Miss Charlotte Devon hefted the three gaming purses in her hands and hesitated. Should she play another round?

She wasn’t penniless. She wasn’t even risking the entire pot. She could afford the wager. Besides, her father might even settle a sizable sum upon her, either as a dowry or as an independent living or as… as something. Of this, she was certain. The problem was finding him.

In the meantime, she oughtn’t to be gambling away fortunes. Even parts of fortunes. The future was too uncertain. She probably ought not to have been gambling at all. But she could do with the money. The other men’s earlier rebuff had been so infuriating that when Mr. Fairfax had joined their table and sent her so many curious, amiable glances, the lure had been impossible to resist.

When was the last time a gentleman had sent her a friendly look, not a lewd or dismissive one? Come to think of it, when was the last time anyone had been friendly to her at all?

Ladies treated her with disdain, if they even acknowledged her presence. Gentlemen only sought a quick tup with a nameless bit of muslin they could easily discard. As far as society was concerned, Miss Charlotte Devon wasn’t a person at all. She was nobody. Meaningless.

Was it any wonder this profligate’s roguish smiles and open face had drawn her like a moth to a flame?

It wasn’t merely attention from someone above her station. Everyone was above her station. Charlotte was long used to being treated as such.

Mr. Fairfax was different. She’d suspected as much from observing his interactions with his peers, yet he continually delighted her. Her surprise when he’d treated the barmaid like a person, rather than a stick of furniture, had turned to amazement when he’d given the woman an entire sovereign to do with as she would. Charlotte’s astonishment was eclipsed by shock when he’d lost his winnings and still let the barmaid keep the coin.

His friends had seen nothing wrong with asking for its return. After all, the recipient was a mere serving wench. To them, her sentiments and situation need not enter the equation.

But not to Mr. Fairfax. His gifts were permanent. His debts were his own.

Now he wanted a chance to replay the game. She shouldn’t give him one. Perfectly nice gentleman or not. Chimney slave or not. She had won the money fair and square.

But he had given her a chance when he should not. When no one else would have done. Charlotte’s pulse skipped. No one else had ever cared before. No gentleman, anyway.

He had not only allowed a woman to join his gaming table, but also allowed her to wager nothing more than a lock of hair to stay in the game.

The only explanation for such an illogical act was that Mr. Fairfax was kind to a fault. So how should she repay his kindness?

Undecided, she watched him from beneath her lashes. He might be too handsome and charming for his own good, too reckless and overconfident with his wagers. But, by all appearances, this happy, devil-may-care rogue was also a genuinely nice person.

She would have to return the favor. A begrudging sigh escaped her lips. Blast.

“If you lose, you may escort me safely to the guest quarters,” she began, and frowned sternly when he gave his dark eyebrows an exaggerated wiggle. “And then you may return to your own chamber without so much as crossing the threshold into my chamber. Or donating any hair.”

His green eyes sparkled at her merrily. “Done.”

Laughing in disbelief, Mr. Leviston gathered up the cards and fumbled them into a shuffle. “In case you were unaware, you are both delightfully mad.”

Didn’t she know it. Charlotte tightened her lips.

She counted seventy pounds back onto the table. “All in?”

“All in.” Mr. Fairfax smiled back at her, both dimples showing sweetly.

Charlotte picked up her first card.

If Mr. Fairfax was watching her for a reaction, he would not discern one. Not solely because of Charlotte’s legendary self-control. But because she was in shock. Expressionless. Emotionless. Even she couldn’t believe the hand she’d been dealt.

Three of hearts.

This was surely the worst opening card anyone had ever held in the history of stupid wagers.

She touched her jewels in nervousness. Her necklace and earrings were the sole possessions she could not lose at any cost. She normally wouldn’t even wear them in public, but Scotland was the one place where a bit of ostentation might help rather than hurt her cause.

The other reason she wore them was to keep them safe. For the past few days she’d felt as if someone was following her. She never saw the same person two days in a row, but she couldn’t shake the uneasy sense of being spied upon.

Today, there had been a man with a limp and a scuffed beaver hat who had stared at her with far more than casual interest. Her breath caught. Perhaps he had seen the jewels and was waiting for her to leave them unattended.

