This time, 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 ton life, 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.
She narrowed her eyes. “Do you know any dukes and 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.”
She crossed her arms. “Are any of these rakes and do-gooders skilled at foot rubs or 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. “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 well. Mine are in the wardrobe, as is my traveling iron. See what you can do.”
“At your service.” He bowed and marched to the wardrobe like a soldier off to war.
She tried not to display her amusement. 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 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 and smoothed out the first gown upon the chaise longue.
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.
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.
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. And the gentlemen she 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. The rest was optional.
A knock sounded upon the door. “Miss Devon? It’s Mr. Garman.”
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 have to 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 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… 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 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,” her 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. “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. She despised being the subject of gossip.
Tomorrow morning, she would leave at dawn and put as much distance between herself and Mr. Fairfax as humanly possible. He was charming, but not as upper crust as she had presumed. She could not chance becoming an object of ridicule in Scotland, too.
Once the door was shut and locked, she stormed 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 myself as a paramour to fulfill the lady’s every sordid 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.
He blinked innocently. “I should mention that I am happy at any time to cease ironing and go back to the original plan of taking you to—”
“That was never my plan,” she groused. Undoubtedly it was her low upbringing that caused her to find his irreverence more charming than scandalous. But she could not let it show.
“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 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.”
“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 silence.