Page 58 of To Resist a Scandalous Rogue
Charlotte blinked, her dark lashes fanning her cheeks as she stared at him with a wrinkle between her brows. “But I have protection—”
“If you’re referring to Jimmy, he did not blink an eye as I made my way past him. Some bodyguard.”
“Because he knows you!” Throwing her hands up, she spun away. “You’ve been a frequent guest at Campbell House.”
Despite a derisive snort, Finlay could not think of an adequate response. Of course Jimmy knew him, but would he really be protection enough against Townsend’s men? As a precaution, he had instructed the lad to send a note round to Rockhaven House to have additional footmen stationed as sentries around the area.
Deciding he would get nowhere if he antagonized her, he turned his attention to the instrument in her hand. “Was that you playing that music?” He had heard it out on the street, and then as he walked up the stairs. It was enchanting.
She nodded, holding up a small lyre. She turned and tucked it into a trunk on the other side of the room. “I did not realize the sound carried down onto the street.”
“Very clearly, in fact. You all but announced someone was in.”
“Yes, well, I couldn’t stay at Campbell House indefinitely.”
“Still, promise you will remain cautious and vigilant.”
“Is there not a footman downstairs? Did I not inquire as to your identity before opening the door?” she demanded, her jaw set mulishly.
Finlay crossed his arms over his chest. “Charlotte. Don’t be stubborn.”
Charlotte jerked her head after a long minute. “Very well. I promise.”
Finlay allowed his gaze to drift over her small flat. Red, faded, checkered curtains fluttered in the cool breeze drifting from the only window in the room, brushing against a wood floor that was clean but bare. Sketches of flowers, rainbows, or colorful scenes he couldn’t quite decipher, obviously rendered by a child’s hand, were framed and showcased along the walls as if they were treasured works of art. Finlay suspected the artists were valued more highly than their work. A red hook rug brightened the opposite corner, which contained a bookshelf that brought a smile to his face. Every shelf, every possible cranny was filled with books. Stuffed seemed a more appropriate adjective. He took a few steps to study her collection when his gaze snagged on the bed on the adjacent wall. With its patchwork quilt and menagerie of various pillows, it looked cozy. The perfect spot to spend a lazy morning.
Her flat suited her. It was warm and welcoming. Like Charlotte. He felt more comfortable and at ease within its four walls than he did in the cavernous Rockhaven House.
Pivoting to look at her fully, he realized she watched him inspect her space. Her gaze was defiant, as if expecting him to criticize the humble adornments.
“I quite like your art collection.” He gestured to a nearby watercolor of a rose. Or perhaps it was a hydrangea.
A hint of a smile curved her mouth. “The children at the home painted them for me.”
“I assumed.” Finlay linked his hands behind his back. “Do you suppose they’d be willing to paint something for me?”
“You want the children to paint you something?” She didn’t mask the disbelief in her words.
“I do.” He walked to a sketch of a horse, his fingers coming up to sweep across the charcoal lines of the mane. “Rockhaven House contains many impressive works of art, but it lacks…warmth. Life.”
She rocked back and forth on her feet, her gaze trained on his face. “And you find warmth and life in these simple drawings?”
“Don’t you?” he countered, raising a brow.
“I suppose I do.” Her gaze drifted to the drawing over his shoulder. “I was just touched someone thought enough of me to gift me with a picture.”
A dull ache spread in Finlay’s chest, and he resisted the urge to rub it. Charlotte had experienced so little love in her life. The need to fix this was fierce, and he swallowed, uncomfortable with the idea.
“You look tired,” he said without forethought, and he could have bit his tongue. Bruises stood out under her eyes against the paleness of her face. Her lips were tight and colorless, and small lines fanned from around her mouth. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, bringing her high cheekbones into stark relief. The delicate cut of her collarbone stood out underneath her thin muslin shawl, hinting that she’d lost weight.
And yet, despite the obvious signs of her stress, she looked infinitely beautiful. She looked dear. More so, perhaps, because of her vulnerability, which she tried so hard to hide.
Finlay felt a part of himself relax, as if he’d been holding his breath for so long his lungs were fit to burst.
“I suppose I am tired.” Charlotte brushed at her hair, although not a single strand was out of place. “But enough about that.” She paused and planted her hands on her hips. “What in God’s name are you doing here, Fin?”
Fighting a smile at her use of his nickname, he spread his arms as he prepared to respond, but she cut him off. “If my landlady knew you were here, I could be thrown out.” She paused, her eyes wide. “If anyone saw you here, with me, your campaign would be over.”
Finlay dropped his arms to his side with athud. Why had he come? After Townsend’s pointed questions at the rally, he’d been concerned for her, true, but to hunt out her flat?
