“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.”
Hope dared to stir in her chest before harsh reality tamped it down. Her mouth flattened. “Others will. You can’t change Society. And what about your friends and family? What will they say when they discover you’ve wed the offspring of a whore?”
“My friends and family are no strangers to scandal.” His tone was rueful, but his eyes held no trace of regret. “My sister married her husband the same week that she gave birth. One needn’t have a head for figures to realize they must have taken a few liberties with the proper order of events.”
She stared at him in amazement, scarcely able to comprehend his meaning. She had told him her darkest secrets, the very things she had spent a lifetime fighting to hide, and…it didn’t change his view of her in the slightest?
She was human, he’d said without the slightest hesitation. Without realizing she’d struggled her entire life to be treated like a whole person. She’d dreamed of Society accepting her…but perhaps it was enough to be accepted by one man.
This man.
She gave him a wobbly smile. He pulled her into his arms and just held her. Letting his strength comfort her. She hugged him tight.
If only he were someone she could keep.
Chapter 10
Anthony cradled his sleeping bride in his arms as their hired hack rattled across the border into England. 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 the daughter of a whore was perhaps not the most ideal of circumstances, but when had Anthony ever done the ideal thing? He could scarcely hold her 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 couldn’t even be caught at all, if he didn’t find a way to triumph over the debt collectors.
He had considered the situation over and over again—some might say dwelled upon the matter to the point of nausea—and had come to the same conclusion. The only honorable way out of his scrape was to earn the owed sums himself.
The issue was how to buy more time.
He still believed London the most viable city for easy employment. And the only place he could repay his debt, since Gideon’s vice parlor lay within city borders. But, given the new information about Charlotte, ’twas no 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?
At least they were heading south. On the move. 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. Now was not the moment to make her promises about the future. 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 had meant what he said. He would fix his mess. And once he deserved her, Charlotte would be his. Completely.