Page 26 of To Resist a Scandalous Rogue
Finlay banged a fist against his forehead. What was it about Charlotte Taylor that continuously made him say the wrong thing? Why did he always send her scrambling from his presence?
He wanted to rush after her, assure her the draw he felt to her was not a novelty. But he was not convinced that was the truth. Women rarely told him no. With a smile or a wink or the right word delivered at the right moment, women usually swooned at his feet. Even his sister had been known to soften…on occasion…when faced with a torrent of his unleashed charm.
And yet, he never seemed to deliver the right word at the right moment with Charlotte.
Finlay paced to the empty table, dropping into his chair. He scrubbed a hand over his face.
If he were truthful with himself, and he always tried to be, Charlotte had intrigued him from the moment they met in Belling’s darkened garden. Her austere but droll personality called to him, not only because it was so different from his own, but because he knew it masked an innate sensuality. He’d tasted it, become drunk on it the year before, and had been desperate for a taste of it again.
Mayhap Charlotte sensed such things under his controlled smiles. Perhaps she knew, despite all his resolve to forget her, he ached to be that close to her again.
It was more than her passionate nature or wit that drew him to her. That suddenly had him thinking of her when he could ill afford to think of anything but the upcoming election. There was simply something about her that held his attention like a lodestar. In light of all the other stresses populating his daily schedule, the chance to make this lovely woman smile was a distraction he found hard to ignore.
But, ignore he must. Charlotte had asked him to leave her alone. He was enough of a gentleman to heed her wishes. Although he agreed nothing proper could come from an association between them, and his campaign would benefit if he did not court gossip, her rebuff was still a bitter draught. He was not accustomed to rejection, and Charlotte seemed determined to teach him all about it.
Finlay rose slowly to his feet, straightening his sleeves and smoothing down his waistcoat. Despite agreeing to avoid her, he couldn’t regret coming to Little Windmill House today. He’d enjoyed himself with his young hostesses and could finally understand why Alethea was so fond of the home. Whether Charlotte approved or not, he intended to add his name and his funds as a sponsor. He still planned to take the children to Gunter’s. They deserved an ice more than most.
Stepping onto the walk in front of the home, he donned his top hat and looked up and down the street, debating which way to go. After his appointment with Lord Inverray and Earl Matthews on the morrow, he’d depart for Herefordshire to oversee the groundbreaking for the mill. He still had items to finalize with several estate solicitors, and heaven knew he should use whatever free time he scraped together to tackle the tasks on Inverray’s blasted list. Any levelheaded person would say his morning of drinking tea and charming young orphans would have been better spent on more pressing matters.
And yet, all he wanted to do was climb back up the stairs and return to Little Windmill House to find Charlotte deep in its interior. What he would say to her once he found her, he didn’t know. But he wanted to tell her…he would leave her alone?
He was a moron.
Gritting his teeth, he set off down the walk, determined to leave Charlotte and the conundrum she represented behind.
Several blocks away, he paused at a corner to wait for a hackney to rumble by. He pulled out his timepiece, deciding he had enough time to stop at his solicitor’s to ensure the paperwork for the railway enterprise for the Darington-Rockhaven partnership was vetted and would be prepared in time for Alethea and Darington’s return. After handling that business, Finlay resolved to visit his club. Political conversations went hand in hand with good food and fine spirits.
“Ho, Lord Firthwell!”
Finlay glanced over his shoulder to see an older gentleman with his arm raised hustling down the walk toward him as fast as his portly form would allow. Confusion and curiosity had him stand still. He searched the man’s ruddy face as he approached, becoming more and more certain he’d never seen the man before, let alone been introduced to him.
Which begged the question: what did the man want with him?
“Lord Firthwell,” the man gasped, coming to a stop before him. Finlay almost expected the man to bend over and brace his hands on his knees while he gasped for breath. “Forgive me for hailing you on the street, my lord, but I wanted to speak with you. Lord Matthews indicated you were meeting with him tomorrow to discuss the Weobley seat.”
Finlay frowned. “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”
The man instantly whipped off his hat, his wrinkled face contrite. “I do beg your pardon, my lord. I’m Reginald Townsend. I oversee several Midland boroughs for the party, including Weobley.”
Lord Matthews had indicated Townsend would be instrumental in raising funds for his bid for Weobley. As he looked down at the man still laboring to catch his breath, a man who called for him on the street as if he were a page boy, he realized with startling clarity his life for the next however many years would involve pandering to such men. But if such pandering helped him raise the funds to see to a long-held dream, pander he would.
Swallowing down his annoyance, Finlay summoned a cordial smile. He’d already dubbed it his “politician’s smile.” He suspected he would be putting it to great use. “How do you do, Mr. Townsend?”
The older man tugged on his lapels. “I’m well, I thank you, my lord. My men and I were just in the area on unrelated business.” He gestured with his thumb to two tall men who stood several yards away. For a reason he couldn’t pinpoint, the men made the hair on the back of Finlay’s neck stand on end.
Unable to think of what to say, he nodded. “What can I do for you today, sir?”
Mr. Townsend’s face contorted into a smile. But it seemed more rote than warm. “Other than to win the election and help take Commons back for the party, nothing, my lord.” He laughed heartily at his own reply, and Finlay forced himself to chuckle. “I merely recognized you—it’s odd to see a gentleman of quality in this area of town—and I thought to say hello.”
Finlay fought the urge to frown. They weren’t far from Mayfair, and while the neighborhood might not be fashionable, it was hardly the rookeries. Plus, the Marquess of Inverray frequented this area every week—was known by many in the neighborhood. As was Lady Flora and, he suspected, his sister.
And what would Mr. Townsend know of the area? From what Inverray had told him, Townsend had increasingly spent the majority of the year at his family home in Warwickshire. Why was the man here, of all places?
Finlay’s gaze landed on the two men who stood behind Mr. Townsend. “I’m glad you thought to say hello. I’m sure I will be seeing more of you in the coming months.
The older gentleman placed his hat on his head. “Indeed you will, my lord. My wife and I are putting together a guest list for the first fundraising dinner we plan to hold for your campaign. I’ll write your secretary with all the details.”
“That would be splendid.” Finlay’s smile, this time, was in earnest. “I’m in your debt.”
