“No,” she answered instead. “I have never had employment of any kind.”

“Nor I.” He leaned against the fence. “It sounds dreadful.”

She tried to keep her lips from curving. “I am not surprised to hear you say so. I suppose you consider yourself a pink of the ton?”

“Only when I can afford a tailor.” A shadow crossed his handsome face. “Have you forgotten how handy I am with needle and thread?”

She blinked in shock. “I thought you were teasing.”

“Did your dresses look like I was teasing?” His words were light, but the darkness hadn’t left his eyes.

Charlotte recalled her surprise at his impeccable skill with an iron. Even she could not have done a better job.

“No,” she admitted. “You’re right. I didn’t think it through.”

He lifted a shoulder. “How about you? Is your family humble or well-to-do?”

Both, she supposed. A man who could give away rubies would be wealthy beyond imagine. Her mother, however…

Life as the daughter of a courtesan hadn’t been easy, but they’d never lacked for any material necessities. One of her mother’s many protectors had paid for the townhouse. Another paid for a few servants. Yet another gave them a small line of credit at a modiste who was willing to sew for creatures of their low stature.

Charlotte had tried not to feel reduced by the judgment of others, but everything from their bonnets to their daily bread depended on her mother entertaining another client. The cruelty of their betters left no doubt as to how much less they mattered. They didn’t even count as people.

But she’d had that daily bread. She’d never once doubted its presence on the morrow. She had spent her life feeling less worthy than a worm, but she had not battled hunger or cold or homelessness. Her life had been miserable due to their position in society, not because they lacked coin.

Somehow she didn’t feel right saying such things aloud.

“I’ve never met my father,” she admitted instead. “I came to Scotland to find him.”

He brightened. “And have you?”

“Not yet. I must be close, however. Yesterday, I believe someone noticed a family resemblance. My father is a laird, so he must be well known.” And well respected. She prayed she would not disappoint.

“That’s wonderful.” His green eyes lit up. “I adore my family and cannot imagine a world without them in it. You absolutely must meet him. What is his name? How can I help?”

Charlotte shook her head rather than respond. He had to sort his own troubles before she’d be ready to present him to her father.

“Help me to my feet, Mr. Fairfax?” she asked instead.

“Oh, dear,” he gasped in mock horror. “Are we to be a stuffy married couple?”

She looked down her nose at him primly. “A lady would never use her husband’s given name without permission.”

“Then, by God, you must call me Anthony immediately. And I shall call you…Mary?” he guessed.

She pressed her lips together and shook her head.

“Sarah? Jane? Griselda Lou?”

She burst out laughing. “Do I look like a Griselda Lou?”

“I have an aunt named Griselda Lou and she’s even prettier than you are,” he said with an exaggerated harrumph. He held out a palm. “You are quite a judgmental bit of baggage, for someone named…Gertrude Hortense.”

“Charlotte,” she admitted as she placed her hands in his. “You may call me Charlotte.”

Perhaps his arms were too strong or her knees too weak, but when he pulled her to her feet, she found herself fully in his embrace, her parted mouth mere inches from his.

“Charlotte,” he said softly, as if trying the syllables out on his tongue. He wrinkled his nose. “A rather hideous name, but I suppose one cannot help what one is born to.”

She smacked his shoulder, but did not remove herself from his embrace. She wasn’t certain she even could. Her breasts were molded to his waistcoat, her fingers clinging to hard muscle. If she lifted her chin any higher, her lips would brush against his.

Yet he made no move to kiss her.

“Do you not want me?” she whispered.

“More than air.” He cupped a hand behind her head and crushed his mouth to hers.

Sensation flooded her system. His lips were soft, warm, firm. With his mouth on hers, he seemed bigger than before. Less safe. More tempting. His body was tight with coiled strength. As if he were holding himself back, preventing his carnal side from pouncing. What must it be like to be on the receiving end of his unchecked passion? Her blood pulsed with excitement.

She was breathless in his arms. His kiss was sweetness and power. He well knew he could claim her. He was choosing to woo her. If the wind was cool, she couldn’t feel it. Every inch of her skin danced with the electricity of his touch. Her flesh was hot, yearning for something she couldn’t quite name. Something she was certain only he could give.

