Avarice and Charity

Autumn 1871

Inkerman, Queensland, Australia

Avarice Licciardi stepped through the partially broken, wooden, swinging doors of the Black Swan Hotel, his gaze going to the tattered interior. The wallpaper was ripped in some areas, discoloured in others. The wooden floor was smeared with blood spots and liquor stains. The lighting in the building was dim, and he lifted his gaze to the ceiling to see a broken chandelier. This certainly wasn’t the kind of place he would frequent by choice. His attention being drawn to the rowdy patrons, it was evident these people cared little about the shabby décor.

It was barely dusk and already the small, timber establishment was almost full to capacity. Glancing around as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, it became clearly obvious that most there tonight were farmhands and workers from the surrounding cattle stations. The only women there were those who worked at the hotel, constantly filling the men’s glasses and attending to any other desires they might have.

Very aware of the many eyes on him, watching as he walked slowly through the hotel, Avarice tried to focus on why he was there. His father had insisted he come there and collect a debt. He tried to explain he had other plans for the evening, but as always, the old man insisted.

As he made his way further through the crowd of drinking and drunk men, Avarice understood why he’d been sent there. The mere thought of his father, the great Antonio Licciardi, even stepping foot in such a place was unimaginable. Avarice might not have been as powerful or intimidating as the old man, but he was the first to admit he didn’t really want to be in this place. He just wanted to get the money he had come for and get the hell out of there.

“We don’t see the likes of you around here much, mister,” a tarted-up, scantily dressed woman commented as she stepped toward him. “You lost?” she asked, her hand coming to rest on his forearm.

Avarice pulled his arm away, not wanting to give her any ideas that he was there for something other than business. “I’m looking for someone,” he replied.

The woman stepped into him, her heaving bosom resting against his chest. “For the right price, honey, I could be that someone.”

Smiling at her sultry attempt, he stepped away from her. “Not tonight. I’m here on business, not pleasure.”

When her smile turned to a pout of disappointment, Avarice laughed slightly at her practised response. Excusing himself from her company, he continued through the crowd of patrons, his gaze scanning carefully for the man he was after.

“Young Mister Licciardi,” he heard a man’s voice say from nearby. “You look like a fish out of water.”

Turning to see who’d spoken to him, he couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a hard man to track down, Albert. My father has been looking for you all week.”

The smile on the older man’s face quickly disappeared. “That old bastard just won’t leave me in peace, will he? I told him I can’t repay his money for at least another month.”

Avarice closed the distance between them. “It appears my father is tired of waiting. I’ve been sent here to collect what you owe him.”

“That is a bit of bad luck then because I don’t have the money.”

Avarice raised his brow, irritated by this man’s near-instant dismissal of him. “Yet it appears you have enough money to sit in this rat’s nest drinking and gambling.”

Albert chuckled as if trying to make light of the situation. “You of all people must understand a man needs to live.”

“I was under the impression a man should be smart enough to live within his means.”

Albert’s expression turned serious. “Don’t you dare presume to lecture me about my life, you pompous, little bastard.”

Avarice leaned on the table, his palms landing heavily on the wooden surface. “You will give me my father’s money or you will be begging me for that life.”

Without warning, Albert reached for the fork that was on the table and stabbed it into the back of Avarice’s hand.

“You bastard!” Avarice cursed, grabbing his hand and cradling it against his chest as pain shot through his fingers.

Albert stood from his seat. “As I explained, I don’t have the money,” he said, turning to walk away.

Avarice reached for him, stopping his retreat. Clutching Albert’s shirt, he pulled him back to within a foot of him before letting him go. With one swing, his uninjured fist connected hard and swift with the other man’s cheek, knocking him unconscious on the floor. Reaching down, he searched through Albert’s pockets, pulling out a wad of notes.

“Sir, you’re going to have to leave,” a man said from behind him. “I won’t have fighting in my hotel.”

Avarice turned, his gaze settling on the bartender. “I asked him for the money he owed, and he stabbed me. I’d say you’re about to throw the wrong man out of this place.”

The bartender glanced down at the fork still sticking out of his bloodied hand then back to Avarice. “Heaven’s above,” he gasped. “I’ll have one of my girls take you out back and see that you are looked after.”

