“Char,” I murmur and she glances up, seemingly startled by my new nickname for her. “My aunt Blanche is right over there, and I know she’s dying to meet you.”
I gesture to the other side of the room.
The smile of relief on her face is instantaneous. “I would love to meet your aunt. Excuse us, will you?” she murmurs to her father.
He barely releases Charlotte and she has to practically wrench herself out of his grip. My mother is oblivious. The territorial expression on her father’s face speaks volumes.
Reginald Lancaster views his daughter as a product. An asset.
I slip my arm around her waist to lay claim on my future wife and steer her away from our parents, my touch far gentler than his. My steps are brisk, not giving Charlotte a chance to slow down until we’re tucked away in a tiny alcove not far from the kitchen.
“What is wrong with you?” she asks as she pulls out of my grip and turns to face me. “And where’s your aunt Blanche?”
“I don’t have an aunt Blanche.” I try to take her hand to pull her in closer, but she yanks her hand away from mine. Instead, I slip my hands into my pockets, irritation with this ridiculous woman making my blood run hot. “Tell me what the hell is going on.”
Charlotte frowns. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Pretty sure she’s playing my ass. “With your father, Charlotte. I didn’t like how he touched you just now.”
About a thousand emotions flicker in her gaze before she schools it into utter calmness. An expert poker player she would never make. “It’s not what you think.”
When someone makes a remark like that, it is absolutely one hundred percent what you think. My tone drops about ten octaves when I ask, “Is he the one who gave you those bruises?”
She starts to shake her head. “Absolutely no—”
“Tell me the truth,” I interrupt, my voice sharp.
We stare at each other in silence, neither of us wanting to give first. I don’t know exactly what clue indicated to me that her father might be abusive toward her. Maybe I’m running on pure instinct. I remember how she told me after our first family dinner how being married to me might not be too bad.
She’s in search of an escape—and using me for it. Being in a stranger’s house would be far better than in her own?
Maybe it would.
“It’s truly nothing,” she says, lifting her chin. Daring me to contradict her.
I’m quiet, my mind going one hundred miles a minute, trying to come up with a solution for her problem. She can deny it all she wants but I don’t believe her.
She’s lying.
She wants protection? I’ll give it to her. I know it’s none of my business. I should be scheming how to get out of this entire situation, not shoving myself in deeper. But…
I feel sorry for her. No man should hurt a woman. Physically or emotionally. I feel responsible for her in a sense.
Damn it, she’s growing on me.
“Tomorrow, you’re moving in with me,” I demand.
“What?” Charlotte gapes at me, her pink lips falling open. “I can’t live with you. We’re not even married yet.”
“What does it matter?”
Her expression turns haughty. “I can’t risk another scandal.”
Anotherone?
What the hell is she talking about? Her secret passionate affair with the nameless dude? Give me a break.
“No one has to know. We’ll keep it quiet.” I shrug.