Page 7 of To Resist a Scandalous Rogue
A quarter of an hour later, she peered into the hall to ensure it was empty. Evading witnesses, Charlotte escaped out the servants’ entrance and disappeared into the bustling London traffic.
She didn’t look back.
…
It had been too long since Finlay had awoken so rested. So satisfied.
He smiled as he considered the reason for his good mood.
Charlotte. He liked the way her name skipped along his tongue, the last syllable tickling itjustso.
He still couldn’t believe she was real. Not only had she kept him on his toes with her sharp wit, she was also a beauty. His lungs had seized when he’d laid her on the bed and the candlelight had emblazoned her face. Wisps of dark sable hair had pulled free from her simple updo, teasing across her brow and fine cheekbones. Bluish gray eyes had tracked his every movement, the light of wariness never diminishing despite the flame of arousal that threatened to extinguish it.
And her mouth: Finlay could write ill-delivered sonnets to the delicious touch and taste of her lips. Perversely, he knew such drivel would only make her laugh. He’d quickly learned her laughs were not freely given, so when he succeeded in making her chuckle, he’d felt ten feet tall.
He folded his hands over his chest and considered his next move. She would be back with the tea tray soon, and he wanted a plan formulated. That he would ask her to be his mistress was a given. But where would he set her up? He considered various options until the chime of the clock on the mantel drew his attention.
Charlotte had been gone for fifteen minutes. Surely it didn’t take that long to put together a tea tray, especially as the kitchen staff was already preparing for breakfast. As he reached for the bell pull, the door opened. He glanced over his shoulder to see Norris enter, a tea tray in his hands.
“Good morning, my lord,” his valet said cheerfully, setting the tray down on the small table near the hearth. “I brought you some coffee, along with some fresh scones and butter. I also have the paper, the political section separated and on top.”
“Where’s Charlotte?” Finlay demanded without preamble.
Norris blinked. “I’m afraid I do not know of whom you speak, my lord.”
Finlay pulled himself into a sitting position. “Dark hair. Blue eyes. Beauty mark here,” he said, pointing to the outer corner of his right eye. “She left a quarter of an hour ago to acquire a tray.”
The valet clasped his hands in front of his waist. “Is she a maid?” He looked toward the unlit fireplace and sneered. “If she is, she’s inept.”
“She’s not,” Finlay admitted reluctantly, wanting to smack Norris when he bobbed his head knowingly. “Nevertheless, have you seen her?”
“I have not, my lord,” Norris said, studiously inspecting the Aubusson carpet under his feet. “I can make inquiries, if you’d like.”
Finlay nodded, accepting a cup of coffee from Norris’s hand. “Start with Eliza. She was one of the women who arrived last night.”
“Very well, my lord,” the valet said, his lips pinched as if he’d smelled rotten fish. Finlay fought down his impatience. The man could be so snobbish.
He sipped his coffee idly as he flipped through the political section, his eyes skimming the lines and rapidly ingesting the contents. Since his father had left the country, Finlay had found his free time greatly diminished. When he wasn’t engrossed in Rockhaven estate affairs, he focused on investment dealings he conducted with Alethea through post. His sister oversaw the Darington-Rockhaven partnership, which their father and the late Duke of Darington founded, while Declan saw to his sugarcane empire. He’d also taken to visiting Lloyd’s coffee house, where he debated issues with other members.
Yet, debating the issues was not the same as acting on them. Since Finlay possessed a courtesy title, he could not sit in Lords. His father’s vote remained uncast while he was in exile, and Finlay thought it a bitter waste. He longed to have a say in the direction of the country. With Daniel O’Connell, aided by Marquess Wellesley, drumming up cries for Catholic emancipation, the political atmosphere was thrilling, and Finlay longed to be a part of it.
Until he became Rockhaven in truth, his best chance of becoming a part of the political process was running for the House of Commons. Elections wouldn’t be held for another year and a half, so he had time to decide if it was something he truly wanted to do. And if so, it gave him a chance to plan. To gain allies.
With the turmoil and uncertainty that had dominated his life for the last few months, Finlay wanted something he could control. He wasn’t naive enough to think every issue he championed would be resolved in the manner in which he desired, but he could champion very little from the perimeter.
Alethea had been encouraging him to become involved in something outside of the earldom. She argued, her words vehement even in print, that he needed to forge a legacy for himself separate from the scandalous one their father had left them. If he mentioned his interest in pursuing a seat in Commons, she’d work tirelessly to see him elected. Her new title, acquired through a love match with their long-lost friend, had only increased her popularity, and when she finally returned to London, she and Darington would be the most sought-after guests. As hosts, they’d conquer the entirebeau monde.
Which was the precise reason why Finlay hadn’t written to her of his thoughts. She and Darington deserved their hard-won time together, and she worried about him enough. As it was, she’d been hounding him to visit the foundling home she used to teach French at, Little Windmill House. She and Darington were now patrons of the home, and she thought he might be able to lend his talents to the instruction of the children. When he’d asked her what talents she meant, her return response was curt. “You know of what talents I speak, you nitwit. You have a knack for putting everyone at ease, and those children could benefit from your lighthearted humor.” Finlay supposed he did know how to encourage people to relax in his company. Still, he hadn’t yet visited, but he would make it a point to do so…sometime in the future.
His only plan for the immediate future was to convince a lovely, but skittish, brunette to spend more time with him.
Finlay looked at the clock on the mantel again. Where in the bloody hell was Norris?
As if sensing his frustration, a soft knock sounded a short moment before the door opened. Norris bustled in, a full breakfast tray in hand. He set it on the bed next to Finlay, removing the untouched scones and refilling his coffee cup with fresh brew.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d prefer bacon or a rasher of sausages, so I had the kitchen staff prepare a plate of both,” Norris said, indicating with his hand the assortment of pork options.
Finlay fought back a wave of annoyance by snatching a piece of bacon and devouring a bite. “And?”