The bartender hurried away, and within seconds one of the working girls arrived. She took Avarice’s arm and led him out the back behind the bar to the rooms there.

Just when he was about to turn and explain to the woman that sexual relations with a prostitute wasn’t really his idea of the best way to end this evening, she let go of his arm.

“Can someone tell Charity she’s needed in the back room? Some drunk stabbed himself with a fork.”

“You think I did this?” Avarice asked.

The woman looked uninterested in anything he had to say. “Just take a seat,” she ordered, pushing him into a chair sitting next to a small table. “Our girl won’t be long.”

Seeing no point in arguing, he tried to make himself comfortable. He’d been in the back rooms of quite a few hotels in his time, more often than not chasing money from people who owed debts to his father. Glancing around at his surroundings, he realized they all seemed to look just like this one did. The furniture was sparse. The building old. There was certainly nothing inviting or sensual about coming to such a place to have an interaction with a woman.

Pain shooting through his hand, Avarice wondered who this woman was that was apparently coming to take care of his wound. Was she a whore also? He would find out soon enough. For now, he was at least grateful the room he was in appeared cleaner than the bar was.

“I have to admit I’ve never had to look after a fork wound in a brothel before. Guess there’s a first time for everything,” he heard a woman say from behind him. Her vague Irish accent was intriguing; the sound of her footsteps drawing closer as she approached him.

“I assure you, despite what you might have been told, I didn’t do this to myself,” Avarice started to explain as he turned to face the woman. His gaze reached the curvaceous figure walking toward him, any further explanation he thought to have made died on his lips.

She was a beauty unlike any he’d seen before, certainly not one that should be in a brothel. She looked to be a full foot shorter than he was. Her fiery red hair was tied in a loose bun, her flared, brown skirt flowing around her as she moved. Her blouse was simple and cream in colour. By appearances, this woman was no brothel worker. As she neared him, he noticed the deep brown of her eyes, something akin to chocolate pools. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

“You don’t look like any prostitute I’ve ever seen,” he muttered, more to himself than to be heard.

Her brow rose at his remark. “Well noted,” she said, stopping directly in front of him, placing her knitted bag, something similar to a miser’s purse, gently on the table. “Nor do you look like any drunk I’ve ever seen.”

He couldn’t help but smile slightly at her witty comeback. “I’m not drunk. I came here to collect the money owed to my father. The person I was collecting from took objection to me taking what he owed.”

She picked up his hand in hers, studying the wound. “If you’re the money collector and you’re wounded, maybe I should be checking on the other gent as well. From my experience, they usually end up in a worse state than the one collecting.”

“I hit him once, and that was after he stabbed me,” Avarice explained.

She eyed him carefully for a moment, no doubt trying to judge how much truth was in what he was telling her. Obviously satisfied he wasn’t lying to her, she looked back down and continued to study his hand, her fingers lifting each of his to check movement.

“You’ve got a slight accent,” she mentioned, glancing at him briefly before returning to her examination. “Where are you from?”

“My father was born in Veneto, Italy. He taught me to speak both Italian and English as a child. The slight accent is nothing more than a result of that. I was actually born just a few hours from here in Bowen.”

She gently laid his hand down to rest on his knee. “Well, mister, you are the first Mediterranean I’ve treated in this place. Most who come in here are gold miners and cattle farmers, all Englishmen or children of them. Until today, I was starting to think that was the only nationality who lived here.”

He raised his brow, humoured by her observation. “You’ve never come across another person from Ireland?” he asked. When her brow furrowed as if confused, he smiled. “Your accent is stronger than mine.”

She giggled. “It’s a hard accent to lose, even after I’ve lived here most of my life,” she remarked as she turned away from him and walked over to the wash basin.

After washing her hands, she picked up a cup before returning to where her bag lay near him on the table. Reaching inside, she pulled out what looked to be a bottle of wine and filled the cup.

“I suggest you drink up. What I have to do next might pinch a little,” she explained, holding the cup out to him.

Avarice raised his brow. “And you think a glass of wine will help?”

She turned the bottle so he could see the label. “This wine will.”

Reading the label, he looked back at her. “And what is a lady like you doing carrying a bottle of coca wine around with her?”

