Page 11 of To Resist a Scandalous Rogue
“It was a noble and grand idea.” Charlotte swallowed. “Plus, I’m sure we dislike such scenes for very different reasons. You were born to this.”
Flora laughed, a cutting sound. “Don’t think that because my father is a duke, I’ve somehow been absolved of being a Scot.”
“Never, my lady.” Charlotte knew all about being judged and found wanting for circumstances of her birth.
“Why are you not happy to be here?”
Charlotte fought the urge to shrug, her eyes alighting on the guests who filled the two connecting drawing rooms at Campbell House. “I feel like an imposter.”
And yet, she had attended her share of dinner parties and soirees as the wife of the undersecretary to the governor of India. She knew how to make small talk. How to smile and simper and flatter. She knew exactly what was required in such a setting, and she used to perform her role with aplomb. But her former in-laws had always been quick to list all the reasons why she was an outsider, and despite her best efforts to the contrary, they played across her mind.
You’re nothing but a poor, useless shopgirl.
A stupid Jewish girl with no connections doesn’t belong with the son of an MP.
You must have done something scandalous for him to bring you here today.
She mentally shook away the cursed memories.Reliving her past did not change her present.
Returning to the moment, she found Lady Flora watching her with sadness softening her face. “Everyone is playing a part.”
Her words were low, butCharlotteheard them all the same. “Some more so than others, I’d assume. But if anyone belongs here, wouldn’t it be you? This is your home.”
“This isn’t home.” Her smile was contrite. “Ignore me, Mrs. Taylor. I’m merely homesick for the Highlands.”
Charlotte understood homesickness. She’d felt it more than once…although the bout she’d suffered had been for people more than a place.
Lady Flora sipped her lemonade and set her glass on a side table. “Niall is beckoning me. Isn’t that a foul word? Beckoning? Like I’m a dog or such pet that exists for my master’s pleasure.” An odd look settled on her face. “I will find you later. And don’t stress yourself about speaking with guests. If they address you, by all means engage them. But I will not judge you if you find the library down the hall, let’s say, more to your enjoyment.”
Charlotte pressed her lips together. “I appreciate the tip, my lady.”
With that, the other woman swept away, and Charlotte was left on her own to face the invading army of guests.
Sidestepping a trio of women in gowns of silk and satin who barely glanced at her as they sailed past, she reached the refreshment table, where she accepted a glass of lemonade from a footman with a word of thanks.
When she had first entered the drawing room at Campbell House, she’d been impressed by the understated elegance of her surroundings. During her marriage, she’d frequently found herself in grandiose settings, and she’d learned to recognize those designed to impress and intimidate and those constructed for the purpose of comfort. For all its rich detail, she suspected the Campbell family holding in London fell in the latter category.
The room had once seemed vast, but now, with the guests chatting and laughing, their noise made the room shrink in size, and suddenly fifty was a very large number of people, indeed.
Gulping down the remainder of her punch, she squared her shoulders to navigate through the crowd. Once she reached the hall, she made for the library, willing her feet to maintain their normal pace, even when they longed to break free of her hold. In as stately a manner as she could muster, she opened the heavy door on her right and quickly entered the room. She shut the door behind her, sagging against the wood when she glimpsed the rows of bookshelves stretching before her. She didn’t know what she’d do if she’d chosen the wrong room.
Turning, she rested her forehead on the cool oak, allowing her spine to curve as the stress fled her body. She’d thought relearning to navigate social events would be as comfortable as donning an old pair of stockings. She’d been wrong. But with some practice, her people-pleasing smile would be ready to shine.
Until then, she’d shamelessly seek out refuge.
It wasn’t until a throat cleared from the other side of the room that Charlotte realized she wasn’t alone.
“Finlay,” she breathed unchecked as she turned, and her eyes landed on the figure rising from a chair nestled between two rows of bookshelves. However had she missed him?
Despite the year that had passed since the foolhardy night they spent together, she still remembered his name like she remembered the Shema. She often wondered if he’d imprinted himself into her blood.
A smile curved his lips, his face brightening. “You remember my name.”
Charlotte looked down, unnerved to meet his gaze. “Of course I do.”
She remembered the feel of his hands on her skin. The taste of his lips. The sound he made as he shuddered in her arms.
She remembered too much.
