Page 2 of To Resist a Scandalous Rogue
This was supposed to be her chance to get back on her feet. Since Roderick had died unexpectedly in India, Charlotte had lived in a near-constant state of panic. Every thought, every breath had been used to first determine how she’d return to England, and then how she’d fend for herself once she did. Selling her wedding ring had allowed her to book passage on a ship sailing to London, and fortuitously encountering Eliza on a busy street in Cheapside had seemed to solve her need for a job. She’d almost wept in the middle of midday traffic when Eliza mentioned the Earl of Belling’s house party and his need for additional maids.
She should have known better. If only she’d asked more questions, she wouldn’t have planned for a better tomorrow.
Charlotte rubbed her fists into her eyes before dropping her hands. She glanced down at her bare ring finger, the sight like a punch to the chest. Even after all these months without its comforting weight on her hand, Charlotte still had not forgiven herself…or Roderick…for forcing her to part with her beloved piece of jewelry. It wasn’t the monetary value she mourned. To her, its sentimental value had made it priceless.
She shook her head. She needed a plan. For tonight, at least, she had a roof over her head, but tomorrow, she’d be homeless once again.
After fretting over possibilities for an hour, she was desperate to escape the narrow confines of the room. She needed fresh air to clear her head. Tentatively, she opened the door and peered into the hall. No one was within sight. Grabbing her cloak, she slipped out the door, descending the quiet steps of the servants’ staircase. Following the echo of voices, she located the kitchens where the servants’ entrance was and pushed the heavy oak door open. Charlotte dashed toward the small, immaculate garden. Weaving her way through shrubbery and abundant flowerbeds, she located a small bench under a rose arbor and sank onto the cool seat, inhaling a long, rose-scented breath while she tipped her head back to look at the sky.
A random star twinkled here and there, and she abruptly longed for India and the warm nights Roderick and she had spent under a star-filled canopy. She missed him fiercely, but she also hated him for leaving her in such a crunch.
The sound of the back door opening disturbed the silence, and she assumed it was a footman or kitchen maid until she heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel coming steadily closer. Should she leave, she wondered, her gaze darting around the space in an attempt to find a more remote spot. The silhouette of a man appeared at the end of the walk. For a moment, she thought he hadn’t seen her until he came up short, as if he were on a leash and it had been tugged. She heard his quiet, “Oh.”
She stood and moved as if to leave, but the man held up a hand. “Please, don’t let me chase you away. You were here first. I can always find somewhere else to sit.”
Charlotte frowned, taken aback by his polite comment. From his refined accent, it was obvious he was one of Lord Belling’s guests, yet his words weren’t slurred and he didn’t appear to be in his cups.
Nevertheless, it would be best if she remained sequestered. Charlotte had no intention of giving any of the guests the idea she was a part of theentertainment.
“Nonsense. You are Lord Belling’s guest, while I am not.” She gestured to the bench with her hand. “Have a seat, sir. You will find the view of the stars is quite nice.”
She made to walk around him, but he reached out a hand to stay her. “I feel quite guilty chasing you away when you appeared to be enjoying said view. Perhaps you’d allow me to simply join you? I promise not to disrupt your quiet sojourn. I escaped out here because I tire of the raucous noise. The earl’s…entertainment is not to my liking tonight.”
Charlotte’s attention caught on the man’s words. He was escaping? The entertainment was not to his liking? She nibbled her bottom lip as she considered his offer. The thought of locking herself away in the tiny attic room held little appeal, and she had managed to acquire a smidgen of peace amongst the manicured flowerbeds.
She allowed her gaze to travel over the man’s silhouette. If he kept quiet, as he said, there didn’t seem to be much harm in sharing the still gardens with him.
…
Why had he thought this night would be fun?
Since the moment Finlay departed from Herefordshire after his sister’s wedding, he’d been restless. On edge.
Standing as witness as Alethea married Declan, their childhood friend—and the bloody Duke of Darington—should have eased his mind. There was no one more important to him than his twin, annoying as she could be, and seeing her happy and so in love with a man who would love her and care for her in the manner in which she deserved should have brought him peace. Reassurance.
And yet, he was troubled. The devastating truth he had so recently learned of his birth made it hard to think about much else but what-ifs. What if his late mother’s diary fell into the wrong hands? What if it were revealed he was actually a bastard? What would become of him if he were no longer Viscount Firthwell, heir to the Earl of Rockhaven?
Belling’s house party was supposed to allow him to curb his worries for a time. For a day, at least. But here Finlay sat, on a cold bench in the earl’s small garden with an unknown woman. He assumed she was a servant, based on the quality of her clothing he was able to glimpse in the dim light. If he hadn’t felt such blasted guilt for disturbing her, he would have allowed her to leave when she wanted to.
Curse his chivalry.
After several long minutes, he noticed two things. One, the woman had remained silent, seemingly content to enjoy the night. Two, she smelled like a fresh, crisp autumn morning.
He rubbed a hand along his brow at such a fanciful thought. But he had no other way to describe her delectable scent. She smelled like apples and dew and frost on yellowing grass. She smelled like welcoming fires and warm toddies.
Perhaps he had consumed too much brandy.
“Are you from London?” he heard himself ask and cursed mentally when his voice echoed across the tranquil garden.
A long pause ensued, and if it were physically possible, Finlay would have kicked his own arse. He opened his mouth to apologize when she said softly, “I am originally, although I’ve spent a majority of the last five years abroad.”
That roused his interest. “Where, may I ask?”
The woman, her shadowy figure sitting with stern uprightness, dipped her head. “Spain, for a time. Italy. Egypt, briefly. Most of the years were spent in India.”
“Fascinating.” Every syllable was said with absolute sincerity. “Why would a proper English miss be in India?”
“Because her husband worked for the East India Company.”