She nudged the cup closer to him insistently. “You’d be surprised what I’ve had to pull out of men in this place over the last few months.”

Taking the glass from her, he gulped down the liquid. “Lucrative business then?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. “Can’t say I’ve ever been in a hotel that has its own nurse before.”

She reached for his hand and held it firmly in hers, the softness of her skin moulding against him. Just this slight joining filled him with a warmth he’d never felt before.

“I’m not a nurse,” she confessed. “I just come here and help out when they need me to.”

“Help out? You mean you don’t get paid to do this?”

“This might hurt a little,” she muttered as her other hand quickly reached for the handle of the fork, pulling it sharply from the back of his hand. Her finger pressed hard on the wound to still the bleeding. “I need you to reach in the pocket of my skirt, please.”

“What?” he asked, taken aback by her request.

She raised her brow. “There’s a small bag of leaves in there I need to dress your wound with. What did you think I was asking for?”

He avoided answering her question, instead doing as she’d instructed. “You’re going to wrap my hand in this? It looks like grass.”

One hand securely holding the wound to still the bleeding, the other reached inside the bag for a small handful of the leaves. “It’s watercress. It should stop this from getting infected,” she explained as she crushed them slightly in her fingers and applied them on and around the bloody wound. Grabbing the handkerchief sticking out of his trouser pocket, she then proceeded to wrap it around his hand. Tying it tight, she placed his hand back on his knee. “You should be fine now.”

Reaching for her bag, she put in her supplies before going to the bucket of clean water and washing her hands again.

“Thank you, Miss...”

“My name is Charity,” she uttered, not looking at him.

He studied her, amazed at how casually she walked around the establishment most women cringed at when they walked past. Moving his hand, he was also amazed at the ease and professionalism with which she tended to his wound.

“You’re staring at me,” she said, turning to face him.

“Am I?”

She giggled, a faint blush covering her cheeks. “Why did your father send you to collect his money?” she asked, changing the direction of the conversation. “In my experience, money collectors rarely send an apprentice.”

Her tart words made him smile. “He thinks I need to learn more about the family business.”

She lifted her skirts and dried her hands on the petticoats beneath. “You don’t agree?”

“No, but I am grateful he sent me here tonight, otherwise I would never have met you.”

Blushing again, she lowered her gaze away from him, suddenly appearing a little unsure of herself. “It appears the wine has gone to your head, sir.”

“Please call me Avarice,” he uttered softly.

Just then one of the working women came running down the stairs toward her. “Charity!” she yelled. “Thank goodness you’re still here. That woman upstairs is bleeding pretty bad.”

Grabbing her bag, Charity turned away from him and started hurrying up the stairs.

“Can I help you with anything?” he offered.

She glanced back at him. “No, but thank you for the offer. It was nice to meet you, Avarice.”

As he watched her hurrying away from him, Avarice found himself wondering about who Charity really was. After all, the only women usually seen in brothels and hotels were those with shaded reputations, not those merely offering help.

Walking back out toward the bar, he took a seat on a stool there. “Can I have a whiskey, please?” he asked the bartender.

When the man behind the bar delivered his drink, he glanced at Avarice’s hand. “She fixed your hand up all right then?” he asked.

Avarice nodded. “Can’t say I’ve ever been treated by a woman such as her before.”

The bartender smiled. “You probably won’t be ever again either. Our Charity is one of a kind.”

As the bartender walked away from him, Avarice thought about his words. The woman was indeed something special. He could only wish he might cross paths with her again soon.

* * * *

Charity Bohdan stood in the room upstairs, scrubbing her hands free of the blood covering her skin. When she first came there tonight, she could never have imagined the woman she’d been requested to see would be in such a bad way. Glancing over her shoulder at the still figure on the bed, she forced herself to accept the fact that there was nothing else she could do.

“Will she live?” the madam asked.

Charity shrugged. “If she makes it through the night, I’ll come to check on her in the morning. There is little else I can do. You really should call a doctor.”

“No!” the madam insisted. “I won’t subject this poor chit to one of those old quacks. If you say you’ve done everything you can for her, then I must trust you have and let nature take its course.”

Lifting her skirts, Charity dried her hands on her petticoats. “Provided the wound doesn’t get infected, she has a good chance of pulling through,” she explained. “But she must stay in bed and rest.”