A prickle went down her spine. She was positive the contents of her valise had been rifled through at the last inn. Nothing had been taken—perhaps because the rubies were still on her person. But she couldn’t take the risk of losing them.

And now, without her purse, she couldn’t even afford to pay a maid or a hall boy to watch over her at night. Just until she was reunited with her father, that was. Protection was the real reason she’d agreed to let accompanying her safely to her chamber be Mr. Fairfax’s wager.

That, and she hadn’t expected him to win.

She swallowed. No sense drawing out the torture. Stoic, she played all three cards one by one, then lifted her chin. Three of hearts. Three of spades. Five of diamonds. A measly pair. Of threes. Charlotte had just lost seventy pounds on the most foolish wager of her life. She glanced up.

Mr. Fairfax was ashen.

Slowly, as if touching his hand was more pain than could be withstood, he displayed his hand.

Nothing. She stared in disbelief.

Ten of spades. King of hearts. Jack of diamonds.

He had nothing.

Silence engulfed the table.

She’d won. Charlotte stared at the cards in disbelief. She’d won.

Mr. Leviston cackled. “I reckon it’s off to clean chimneys for you, Fairfax. Or whatever mischief the two of you decide to get up to.”

In a trice, the nameless horror on Mr. Fairfax’s face vanished as if it had never existed. His visage resumed the same sunny cheer he had displayed earlier.

He shrugged and clapped Mr. Leviston on the shoulder. “Fortune giveth, and fortune taketh away.”

“Every time.” Mr. Leviston chuckled. “Shall we have another go tomorrow? I suppose I could scare up a shilling or two.”

“You know I’ve never said no to a game,” Mr. Fairfax replied easily. He fixed his magnetic gaze on Charlotte. “Shall we, my lady?”

As she nodded her acquiescence, her mind was not on the short walk to her chamber, but on how blithely both men shrugged off staggering losses and agreed to repeat the same foolishness the following day.

Were they daft? Charlotte had always supposed town gentlemen could not possibly be as careless and as dissolute as the society papers painted them, but she had clearly been too generous.

Resolute, she rose to her feet. Good. She was glad they were foolish. She could not possibly feel guilty at relieving them of more money than she normally spent in a year if they didn’t even have the good sense to miss it. She would be a much better mistress to these purses.

Hope fluttered in her belly. In fact, with two hundred pounds, she could hire a maid before taking the next hack north. She would do so first thing in the morning.

As for tonight… Well. Perhaps fortune truly was on her side.

She slipped her hand about the crook of Mr. Fairfax’s arm and let him lead her from the table. With the exception of an off-color jest, he seemed honorable and dignified. With a man like that seeing her safely to her chamber, no scoundrel would dare accost her.

As they exited the common guest area, another gentleman was entering. He pulled up short the moment he laid eyes on them. A chill swept over her as his gaze lingered far longer than necessary.

Please be a friend of Mr. Fairfax, she repeated in her mind. Please.

He squinted at her with obvious interest. The wrong kind of interest.

Her stomach sank.

“Do I know you, miss?” His brow furrowed in concentration. “You look incredibly familiar.”

“I have one of those faces,” she said automatically, and all but hauled Mr. Fairfax out of the common area before the other man could recall where he might have seen a face like hers. Or why Charlotte Devon shouldn’t be allowed in the same vicinity as respectable folk.

To his credit, Mr. Fairfax made no protest at being dragged bodily from the room.

As soon as they were safely out of sight, second thoughts immediately crowded Charlotte’s brain. The scene was so familiar, she hadn’t even questioned it. But what if the man wasn’t confusing her with her mother? She was in Scotland now. Far from London. What if he hadn’t recognized her, but rather her father’s rubies? Wasn’t that why she’d dropped the assumed name and begun wearing the family jewels the moment she’d crossed the border? Didn’t her plan hinge on someone recognizing them and leading her back to her father?

Stupid girl. Her cheeks burned in embarrassment. She was going to have to unlearn two-and-twenty years of rejection and automatic denial if she meant to have success with this mission.

The positive side, however, was that if people were starting to notice a family resemblance, her father must reside in the general area. To be sure, this innkeeper hadn’t recognized his name, but someone would—and soon. Her shoulders tensed. If only she knew which it was. Did her mother’s famous face carry this far north, or was her father almost within her reach?

