulders and curled against the oversized chair to watch him iron. Or perhaps to admire his shoulders. And the way the firelight lit his chestnut hair with glints of gold.

Her heavy eyelids were almost completely closed when he finished the last of her gowns.

Without bothering her, he sat down to tug off his boots and ready himself for sleep. Quickly, she scrambled out of the chair and onto the four poster bed so that she would not be in the same room as a gentleman in his stocking feet.

She closed the bed curtains as best she could, but a gap between the cloth panels gave her a clear view.

He blew out the last of the candles. “Go to sleep and dream about what might have been.”

She watched through her eyelashes as his silhouette stripped off its tailcoat and waistcoat and stretched out on the chaise longue before the low fire. Her heart pounded. He was now wearing merely breeches and a linen undershirt.

A proper young lady with a respectable upbringing would likely require smelling salts to recover from such a scandalous predicament. Charlotte, however, fought a traitorous thrill at being so close to forbidden fruit.

“Are you going to dream about what might have been?” she asked him softly, emboldened by the darkness.

His reply was almost too soft to hear. “Possibly forever.”

Chapter 3

Anthony was just finishing his morning shave when a creak of the mattress indicated that Miss Devon had awakened as well.

“Good morning, love,” he called out as he rinsed his straight razor in a small basin. “You’ll be appalled to know this chaise longue isn’t fit for a pig to sleep upon. I never quite got used to my legs dangling off the end, and my neck is so stiff I won’t be able to turn my head to the left for days.”

“Why would there be a pig in my bedchamber?” She swung her legs off the mattress and rubbed her face. “And what ungodly hour is it?”

“Six,” he answered brightly.

“Six?” She groaned in dismay. “I would’ve thought a prodigal rake might be counted upon to sleep until at least ten.”

“And that is what you get for assuming all prodigal rakes act precisely the same. Let that be a lesson to you.” He shook a finger at her.

She fell back against the mattress with a moan. “Why on earth are you awake?”

“Hmm, I’m not sure,” he said. “Did you miss the part about my legs dangling into the abyss all night or the bit about my neck bones being fused together at an odd angle? The next time we share a room, I’m taking the bed.”

“Then where do I sleep?” she asked tartly.

“Also the bed.” He turned back to the looking-glass. “Do try to pay attention.”

“Do try to stop dreaming.” Although she was still lying back with her eyes facing the tester, a telltale smile played at the edges of her lips.

Pleasure warmed him. He slipped his razor into his valise and curled his fingers about the handle. “I’m afraid I’m utterly presentable, and cannot elongate my morning toilette a moment longer without putting shame to Brummell himself. If you like, however, I could stay just long enough to accompany you to breakfast?”