The madam nodded. “I will keep her still until you come in the morning.”

Reaching for her bag, Charity left the room and walked down the stairs to the main bar, her feet heavy as she stepped. It had been a long night. The poor girl upstairs had been attacked by her father, and she had tried to fight him off. In desperation, the young woman reached for a bottle and broke it over his head. Some shards of the glass must have flown toward her, cutting her pretty badly.

Under any other circumstances, Charity would have refused to treat her, demanding the chit be taken to a doctor. It was only when the madam refused, explaining the girl was the youngest daughter of the district magistrate, that Charity knew she had no choice but to treat the poor girl. If a doctor was called to look at her, then the police would soon become involved. If that happened, she dared not think about what would happen to the girl. Her father would certainly not be punished for his attempt to rape his daughter.

Walking to the bar, she sat down. She was exhausted, and her nerves were shot to pieces.

“Can I have a whiskey please, Joseph?” she asked the bartender.

“A woman who drinks whiskey?” a familiar, soft, raspy voice asked beside her. “I must say you really are an enigma, Miss Charity.”

Her drink arriving, she nodded her thanks to the bartender before turning to look at the man beside her, his blue eyes staring at her. When she’d been called to attend to his injured hand, she immediately noticed how handsome he was. Sitting there beside him now, her gaze drifting over his moderately curly, light brown hair and lightly tanned skin, she felt her breath catch in her throat. Avarice, dressed in blue denim jeans and a white cotton shirt, could have his choice of any woman in the building, yet there he was talking to her.

Mentally shaking herself, Charity was quickly reminded of the kind of establishment she was in and the reason most men came there. Calming her senses, she accepted he was probably only talking to her because he thought she would be a cheaper option than one of the working women.

“You really should be home resting your hand, Avarice. Alcohol thins the blood and encourages bleeding.”

Charity stood up to leave. She didn’t want to be rude to this man, but neither did she want to be harassed into a bed, or hounded with questions about her remedial practices.

“Please, don’t go,” he pleaded, his hand coming out and resting on her elbow.

She turned to him. “Why?” she asked. “You don’t even know me.”

“I would like to though,” he said, standing and stepping toward her.

She pulled her elbow away. “I assure you I’m not the kind of woman that men such as you want to know.”

“What do you mean ‘men such as me’?”

She sighed, her hand coming up to brush the loose strands of hair from her brow. She didn’t have the energy for this tonight. “As we are both aware, men come here to sleep with women, not to talk to them.”

She walked away from him and took a seat at the table in the far corner, away from the main crowd. Under any other circumstances, she would have been flattered by the attentions of a man as handsome as Avarice. But tonight had been more trying than most. Sipping her drink, she let out a heavy sigh, needing to try and gain some control over her emotions.

Despite her persistence to continue helping the women of this area who couldn’t go to the local doctor, only she knew how much it took out of her. It wasn’t just the administering of medicines, but also the constant fear that someone would report her to the authorities. If that were to happen, it would be more than just her nerves that were shot to pieces.

“Do you mind if I join you?” she heard Avarice ask from beside her.

Even though she was weary, she couldn’t help but smile at his persistence. “Would it matter if I said no?”

“Yes, it would actually,” he replied. “I’ve never forced my company on a woman, and I have no intention of starting now.”

When he turned to walk away from her, she reached for his hand, holding it for a moment. “Please, don’t go,” she insisted. “I apologize if I seem abrupt. It’s just been a long and trying night.”

“I swear I only want to talk to you,” he assured her, taking a seat opposite her. “What you did for my hand was bizarre. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

She sipped her drink. “Few people have.”

“How is the woman upstairs, the one that was bleeding?”

She shrugged, staring into her glass. “If she survives the night, she should be all right.” She looked up at him. “She was attacked by her father and came here to these women for help.”

“You are so comfortable here, almost as if you trust these women with your life.”

“That’s because I do.” Leaning back against her chair, she began to relax, realizing Avarice was only trying to be friendly. Maybe he felt he owed it to her for helping patch his hand up. She didn’t know, but he was causing her no harm. In truth, she liked talking to him.