“Congratulations on a wonderful win tonight.” Mr. Fairfax’s warm voice melted over her. “Enviable display of luck.”

She looked at him sharply, but his eyes were sincere. “Thank you.”

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps fortune was finally on her side. Her heart felt light.

Mr. Fairfax was proof that she was on the right path, the perfect path. The one from where she could start over, find her father, marry a respectable gentleman, and live happily ever after. She straightened her spine.

Finding her father was her only chance to have a good future.

As they neared the dining area, she pointed down a corridor to the right. “My chamber is just up the stairs at the end. If you prefer to leave me here…”

“Nonsense.” Mr. Fairfax’s green eyes were surprisingly serious. “A wager is a wager. I’ll see you safely to your door, and not a step farther.”

She nodded, grateful for his presence. It was awful to feel insecure, unsafe. A woman alone was always at risk. One could never truly be used to constant unease with one’s surroundings, no matter how long one had lived in fear.

Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow, for the first time since leaving home, she would be able to afford a maid. And the next day, or the day after that, she would have something even better. A home.

A sudden buzz of conversation erupted behind them as a crowd of guests exited the dining area together.

Loud footsteps clumped against the wood floor as a man reeking of gin staggered up to them and reached for Charlotte’s arm. “I see you found your dìonadair, lassie.”

Her limbs shook as she froze in fear.

Mr. Fairfax instantly placed himself between Charlotte and the drunkard. “Sir, you overstep. I suggest you find your quarters and stay there.”

The crowd from the dining area edged closer to watch.

“Well, you know how it is.” The drunkard swayed as he tried to get another look at Charlotte. “With a puss like this looking for a protector, of course a man’s going to be interested. When you’re done with her—”

Charlotte spluttered. “This man is not my ‘protector,’ nor am I looking for one.”

The last thing she needed was for rumors of her supposed easy nature to reach her father’s ears. Even he wouldn’t be able to consider her respectable if she arrived with her reputation as ruined in Scotland as it was in England. But how else could she explain being on Mr. Fairfax’s arm, whilst clearly headed toward the guest chambers?

Her mind spun. She needed the crowd to go away. “Mr. Fairfax is just… Mr. Fairfax is my…”

“Husband,” he put in smoothly.

“Yes, exactly,” she babbled before she could stop herself. That was the perfect excuse. “I am his wife. We are in a perfectly respectable marital union as husband and wife. Completely reputable and proper.”

Splendid. It took all of Charlotte’s self-control not to drop her face into her hands at that blurted nonsense. A husband was a better excuse than a lover, but it was also a blatant lie. Mr. Fairfax had only agreed to walk her to her chamber, not to participate in any marital farces along the way. Soon she would be known as a harlot and a liar.

The drunkard swayed forward. “Are you sure?”

Charlotte’s stomach dropped. Even a drunkard didn’t believe such twaddle. She was the least respectable, least proper, least reputable woman in the inn. Any moment now, her name would be just as tarnished here in Scotland as it was back home in London.

To her surprise and relief, Mr. Fairfax didn’t so much as change expression.

“Of course I’m certain I’m the lady’s husband,” he repeated firmly to the drunkard. “Now find your room, or I will put you there myself.”

Alarmed, the drunkard scuttled backwards out of harm’s way before lurching down the opposite corridor.

Mr. Whitfield stepped up from the rear of the crowd. “Fairfax, you sly dog. No wonder you were making eyes at her all evening. Why didn’t you just say that’s what you were about?”

Mr. Fairfax met Charlotte’s eyes and hesitated.

Her heart pounded. Would he lie to a friend? For her? She held her breath. In her haste to save her reputation, she hadn’t considered the ripples she’d be causing in his.

He waved a careless hand in the air. “I’ll explain how it all happened next time we see each other at Boodle’s. You’ll have to buy me a glass of brandy, though. It’s quite a story.”

Her shoulders sagged with relief. Mr. Fairfax had saved her reputation. He was an angel. Although… how the devil did he expect to get out of this without scandal?