“Of course I want you.” He released her forcibly from his embrace, as if to hold her for a single moment more would be to surrender himself completely. “And once I deserve you…I’ll have you.”

The words were rough, violent, as if she’d reached into his heart and ripped them from his very soul.

Chapter 6

Charlotte. Anthony placed her hand in the crook of his arm and casually strolled along the lawn as if his every fiber wasn’t screaming out for him to scoop her into his arms and carry her straight back to the bedchamber.

Soon. When he deserved her, he’d have her. He rolled his shoulders. It was the truth. He’d told her straight out, and he’d meant every word.

The trick was surviving until then.

Anthony lifted his chin. He could not have her until he had paid every penny of his debt. He was confident that he would avoid prison—he always managed to pull out of his scrapes unscathed—but for her sake, he would have to leave every avenue open, from annulment to divorce.

Although it would destroy her reputation in the process, she would not be stripped of her belongings and bound forever to a prisoner.

If he did go to Marshalsea, they would have to undo their marriage. He would not add leaving a penniless wife behind to his list of sins. Destroying his own life was one thing. If he were not there to protect her, it was even more vital that her money and her possessions remain in her control.

His fingers clenched. How he wished this were a different kind of outing! He and Charlotte, stealing a kiss atop the natty phaeton he’d had to sell to finance his trip north. He and Charlotte, at the best clothier in London, where he’d give her modiste carte blanche to create as many gowns as the lady wished for the Season. He and Charlotte, visiting all the best gardens in England in order to determine which style they’d like most for their home.

Money. It always came back to money.

He was not at all surprised that the only way he’d got a wife was because she hadn’t even realized she was entering into a contract. It wasn’t at all how he’d hoped it would happen. He’d imagined wooing his future bride with operas, parlors overflowing with flowers, the promise of a palace fit for a queen.

In every dream, his future wife was not only thrilled…She chose him. A woman so lovely inside and out that she could have her pick of the ton—and she would choose Anthony. She needed him. He made her happiest. He was worthy of her love.

Instead, all he’d done for Charlotte so far was ruin her plans and come perilously close to ruining her life. What would he do if the debt collector’s ruffians took her savings by force? What would he do if they never found any money, and made good on their promise to send him to Marshalsea prison? What would happen to Charlotte then?

His stomach twisted. He only wanted the best for her, but had accidentally given her his worst.

A terrible thought struck him. What if she’d had a beau back home—wherever home was? He hadn’t even thought to ask. He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. What if she had been betrothed? Or promised to the Church? Or had been perfectly happy as an independently wealthy woman of leisure until he came along and stole her independence away? He came to a sudden stop.

“Was there someone else?” he asked her roughly. “Is your heart…are you promised elsewhere?”

“No,” she said. “I have no one.”

Relief coursed through him. “You had no one,” he said gruffly. “Now you have me.”

She smiled and said nothing.

“We should try to get to know one another,” he suggested. “Have you always dreamed of bearing many children?”

“What?” she choked. “No. Why would you ask that?”

“You were good with those hellions,” he pointed out.

She shook her head. “You were also quite good with the children.”

“I have two nephews,” he admitted. “Still a bit younger than those lads, but already tremendous terrors. Identical twins. I’m one of the few who can tell them apart.”

She smiled. “They sound lovely. Do you see them often?”

Not often enough. He sighed.

“I visit every time I have a lucrative evening at the tables. I love to bring them little boats, paints, wooden horses… Their eyes light up when my carriage pulls in the drive, because they know there’s a treat for them inside.”

Or they had. Back when he had a carriage. And lucrative evenings at the tables.

Her eyes softened. “I’m sure you’re their favorite uncle.”

“I should expect so,” he said with his haughtiest sniff. “The other one got all the looks. I should at least be the most fun.”

“I doubt he got all the looks.” She arched a brow. “I’m not nearly as repulsed by your emerald eyes and bedimpled smile as one might presume.”

“No?” He turned to her with interest. “Tell me more about how devastatingly handsome I am. Could you send a short note to the Society papers?”