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.
Money. It always came back to money.
He was not at all surprised that the only way he’d got a wife was because she hadn’t even realized she was entering into a contract. It wasn’t at all how he’d hoped it would happen. He’d imagined wooing his future bride with operas, parlors overflowing with flowers, the promise of a palace fit for a queen.
In every dream, his future wife was not only thrilled…She chose him. A woman so lovely inside and out that she could have her pick of the ton—and she would choose Anthony. She needed him. He made her happiest. He was worthy of her love.
Instead, all he’d done for Charlotte so far was ruin her plans and come perilously close to ruining her life. What would he do if the debt collector’s ruffians took her savings by force? What would he do if they never found any money, and made good on their promise to send him to Marshalsea prison? What would happen to Charlotte then?
His stomach twisted. He only wanted the best for her, but had accidentally given her his worst.
A terrible thought struck him. What if she’d had a beau back home—wherever home was? He hadn’t even thought to ask. He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. What if she had been betrothed? Or promised to the Church? Or had been perfectly happy as an independently wealthy woman of leisure until he came along and stole her independence away? He came to a sudden stop.
“Was there someone else?” he asked her roughly. “Is your heart…are you promised elsewhere?”
“No,” she said. “I have no one.”
Relief coursed through him. “You had no one,” he said gruffly. “Now you have me.”
She smiled and said nothing.
“We should try to get to know one another,” he suggested. “Have you always dreamed of bearing many children?”
“What?” she choked. “No. Why would you ask that?”
“You were good with those hellions,” he pointed out.
She shook her head. “You were also quite good with the children.”
“I have two nephews,” he admitted. “Still a bit younger than those lads, but already tremendous terrors. Identical twins. I’m one of the few who can tell them apart.”
She smiled. “They sound lovely. Do you see them often?”
Not often enough. He sighed.
“I visit every time I have a lucrative evening at the tables. I love to bring them little boats, paints, wooden horses… Their eyes light up when my carriage pulls in the drive, because they know there’s a treat for them inside.”
Or they had. Back when he had a carriage. And lucrative evenings at the tables.
Her eyes softened. “I’m sure you’re their favorite uncle.”
“I should expect so,” he said with his haughtiest sniff. “The other one got all the looks. I should at least be the most fun.”
“I doubt he got all the looks.” She arched a brow. “I’m not nearly as repulsed by your emerald eyes and bedimpled smile as one might presume.”
“No?” He turned to her with interest. “Tell me more about how devastatingly handsome I am. Could you send a short note to the Society papers?”
She waved the idea away. “I doubt you’ve suffered any lack of ladies gushing over how attractive you are. Just to be different, I shall admire your character instead. I admit I like the sound of you spoiling your nephews.”
He twisted his lips. “Even if I can only do so when luck is in my favor?”
“If you spoil children every day, they truly would grow up to be terrors.” She gave a mock shiver. “It sounds to me like you do everything you can, whenever you can. How could anyone ask for more than that?”
His step faltered. No one had ever viewed his wild swings of fortune and famine in such a positive light before. The idea that someone could see all his faults—in Charlotte’s case, she’d seen solely his faults—and still find something in him worth praising had his heart pounding.
A win at the gaming tables over a decade ago had been the first time he’d made his family proud. Since then, he had spent his entire life trying to buy love, to buy approval, the one way he knew how.
To think that the innocent person who’d borne the worst of his recklessness might still view him as good, or at least as a reasonably attentive uncle… His chest expanded. Such praise was dizzying. Mystifying. Addicting.
He did not yet deserve it.
Self-recrimination washed over him. How different their relationship might have been if he had met Charlotte with his affairs actually in order! He needed to get his situation sorted, and fast. Not just for himself. For her.
But what could he do? The sums he needed… Anthony did have acquaintance with a fair number of dukes and earls, but he could not possibly misuse their friendship in such a fashion. After all, the man currently in possession of Anthony’s IOUs had also once been his friend. Today, the man had sent enforcers.
Someone with a title would be even more persuasive when it was time to repay debts.
He would have to earn the money himself. Somewhere. Somehow. Within the next fortnight.
Only then could he truly begin to be a proper husband. To make her happy. His jaw tightened. He could think of nothing worse than for the one person who had ever refrained from judging him a useless wastrel to decide she had erred and he was worthless after all. He had to think of something.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“Kissing you,” he answered automatically. The act might not have been in the forefront of his mind, but was never far from his thoughts. Not since the moment he’d met her.
“How interesting,” she said. “I was recoiling from the horrendous grass stains on the rear of your breeches.”
“What’s that? You say you were ogling my buttocks?” He peered over his shoulder as if to preen. “I cannot blame you. I’m told they’re the finest in England.”
“Who told you that?” she teased. “Did you leave yourself a note?”
He patted her hand where it lay against his arm. “Now, I don’t want you to feel badly about your ghastly deformity, but I thought I should mention the sharp stabbing pains of whatever is protruding from your ribcage cutting through my waistcoat as I bravely rejected your carnal advances.”
Pink flooded her cheeks. “Oh, no. It’s the money pouches. I—I forgot they were there.”