“I expect nothing less than a fantastical tale from you,” Mr. Whitfield said with a chuckle. “Boodle’s, then.”

The last of the crowd dispersed.

Charlotte winced and murmured, “I am so sorry.”

“For that twaddle?” Mr. Fairfax turned her away from the crowd and led her down the corridor toward the stairs. “If anything, you’ve not only guaranteed my readmittance to Boodle’s, you even earned me a free glass of brandy while I’m at it. They’ll all have a great laugh over the time Anthony Fairfax was married for an entire minute.”

Anthony. Charlotte smiled wistfully. He had a lovely name.

Though she would never see him again, she, too, would look back on this moment with fondness. Not because it was a humorous episode or because for one spine-tingling moment she’d been afraid all she’d worked for was about to come crashing down, but because it had been oddly empowering. She’d had no doubt of their ability to fend off a simple drunkard, but convincing a passel of Londoners that a handsome gentleman like him could be married to a nobody like her… She was very, very far from home indeed.

It was magical.

She climbed the wooden stairs with a curve to her lips. The happy smile died when she caught sight of her bedchamber.

The door was ajar.

Her palms went clammy. She gripped Mr. Fairfax’s arm. “Someone has been inside my quarters.”

“They may still be there.” He touched his fingers to her hand. “Stay here and don’t move until I ensure it’s safe. If you hear any scuffling… scream.”

She stared back at him, frozen in place.

He disappeared inside.

She tried to calm her racing heart. Everything was going to be fine. Probably. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Imagine muscles relaxing in the neck, the shoulders, the brow. Mr. Fairfax would be fine. She would be fine.

She stifled a scream when he burst back into view.

Alone.

“No one is inside.” He covered her hands with his own. “Do you feel safe in there? Would you like a different chamber?”

Did she feel safe? A bubble of hysterical laughter tangled in her throat. Had she ever truly felt safe?

“It’s fine,” she managed. She would bar the door and find a maid at first light. “I’m fine.”

He studied her for a long moment. “I can stay, if you like.”

Fear flashed through her and she shook her head wildly. Not at his offer to watch over her—for a town gentleman, he seemed surprisingly trustworthy—but because if a few steps together in the corridor could raise that many eyebrows, him spending the night in her bedchamber could ruin what little respectability she possessed.

Yet the thought of being left alone was even worse. What if the thief returned to rob her? What if the blackguard wasn’t after her money or her jewels, but the unwilling company of a young woman with no one to call out to for help?

“Not inside,” Mr. Fairfax said quickly. “I am happy to guard your door from the corridor. You may set as many locks and chairs for barriers as you like. I shan’t allow passage to a single soul.”

“Y-you would sit in the corridor all night?” Her leaping heart slowed to a more sedate pace at the idea. She hoped his offer was sincere. She already felt safer at the thought of him guarding the threshold from the other side.

“Keeps me from the gaming tables,” he answered cheerfully and positioned himself against the wall facing her door.

Relief washed over her. She flashed a grateful smile, but her nerves were still on edge. “Thank you. I would appreciate that.”

She appreciated a hall guard more than he could know. But why would he make the offer? Did he truly intend to accede to her every command in order to repay the money he’d lost?

A door creaked open down the hall.

“As my lady wishes.” Mr. Fairfax tipped his hat. “I did offer to spend the night doing your bidding. Playing hall boy is certainly less tiring than what I thought you might demand of me. I should be thanking you.”

“Shh,” she hissed as another door creaked open. “You never thought I was going to ask you for anything. Now mind your tongue. Someone might overhear you.”

“But I like granting wishes.” His eyes widened innocently. “Have you no desires you’d like fulfilled? I haven’t the blunt to buy you a pony—or really anything—but I am quite good with my hands.”

“Who’s making all that ruckus?” a scratchy voice called out. “Some of us would like to sleep.”

Flames of embarrassment shot up Charlotte’s cheeks.

Another door swung open and a pale face in a mobcap peered out. “It’s Mr. Fairfax holding court in the corridor, by the look of it.”

“Holding court?” cackled a voice down the other end of the hall. “Better hope it’s with his wife. Had no idea that yellow-haired girl was a married woman. Fairfax ought to keep her close.”

