The rubies. God only knew where the rubies had come from. Undoubtedly one of her mother’s admirers. But obviously not from a Scottish laird named Dìonadair. There was no such man. She had no father.

“You can have the jewels,” she said dully. She yanked the bobs from her ears and flung them from her sight. “They’re meaningless. It all is.”

Her lungs heaved as she fought against the stinging in her eyes. In her dreams, Scotland was meant to be paradise. Her father’s homeland. Perhaps her future home, too.

She had come all this way for love, for acceptance. Her father was to be the one person capable of sweeping her past under the rug. Of giving her a fresh start. A respectable name. A home.

Charlotte Dìonadair she’d called herself, all those long, lonely nights, trying to pretend she couldn’t hear the noises coming from her mother’s chamber.

Charlotte Dìonadair was the daughter of a laird. Beautiful. Practically a princess. Charlotte Dìonadair was allowed into all the shops. Charlotte Dìonadair could play with all the other children. Charlotte Dìonadair was proud to speak her name.

Charlotte Dìonadair was more than respectable… Charlotte Dìonadair was beloved.

Dreams. Useless, foolish dreams. When they vanished, her heart shattered with them. There would be no happy ever after for her.

Welcome back to reality. She wasn’t the daughter of a laird, or a beautiful princess. She wasn’t allowed into all the pretty places. She couldn’t rub shoulders with those above her station. She wasn’t proud to speak her name. She didn’t even have one.

No, she would never find her father. Her mother was a whore and a liar. Which meant she hadn’t the least idea who Charlotte’s father was.

And now Charlotte never would either.

Chapter 9

Charlotte pushed away from the dining table. Once again, she was a spectacle. Unable to bear the other guests staring at her, she stumbled through the corridors and into their small chamber.

Anthony joined her in silence, her discarded ear bobs in his palm.

She couldn’t bear to look at him, either. What a fool he must think her, to follow a dream only a child’s blind faith could believe in. A fiction her mother had sold her.

The necklace she’d been so proud of for years now bit into her skin like a swarm of ants. She had to get it off. Never wanted it to touch her again.

She pulled up her skirt in order to reach the binding round her ribs.

Anthony turned away to grant her privacy.

It didn’t matter. Her desperation wasn’t about him. It was about getting rid of the poisonous lie she’d been carrying next to her heart.

She yanked the necklace out from under the binding and hurled it onto the vanity. She pulled the money pouches free as well and threw them next to the necklace. Their winnings couldn’t help her. She was just what she’d always been—the daughter of a whore. With no father and nowhere to go.

Shivering, she unwrapped the linen binding her breasts and tossed it aside. She was who she was. There was no sense trying to playact any longer.

She let her skirt fall to the floor, then turned toward the looking-glass. The masking powder she had always added to her hair to make it dull and lifeless, the subtle face paint she had used every morning to make her complexion tired and gray. What did any of it matter?

It took very little of the icy water in the basin to wash away what she’d spent a lifetime trying to hide.

She was not her father’s daughter. She was her mother’s. They were two sides of the same coin. The same rosy cheeks and golden ringlets that had made her wide-eyed mother so irresistible to men hungry for flesh stared right back at Charlotte in the mirror.

Her shoulders crumpled. She could run away from home, flee those who spat at her in the street—if they acknowledged her at all, but she could never escape her own reflection.

She jerked away from the looking-glass and directed her wooden legs toward the wingback chair. Its cushions no longer comforted her. She was no longer on a path to adventure and approval. She was adrift at sea.

Anthony knelt by the fireplace to coax steady flames from the embers. He needn’t bother. The warmth no longer reached her.

She stared listlessly at the grate. What would become of her now? The sole hope on her horizon had been stripped away.

Her gaze inexorably traveled toward Anthony. Her heart sank. It would be foolish to develop an attachment to him. He, too, would be taken from her before long.

Then she would have no one. Just like before.

He pulled the chaise longue next to her chair and settled beside her.

She said nothing. She couldn’t trust herself to. If she spoke, she might shatter.

“I’m sorry we can’t find your father,” he said quietly.

She closed her eyes. “I don’t have one.”

