Anthony cradled his sleeping bride in his arms as their hired hack rattled across the border into England. Charlotte had packed her valise without a word. There was nothing left for them in Scotland.

He had never been the sort of person who could sleep in a moving carriage, but he was not in the least surprised to see his wife succumb to her exhaustion. She had slept fitfully at best, after having realized her lifelong obsession with being reunited with her father had never been anything more than an impossible dream.

As for the confession that followed… Entering the parson’s trap with a courtesan’s daughter was perhaps not the most ideal of circumstances, but when had Anthony ever done the ideal thing? He could scarcely hold Charlotte accountable for something that had occurred prior to her birth.

Besides, Anthony was painfully cognizant of the fact that he was no fine catch himself.

He had considered the situation over and over again—some might say dwelled upon the matter to the point of nausea. The only honorable way out of his scrape was to earn the owed sums himself.

The issue was how to buy more time.

London was the most viable city for easy employment. And the only place he could repay his debt, since Gideon’s gaming parlor lay within city borders. But, given the new information about Charlotte, ’twas little wonder she had no interest in returning to a city that constantly made her feel worthless.

How could he sit behind a writing desk somewhere while his wife was suffering elsewhere? Yet he had to earn back the money, or risk leaving her even worse off than they were now.

At least they were heading south. On the move. His spirits brightened. Not just because they’d left the debt collector’s ruffians behind, but because all of England still lay ahead.

London was not the only fashionable city. They could go to Bath. Perhaps there, Charlotte wouldn’t be recognized or disparaged… And perhaps there, Anthony could scare up enough blunt to save his life—and his marriage.

He caressed the back of her hand.

She was so beautiful. So fragile, yet so strong. He longed to wrap his arms about her and keep her safe. Keep her close. He didn’t want a marriage in name only. He wanted a union of hearts, of bodies. He wanted his Lady Luck to feel fortunate to have him. Wanted to prove that their marriage didn’t need to be a mistake. That their relationship didn’t have to be temporary.

But now was not the moment to make promises about the future or take irreversible action. Neither of them was in a position to consummate a marriage whose future would come to an abrupt halt in less than a fortnight. But he would fix his mess. And once he deserved the title of husband, Charlotte would be his. Completely.

His throat dried. What if that day never happened? What if he managed to pay off his creditors and be the best man he’d ever been in his life, and it still wasn’t enough? She hadn’t chosen him. What if she would still prefer not to be wed to him, even if he did pay off his debts? He glanced over at Charlotte.

In his heart of hearts, he’d always dreamed his future wife would be a paragon. Not full of herself or high in the instep, but someone who was… complete without him. Someone who chose him because she wanted him, not because she was enamored by the baubles he bestowed upon her when he was flush.

If he did raise the blunt, what if Charlotte only stayed married to him because it was financially her best option, not because she loved him?

He swallowed. Did it matter anymore? Beggars could not be choosers. He had no particularly redeemable qualities, which left spoiling his loved ones when his pockets were flush his only option.

But if he focused on raising funds solely to stay out of gaol and keep his wife, he’d be teaching her to value him solely for money—just like he’d done with his nephews.

So what was he meant to do with Charlotte? How could he appeal to her heart so that she would want to stay with him, rather than his money… or merely to salvage her reputation from the stigma of divorce?

He drummed his fingers against the carriage squab in frustration. Besides a father, the thing she wanted most was societal approbation—and he couldn’t give it to her. No one could. She would never be accepted at high society gatherings, much less be granted an Almack’s voucher to mingle with the crème de la crème. Even he couldn’t do that.

She could probably be accepted into the societal fast set—rakes and gamblers and courtesans—but although Charlotte could move in those circles more freely, scandalous company wasn’t what she desired. The gossiped-about set wasn’t where she would wish to belong, or who she wanted to be.

But she had no other choice. Even now.

He lightly stroked her forearm. Having grown up along the fringes of the beau monde with both his parents, he could not imagine what it must be like to have been born a bastard. A man in such a position could still become a charming dandy or a famous poet or a respected officer in the army, but what was a woman to do? Especially when her face was recognizable as the very mirror of a known courtesan’s.

Charlotte had never had a chance.

Anthony, on the other hand, did have a chance. He set his jaw. This was his opportunity not only to make something of himself—ideally something other than a Marshalsea prisoner—and, in doing so, give Charlotte a chance at an alternate future. A better one. Without the chains of the past.

A flutter of hope stirred in his belly. Once he paid off his debt, they could go anywhere. For the first time, it seemed that perhaps he might have something to offer besides money. He pressed his lips to her hair. To Charlotte, happiness stemmed from other sources. Peace. Safety. Love.

He couldn’t change society to fit her dreams, but he could give her respect and worth in the sanctity of their home. Wherever that might be.

Starting here. Starting now.