“Fairfax ought to keep quiet, is what the rotter ought to keep!” bellowed a voice on the other side of the wall. “If that featherwit is still out there chattering to his wife by the time I put my robe on, I’ll—”

Charlotte grabbed Mr. Fairfax by the wrist, yanked him into her bedchamber, and slammed the door.

“As I was saying,” he began after the briefest pause. “One fine evening, after wagering on races along Rotten Row—”

“Do. Not.” She held up a shaking finger and prayed her blush would fade by sunrise. Splendid. She exhaled deeply. Now what? As long as the other guests believed her married to Mr. Fairfax, her reputation was better off with him on the inside of the chamber rather than raising suspicion on the outside. “Don’t move an inch until I’ve had a chance to look about the chamber to see if anything is missing.”

His teasing expression faded and his eyes turned serious. “How do you feel?”

“Exasperated,” she said through gritted teeth.

“With me.” He leaned against the door frame in obvious relief. “Excellent. For a moment there, you looked so pale and terrified that I was afraid to take your arm, for fear you’d shatter.” His eyes softened. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. You had every right to be alarmed. But the intruder is gone. You are safe. No one will harm you while I guard the door.”

Her mouth fell open. Had he made outrageous comments in the corridor to distract her from her panic? Her fingers slowly unclenched as she stared at him. It had worked, blast him. She had gone from shaking with terror to blushing in embarrassment—but she had entered her bedchamber of her own free will. Because she no longer feared it.

“Thank you,” she said softly. Although she did not approve of his methods, he had been good to intervene. Her mind had leaped from invasion of privacy to thwarted robbery to the thief returning to ravish her in a matter of moments.

All of those things were everyday threats to a woman of her station traveling alone. It was a relief that, for one night at least, she would not have to lie at the edge of sleep, attuned to every creak of the floorboard and every scratch at her window. Her heartbeat was returning to normal.

To her surprise, she was glad to have Mr. Fairfax with her. He made her feel safe. He made her feel less alone. He made her feel… worth protecting.

The last thing she wanted was for him to know the truth.

She turned away to peruse the chamber in search of damage. It looked the same. Small. Clean. Simple, but remarkably tasteful for such a remote outpost. The wardrobe was open, but she might have left it that way. Perhaps nothing more had occurred than staff forgetting to lock the door after emptying chamber pots and refreshing the water pitcher.

Or Mr. Fairfax might have just saved her from a terrible night, indeed.

She gathered her skirts and the dregs of her serenity. Now that they were stuck together for the night, what was she meant to do with him? Her mother was the one skilled at entertaining gentlemen, not Charlotte. The opposite: she had always done her best not to call untoward attention to herself.

And now she had a man in her bedchamber.

She swallowed. The last thing she wanted was for him to divine her base upbringing. She would simply have to do as she always did, and pretend to be someone else. Someone better than who she really was.

She motioned Mr. Fairfax into the sitting area and settled into a wingback chair near the fireplace with a demure shawl about her shoulders. The role of poor-but-respectable-miss came so readily by now, it was easy to forget she was playacting. Her muscles relaxed. She had spent her entire life trying to be someone she was not. A few more hours wouldn’t matter.

Mr. Fairfax strolled close to the fireplace and paused next to the grate. He tossed her an arch look before lifting a poker. “Shall I clean the chimney? I don’t at all mind stoking your fire.”

She pursed her lips, determined not to let on how much she secretly enjoyed the silly flirtation. Back in London, men didn’t bother. They assumed they could have her for a word and tuppence, and even when she rebuked them, they never quite comprehended that she was saving her virginity for something important. Her future.

If she wanted any chance at being respectable one day, at a minimum she needed to keep her maidenhead intact.

It hadn’t been easy. Not when her mother earned her living as a courtesan. Keeping house on the first floor, pretending she was no different from any other daughter with a mother who rarely left her bedchamber, had never allowed Charlotte to truly ignore reality. Not when every man who came to the door for her mother’s favors offered to buy hers as well.

Twenty years ago, Judith Devon had been one of the most infamous courtesans in all of London. Now, she was simply… old. Forgotten by the fashionable set. Plagued by the lower classes. Her worst enemies—and the only clients she had left.

