It was the first time Charlotte had walked arm in arm with a gentleman in her life.

As they meandered along the inn’s wooden fence, she was surprised to realize how comfortable she felt in his presence.

After years of desperately trying to protect herself from men, she’d gone and leg-shackled herself to a total stranger. But Mr. Fairfax was different than the lecherous roués who often propositioned her. He was so open. So honest. He inquired about her thoughts. Cared about her answers. Gave her as much choice as he could in how to live her life.

He treated her as if she were a person in her own right. As if her opinions and her security mattered just as much, if not more, than his. It was heady. Baffling. And she couldn’t quite get enough.

She could never let him know exactly what kind of woman he’d wed. His loved ones would be appalled. One did not publicly associate with trash.

She’d never been invited to a dinner party, to a dance, to a carriage ride in Hyde Park. Not because she was poor or unkempt or uneducated, but because she was the daughter of a prostitute. Who knew what sort of diseases a common doxy like her might carry? She’d withstood disparaging vitriol all her life.

If Mr. Fairfax knew the truth about her birth, the truth about her life and utter lack of respectability, he would no longer look at her with eyes full of pleasure or affection. He would pull back in disgust, his nose wrinkling as if her mere presence carried the stench of her coarse roots.

Above all, she could not return to London. Not with him. The closer they drew to the city, the more likely she would be recognized and her lies of omission laid bare.

She might only have a fortnight with this man. She wanted to live each day of it as his equal. To know, if only for a short time, what it might have been like if she had been born someone else. Someone better. The sort of lady who could attract town gentlemen like him. A woman who deserved marriage proposals and strolls arm in arm with a smitten suitor. This was her one chance to live as if she were the sort of wife a man could be proud of.

If only for two weeks.

The reality of their ticking clock soured her stomach. She could not eat the rest of her apple. As she tossed the core beyond the shrubbery, three stone of ruddy-cheeked little boy crashed into her from behind.

Mr. Fairfax swooped the lad up and into the air as a half dozen other little boys ran up, laughing.

He set the boy down. “Apologize to the lady.”

“I didn’t mean to bump her.” The lad’s chapped lip began to tremble. “They was chasing me and I didn’t want to give my cheese up, so I was running and looking over my shoulder…”

Charlotte knelt to his level. “You like cheese?”

He nodded, eyes huge.

She glanced at the other boys. “Do you all like cheese?”

Six more wind-chapped faces nodded vigorously.

“That is a happy coincidence, because I like cheese, too. In fact, I have some with me right now.” She held out her hand to Mr. Fairfax, who immediately placed the innkeeper’s parcel in her palm.

The boys stared back at her, wide-eyed.

“Now, the first thing we have to make clear is that chasing someone who doesn’t wish to be chased is unacceptable behavior.” She gave them each stern glances. “Understood?”

They nodded in fascination.

“The second thing we have to make clear is about sharing.” She lifted the parcel to her nose and pantomimed inhaling a wondrous aroma. “Sharing is wonderful. You should do so as often as possible. Sharing is also optional. This means that you cannot force anyone else to share. Is that clear?”

More nods. And several longing glances at her parcel.

“Very well, then.” She unwrapped the cloth. A generous chunk of cheese rested inside.

The boys gasped and fell to their knees in a half-circle about her. The smallest one reached forward, but the one who had been chased knocked the lad’s hand aside.

“No,” he scolded. “You cannot force a lady to share. Remember?”

The younger boy’s eyes filled with tears, but he nodded.

“Very good,” Charlotte agreed. “As it happens, I am indeed in the mood to share. Mr. Fairfax, would you help me divide this cheese into…nine pieces?”

Her husband dropped down onto the lawn without hesitation, as if fashionable gentlemen in cream-colored breeches spent every morning frolicking in dewy grass. He shook out the scrap of linen as if it were a picnic blanket, and divided the hunk of cheese into even sections.

Charlotte lifted her palms. “I wish we had more cheese to share, but this is all we own. I daresay we have enough for everyone.”

The boy who had been chased hesitated, then pushed a tiny chunk of cheese no bigger than one of the nine portions toward Charlotte. “I want to share mine, too. But just with you.”

“I accept your kind gift,” she said solemnly. “Thank you. And the rest of you? Do you accept my gift?”

Seven grubby hands shot forward to snatch their bit of cheese from the cloth. With a wink in her direction, Mr. Fairfax did the same.

She turned to the boy who had been chased. “Do you have a mama at home?”

He nodded. “She makes the cheese.”

Charlotte lifted her untouched portion from the cloth and placed it into the boy’s hand. “You can eat this yourself, or you can share it with her. It is your choice.”

He scrambled to his feet and started to run.

“Beat you to the river,” he called over his shoulder to the other lads.

The boys launched themselves up to give chase.

Mr. Fairfax slanted her an impressed look. “You handled that lot astonishingly well.”

“Did I?” Charlotte couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m not certain if I managed them or if they managed me. Which one of us gave up our cheese?”

“I am convinced you always had the upper hand. You would have made a splendid governess.” He chuckled, then sent her a curious glance. “Have you ever been a governess?”

A laugh bubbled in her throat at the absurdity of the idea. She’d never even had a letter of recommendation. As far as Society was concerned, she had nothing to recommend her.

“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.