“Ladies in this area usually sneer at the brothel women, yet here you sit proclaiming your trust in them.”

“Most of the women here don’t ask for this life,” she explained. “Even those who choose it still deserve to be cared for. They respect me and trust what I do when I come here to help them. The least I can do is return such feelings.”

He studied her, his eyes narrowing. “Why would you take care of these women? I can’t imagine they’d pay you all that well.”

She shook her head. “I don’t just look after the women here. I visit most of the hotels in the area. Brothels are known to take in those who feel they have nowhere else to go. I do what I can for them, and I provide my services free of charge.” She sipped her drink, her gaze holding his. “I even take care of men foolish enough to get stabbed by a kitchen utensil.”

He chuckled. “Despite what you were told, I assure you I wasn’t drunk.”

She returned his smile. “I know that. I’ve done this for quite some time, and I know a drunkard when I see one.”

“Yet you still treated me without question,” he said. “You could have just as easily sent me on my way.”

“But I didn’t want to.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

She sipped her drink again. “Because you have kind eyes.”

Silence fell between them, their stares joined.

Charity knew she shouldn’t have told him that, very aware such admissions might be seen as too salacious. Even so, she couldn’t have silenced her words. There was something about Avarice that made her feel very unbridled.

Wondering what would happen now, and would he understand her need to return home soon to her ever-protective father, she broke their joined stare and glanced over his shoulder. She hoped to see something or someone who might be able to act as her excuse for needing to leave the company of this man. Instead, her gaze rested on a very familiar and unwelcome face.

Rushing to her feet, knowing she had to hurry before she was seen, she rocked the table and accidentally knocked her drink over. She immediately lifted her skirts and reaching for her petticoats, dabbed at it briefly.

“I’m very sorry, but I really need to be going,” she apologized, trying to excuse herself, knowing the possible consequences should she be seen there at this hour.

“Charity, wait,” Avarice pleaded, trying to reach for her.

She stepped back to avoid him, unsure now of his intentions. A group of arguing men smelling of beer and cigarettes stormed past, knocking Charity off balance. She felt herself falling backward toward the tables, and she struggled to keep her balance. Dreading what harm might befall her should she connect with the floor beneath her, she suddenly felt the strong hands of a man catching her and holding her steady.

Fearful who might have found her, she quickly glanced up to look at her rescuer.

“Avarice, what are you doing?” she asked, stumbling away from him slightly. “You will hurt your hand doing such things.”

His hands went to his hips, his brow raised at her reaction. “Would you perhaps have preferred that I allow you to fall and injure yourself?” he asked, obviously a little annoyed by her tone.

She straightened her skirts. “That wasn’t what I meant. I just... I mean...” She cleared her throat, realizing what she must sound like. “Thank you for saving me.”

He smiled at her, and her heart thudded heavily in her chest. “You are most welcome. But I must say you gave me quite a start there. You looked as if you saw a ghost.” When she glanced frantically behind her, he reached for her hand, his thumb rubbing her palm. “Or maybe you have spied your lover here tonight and would rather him not see us together?”

She turned back to face him, very aware this stranger was holding her hand so very publically. She realized she should pull away from him, but still, she couldn’t. The touch of his skin against her own filled her with a warmth she never knew was possible.

“Why would you assume I have a lover?” she asked.

He raised his brow. “A woman as beautiful as you would surely have a string of men begging for her attention.”

She lowered her gaze from his, pulling her hand free from his grasp. What he said was not so far from the truth, but none of those who came calling on her cared for any beauty she might possess. All they saw was the wealth of her family; something Avarice was still unaware of.

“If I’m wrong, Charity, I apologize,” he uttered softly, interrupting her thoughts. “Though by the look on your face, I would say my assumption wasn’t that incorrect.”

She walked away from the crowd of drinking men and to a quieter corner of the hotel, motioning for him to follow her. Reaching an area far more private to have this discussion, she turned to face him.

“I have no lover,” she explained. “I only have an arranged suitor, one who was certainly not by my choosing.”

“You’re engaged?”

She shook her head. “I don’t consider myself as such. Marriage should be about two people who actually love each other. It shouldn’t be about an exchange of properties and bonds on a mattress.”

“Have you already shared a mattress with your arranged suitor?” Avarice asked. “Is that why you wish him not to see you here?”