For the past two-and-twenty years, the only person either of them could count on was each other. Proper ladies and gentlemen treated them like rubbish.

Society never let Charlotte forget her base roots. From the time she was old enough to toddle, gentlemen callers would toss an extra coin her way, and tell her how blessed she was to be the image of her beautiful mother.

It wasn’t a blessing. It was a curse.

The mere fifteen-year age gap between them meant, as Charlotte grew older, they were often confused on the street. Pointed at. Spat upon. There was no denying her heritage. No salvaging her reputation. She was a by-blow. A whore’s daughter.

Born ruined.

All those long, wretched years, her one chance at some level of respectability was the knowledge that, somewhere out there, she had a father. All she knew about him was his name, that he was a noble laird in Scotland, and that he had no idea he had a daughter.

Her mother had told her he was a wonderful man. Kind, compassionate, wise, thoughtful, gentle—everything a father should be. He hadn’t abandoned her. He hadn’t even known she existed. He’d returned to Scotland before either of them had realized they’d created a child.

But what if Charlotte could find him?

The tantalizing utopia of living in a respectable household had obsessed her for her entire life. This was her best chance. A man even half as caring and honorable as her mother had painted him would not hesitate to take her in, to welcome her. She didn’t want his money. She simply wanted his time. His affection. A place in this world.

As a child, Charlotte had lain awake every night dreaming about the day he would discover her and whisk her away to a better life, far from London. For years, she’d actually believed her father would return to rescue both her and her mother.

He never had. So here she was. An adult now. Closer to her dream than she’d ever been. He would not sweep in to save her, so Charlotte would have to do so herself. First, she had to find him—convince him she was virtuous enough to take in.

Then she would persuade him to send for her mother, or at least provide for her. Every new client Mother was forced to take added lines to her face and took years from her life. Charlotte was determined to marry well and rescue her mother herself, if her father could not. But to do so, she had to portray herself as honorable and proper.

Starting with never admitting to the truth.

“That should do it.” Mr. Fairfax slid the fire iron back into its stand and turned from the grate. “What is my next chore?”

Charlotte gazed up at him, startled. She had thought the farce was over. “You truly wish to be my slave for the night?”

“Of course I don’t wish to,” he assured her. “But I wouldn’t want it said that I reneged on our wager. Now, what shall it be? I likely oughtn’t to divulge a secret, but I am world renowned for a quite unparalleled foot massage.”

She frowned repressively. “If it’s a secret, how are you world renowned?”

“I’m also not half bad at dressing hair and mending hems,” he continued without pause. “I minded my younger sister and often had to play maid-of-all-work when times were lean.” He lowered his voice. “Playing maid-of-all-work is not nearly as diverting as playing whist or Faro, but a boy of twelve does not sail his own ship.”

Try as she might, Charlotte couldn’t keep a smile from forming. What must it be like to grow up so secure in one’s self-worth that one could admit to such poverty and have the confession sound charming? Either she truly did not understand the ton, or Mr. Fairfax wasn’t as well-connected as it had seemed in the common room.

Then again, he was welcome at fashionable gentlemen’s clubs like Boodle’s. So which was it?

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you know any dukes or earls?”

“I know scads of dukes and earls,” he assured her. “However, most are married and the rest are scandalous, so I really cannot recommend them to a lady.”

“Name one,” she challenged.

“The Duke of Ravenwood,” he answered immediately. “First-rate fellow, married to an absolutely dreadful hoyden who I love quite dearly. Cannot recommend her, either. Bad for one’s reputation.”

Charlotte tilted her head, unsure whether to believe even half of his tales. “Name a scandalous lord.”

“Lord Wainwright,” he said without hesitation. He lowered his voice. “The majority of his interactions with society are horizontal. A frequent guest at the even more scandalous Duke of Lambley’s infamous masquerade balls.”

She crossed her arms. Both of those names often appeared in the scandal sheets. Which did not mean Mr. Fairfax knew either gentleman personally. “Are any of these rakes and do-gooders as skilled as you at darning socks?”

“You know, I’ve never asked them,” he said with wide-eyed innocence. “I shall add it to my diary straightaway, so as not to forget the next time we meet.”