“You did,” he said. “Once. Everyone did. If he chose not to stay, I’d say you were better off without someone like that in your life.”

“Of course you would say that,” she said through clenched teeth. He had undoubtedly been loved and flattered all his life. “You have your parents. Both of them. You can’t possibly know what it was like for me as a girl. No one does.”

“Then tell me,” he said simply.

Ah. If only it were that simple.

Charlotte stared at the dancing flames until her vision blurred orange. How was she supposed to tell him? She’d never told anyone. She’d hidden beneath makeup and layers of cloth. Lied about her name, her heritage, anytime she was somewhere she might not be recognized. Cleaved to the idea of a man who had never existed.

“Even the poorest children were better than me,” she said at last.

Anthony kept his silence.

“We didn’t live in the worst parts of London. We had too much money for that—yet not enough respectability to live anywhere fashionable. So we lived where we could. On streets where the others couldn’t be too choosy about who their neighbors were. Next to houses where the children didn’t just know who their parents were… They lived together. As a family.”

The crackling of the fire was the only sound.

“Charlotte the harlot,” she singsonged with a harsh laugh. “That was my name growing up. Because that’s what my mother was. A whore. A fancy one.”

Anthony brushed the back of her hand with his own.

“The life of a courtesan is only glamorous while she’s out at the opera, riding in fast carriages, presiding at balls, twirling beneath the stars in a gown to rival a princess. But her home is never her home. It’s a place of negotiation. The give and take of power. Mother lost her edge because she was saddled with me.”

He frowned as if he’d never given much thought to a courtesan’s private life before. He probably hadn’t. No one ever did.

“One of the first things I learned was that there are good clients and there are bad clients. Some would leave me a treat or a dolly. Others… Sometimes it was best to stay under the bed, or in a dark corner of my wardrobe.”

His eyes filled with sympathy.

She dropped her gaze so she wouldn’t have to meet his. The memories suffocated her.

“The one thing I wanted was to be respectable. To be accepted. The one thing I didn’t want was to be anything like my mother.” Her throat rasped. “Sometimes the gowns and jewels she wore were dazzling to the eyes. At other times, her only adornment was bruises on her wrists or her face.”

He winced and reached for her.

She pulled away. If he touched her, she would not be able to stop the tears.

“I don’t know how old I was when I realized I would never be respectable. That no matter how well I succeeded in my quest never to follow my mother’s footsteps, it would never be enough. I’m not just a bastard. I’m a whore’s by-blow. A mistake. No man would want me as anything other than what I’d been born to be. No ladies would lower themselves to accept my friendship, for the slightest association with me could lower their reputations as well.”

He made no objections to these claims. No false attempt to insist she was valuable, desirable. Respectable. They both knew she was not. She appreciated his honesty. Even if it made her shrivel inside.

“At some point, I latched on to the idea of a father. The baker’s daughter, the cobbler’s daughter, the fishmonger’s daughter—they were all not only more respectable than me, but they also knew who they were. They had someone’s arms to come home to. A family. A future.” Her voice caught. “I wanted that, too. But I couldn’t have it. Not as me.”

His eyes were dark with sympathy.

She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t acknowledge his empathy. Had taught herself not to. One of the first things she had learned was that sympathetic gazes couldn’t change her situation. Nothing could.

“I was small when my mother gave me that jewelry. The strongbox was hidden in my wardrobe, not hers. Once she realized her mistake, how desperate I was to find my father, she commanded me never to seek him, and then refused to speak of him ever again.” She tried to swallow the old hurt. Her throat stung. It never got easier. “I dreamed of him every night. Of a new life. A different me.”

His gaze was unfathomable. At least now he knew the truth.

“But I’m not different. I’m Charlotte the harlot, bastard daughter of a whore. And now you’re saddled with me, too.”

He took her hand. Refused to let her jerk free. “What are you afraid of? That I’ll reject you, too? That my association with you will ruin my pristine reputation? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a hairsbreadth away from being tossed into debtors’ prison.” He forced her to meet his eyes. “I’m human, Charlotte. So are you. I can’t blame you for it.”