“I wish him not to see me here because I fear that if he does he will return to my father and tell him of my whereabouts.”

Avarice raised his brow. “And where does your father think you are?”

She averted her gaze, not proud of her deception. “I told him I was caring for a sick friend.”

“You find nothing wrong in lying to your father?”

She could hear the disapproval in his tone. She wasn’t proud of her actions, but she also knew she had no other choice but to have done what she did. Lifting her gaze back to his, she straightened her posture.

“I didn’t really lie,” she said. “These women here are my friends. And by your own witness, I do take care of people while I’m here.”

“I wonder what your father would do though should he learn your ‘friends’ are in fact whores and drunkards and money collectors?”

She didn’t miss that Avarice included himself in his description. “If he were to be told I was here at the Black Swan, he would cut off my allowance and confine me to the house. Then he would marry me off to the most willing man with instructions I was to be kept on a tight leash.”

“That’s twice you have described the union of marriage as little more than a business transaction,” he commented.

“That’s because it is all it seems to be,” she explained. “We are told who we should marry and who we should give our bodies to. Greedy men sell their children to the highest bidder so they might line their pockets with even more land and gold. Marriage isn’t supposed to be two strangers copulating because they are told they should.”

“It’s how things have been done for centuries,” he explained.

“As I am aware, but I’ll be damned if I’m made to play a part in it,” she said firmly. “My father already has enough money. He doesn’t need me to obtain more for him.”

His stare narrowed. “Are you saying you will never marry?”

She shook her head. “I’m trying to understand what has happened to desire and passion. Does no one feel those things anymore? Do they not ache for the feel of someone who can send their pulse racing by a mere touch of their hands? If I am to marry, then it will be to a man who sets my senses afire, and not to satisfy my father’s greed.”

He was silent for a moment, and she began to wonder if her outburst had been too much for him.

“There used to be cultures that gave women the choice to wed or not,” he finally stated, not sounding too taken aback. “If she decided she did want a husband, she was actually allowed to be involved in the choice. Lands and property were always considered, but her heart was also allowed to have a say.”

Charity raised her brow, dubious there was any truth in what he was saying. “Do you honestly expect me to believe there was a race of humans that didn’t treat their women like chattel to be bartered with?”

He nodded, a huge smile creeping across his face. “The Celtic people of Ireland, your ancestors, believed women had the right not to marry if they didn’t wish to.”

She smiled back at him. “Maybe I should return to the old ways of my people then.”

Avarice laughed. “I doubt you would have enjoyed it. It was true women were not forced to wed, but more often than not they were persuaded by their family that they should. In any event, they certainly did believe that passion and desire should be part of every marriage. The Celts practised polygamy, among other things, so it was normal for a man to have several wives and even mistresses.”

“I wonder if any of them loved each other?”

“It is possible, but given where we are, surely we’re both aware that love doesn’t need to exist to have sex.”

She should have been shocked by his words, but all she felt was sadness. “It would appear not a lot has changed over the years then. Such a loveless lifestyle is considered normal to so many men in this town.”

“Not to me,” Avarice remarked firmly. “I come to brothels to collect money, not to partake in the services provided.”

She eyed him carefully, looking for any sign of a lie. “You expect me to believe you are so very different to the married men I see coming into the hotels of this area on a nightly basis?”

“You aren’t the only one opposed to an arranged marriage,” he commented. “Nor are you alone in your belief that greed governs way too many actions in this town, including what happens in the bedroom.”

“I must say I’m shocked,” she confessed. “Never have I heard any man make such a claim, not even in the attempt to seduce a woman into his bed.”

He smiled at her remark. “I told you before I only wanted to talk. If I were trying to seduce you, Charity, I would have done so by now.”

“You seem pretty certain of yourself.”

His smile faded. “My father raised me to live the cold life of greed you spoke of. He taught me women were little more than a possession and a way to warm one’s bed.”

She raised her brow. “Yet you have sat with me and done little else but talk to me.”

He nodded. “Just because my father has allowed greed to run his life, doesn’t mean I should. I want more than money from a woman, and certainly more than some cold, lustful release. I’ve lived enough life to know there is something far more important than either of those things that a woman can give a man.”