She harrumphed to hide her amusement. It didn’t matter whether he knew the men. She would never be introduced to them. “How are you at pressing wrinkles from gowns?”

“Let me assure you,” he said with utter seriousness, “that I have never worn a wrinkled gown in all my life.”

“Very gentlemanly.” She tried not to smile. “Let’s see your skill as maid-of-all-work, then. My gowns are in the wardrobe, as is my traveling iron. See what you can do.”

“At your service.” He bowed, then turned and marched to the wardrobe like a soldier off to war.

Now that he couldn’t see her, she let herself grin. The man was incorrigible… but she couldn’t help but find his frankness humanizing and his silliness refreshing. “You’re certain you know what you’re about with those gowns?”

“You will think my valet pressed them,” he called back in a tone filled with such portent that Charlotte half expected her muslins to be dotted with burns in the shape of smoothing irons.

It would almost be worth it, just to have this one night. This memory of a man above her station treating her as if she were above his. Of being an equal, rather than an object incapable of feelings or rights of her own. Of feeling… happy. She hugged herself in astonishment. When was the last time she’d felt safe enough and carefree enough to be happy?

She gazed wistfully at his strong back as he placed the iron in the fire. He smoothed out the first gown on the chaise longue before dampening the wrinkled material with water from the pitcher.

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.

No. 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. No matter what happened.

Charlotte still had dreams for the future. 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. The gentlemen she’d 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. And very much in love. The rest was optional… but a girl could dream.

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

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 must 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 pained 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…

Her fingers grew cold. 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 open 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,” Charlotte’s 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 so the onlookers could not overhear. “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. Her hands shook. She despised being the subject of gossip. She could not remain a guest here a moment longer than necessary.

Tomorrow morning, she would leave at dawn and put as much distance between herself and Mr. Fairfax as humanly possible. He was charming, but apparently not as upper crust as she had presumed. She could not chance becoming an object of ridicule in Scotland, too. Had he only offered to save her because he required saving, himself?

That was the only answer. Blackguard. Once the door was shut and locked, she turned 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 to fulfill the lady’s every 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. But her true disappointment was in herself. Of course a dapper gentleman would not offer himself as hall boy—much less chambermaid—out of the goodness of his heart. If she hadn’t been so frightened by the break-in, such improbable charity would have raised every suspicion.

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

“That was never my plan,” she bit out. Yet she could not summon true anger. Regardless of his motives, he had saved her from ruining her reputation, and was watching over her to keep her safe lest the thief return in the night. As to his manner of offering it… Undoubtedly her low upbringing caused her to find his irreverence more charming than scandalous. But she could not let it show. “I have no interest in participating in misconduct of any kind. Come morning, we shall part ways as strangers.”

“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 condition of 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.”

She no longer doubted that he could do it. Nor could she deny that his offers of help were both competent and sincere. Her shoulders relaxed. Perhaps his hardworking upbringing had made him more of a gentleman, not less of one.

“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 stony silence. She couldn’t allow him to guess that she was far more intrigued than offended.

For all that her mother’s paramours had declined in attractiveness and wealth over the years, her mother had truly seemed to enjoy the company of a few favorites.

Being forced to spend a night trapped in a bedchamber with a charming, talented rake was far from a nightmare. No one with a pulse could blame a lonely young lady for being tempted to make some very bad decisions with a man as handsome as Mr. Fairfax.

But carnal relations were a dark road, and Charlotte would not let herself travel down that path.

“Traditional nocturnal activities are slightly different,” he acknowledged. “That is 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. Or to show the inner war playing out between her brain and her desire. “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. I doubt we will meet again.”

“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 curled into the wingback chair. “Oxkirk.”

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

“Thus far?” She gave him a mock frown. “How temporary. 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. Charlotte looked away. She liked the idea of him charming the chemise off some proper debutante much less than she ought.

She pulled a blanket over her shoulders and snuggled into 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.

Concern for her reputation ripped through her drowsiness. Quickly, she scrambled out of the chair and onto the four-poster bed so that she would not be in the vicinity of 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 of Mr. Fairfax removing his cravat and folding it neatly.

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

Charlotte did not dare respond.

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. She could not help but remember his words.

“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.”