“And what is that?” she asked, unsure she wanted to hear his admission.

Reaching out to her, his fingers brushed her cheek gently. “Her time.”

His words washed over her, her skin tingling from his short response. “Are you claiming you only want companionship from a woman?”

His hand fell away from her cheek and back to his side. “I’m saying if I’m ever to marry, I want to be more than just a profitable contract to my wife. And I need to feel something for her before I can entertain sharing a bed with her. I need her to hunger for even the mention of my name, and not just desire me to rid her of her purity. For me, a bride should fill her husband’s soul, not just his bed, and she should ache for him to do the same.”

“Are you trying to tell me you’ve never lain with a woman before?” she asked, doubting Avarice was telling her the entire truth.

He shook his head, his gaze holding hers. “No, because I don’t want to lie to you,” he answered. “All I’m saying is I’m not as young and arrogant as I once was. What I want now is more than just to lay with a naked woman. I want a woman to show me what she hides from everyone else.”

Charity stood motionless, absorbed in this man and his confession. Never before had she heard such a heartfelt admission from any man. That she had heard it from Avarice, now standing barely inches from her, both thrilled and scared her.

“The world around us will never allow either of us to have what we want,” she commented.

He reached out to her, his fingers lightly tracing along the curve of her cheek. “Maybe we could prove to the world such a union is possible.”

His words sounded so emotional...so impossible. Though it saddened her to do so, she forced herself to see sense and step back away from him. Creating some much needed distance between them, she let out a heavy sigh.

“The greed of man will never allow it, Avarice. Even if you were willing to offer me passion and love, before long you will be made to look at me as little more than a transaction.”

She needed to get out of there. It wasn’t wise for her to stay there with this man any longer, not with the feelings he was stirring up in her. Glancing back over her shoulder, and seeing no trace of her arranged suitor in the crowd, she went to turn away from her companion and find a way to escape the hotel.

“Charity, wait,” Avarice called, stepping toward her.

Ignoring his plea, she stepped away from him. Just then a group of men brushed past her, their direction the back rooms where the women worked. Losing her balance, she fell back toward Avarice, her hands resting on his chest as she regained her footing.

“Maybe I should come with you,” he offered, his voice low and husky, his hands moulding against the roundness of her hips.

She straightened herself, her hands falling away from him. “Thank you, but I assure you there is no need.”

Leaning into him, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. Quickly, she pulled away from him and stepped out of his hold. Unsure what he would think of her actions, her hands gripped tightly in her skirt.

“Goodnight, Avarice,” she uttered softly before turning and fleeing swiftly through the crowd.

Hurrying away from him, Charity knew she had overstepped her bounds kissing Avarice, but still, she couldn’t have stopped herself. The way he spoke to her, and the way he looked at her, made her feel as if she was the only woman in the world at that moment. That feeling was so very foreign to her.

Usually, she kept her distance from the lecherous men of this town, barely giving them the time of day other than mending whatever wounds they had called upon her to look at. She certainly didn’t share a drink with them in a hotel or converse about her opposition to the greed that controlled so many lives.

She wasn’t sure why she felt so comfortable with Avarice. Ordinarily, she was very distrusting of men. There was just something so very different about him. From the first moment she met him, she wanted nothing more than to spend even just a few moments with him.

Hopping into her waiting carriage, Charity leaned out the window. “Take me home, Richard,” she instructed the driver.

As she sat back in her seat, the carriage now moving slowly along the dirt road, her thoughts returned to Avarice. He was so unlike the other men her father arranged to come calling on her. He spoke of things—desires—she never before heard fall from another’s lips. If she thought her father would listen, she would mention her interest in Avarice and her desire to see him again.

Glancing out the window of her transport at the scenery passing by, she knew such a discussion would be in vain. All her father cared about was what profits could be made from any courtship his daughter might have. He certainly didn’t care about, nor would he condone, any relationship she chose because of the fondness in her heart.

A slight sadness filled her as she began to wonder if she would ever see Avarice again. Part of her ached to, just to be certain the few moments she’d spent with him tonight weren’t a dream.

As they crossed the Burdekin River on her way back home to Jarvisfield, Charity accepted the painful reality that she would never see Avarice again.