Page 63 of To Resist a Scandalous Rogue
He was also not for her.
Charlotte knew this. Had known it since she first met him in that darkened garden at the ill-fated Belling house party. Yet, never had that knowledge been so painful.
That pain coalesced now into a ball of molten fire in her throat. As his skillful fingers drifted across her shoulders and down her naked back, she fought back tears, for no matter how much her heart wished to keep him, to lavish him with love, to express all the ways she admired and respected him, he was not, and never could be, hers.
“What are you thinking?”
Charlotte clenched her eyes shut, willing away the few leaked tears she’d been unable to hold in. She cleared her throat. “I’m getting my bearings.”
“I told you I’d erase your doubt.”
She laughed despite herself. “I did all the work, though.”
“Is it work when it’s that enjoyable?” He pulled back until he could meet her gaze, his wicked lips curved into a teasing smirk.
“I’m not sure,” she hedged, stroking her chin in consideration. “But I’m willing to let you test the theory.”
Finlay shifted until they lay face to face, his hand clutched possessively on her hip. The pulsing heat from it spread through her whole body, bringing an ache to her core. “I’m willing to test it for as long as it takes,” he said, his mouth landing on hers in a blistering kiss.
Sometime later, Charlotte found herself dangling off the bed, the sheets knotted about her legs. Finlay’s arm lay across her lower back, anchoring her and keeping her from falling on her face.
Still she didn’t move. With all the blood pooling in her head, she experienced a rare moment of clarity. She had quickly learned rational thoughts were impossible around him.
This would be their last time together.
She swallowed down a knot of sadness at the realization there would be no more flirtatious banter. No more stolen glances both of them tried to hide. No more secret smiles and no more commiserating words. He would be no more to her…forever.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying.
And oh, how she would dread the day she’d unfold the morning paper to read of his engagement. Of his marriage to the perfect lady, whose wealth, connections, impeccable breeding, and lovely face would complement and aid his ambitions. For Charlotte knew she could never be those things for him, no matter how much she wished otherwise.
She’d loved two men in her life, and society had deemed her unfit for either of them.
“Why were you happy with your husband?”
She jerked her head up. “What?”
“Why do you think your marriage was a happy one?”
“I suppose”—she instinctively twitched her ring finger—“we shared a mutual respect for each other. And because we respected each other, we were honest with each other, even when the truth was painful or inconvenient.” A ghost of a smile tugged her lips. “And we laughed together. I’ve learned never to underestimate the power of a well-timed laugh.”
She looked back to see crinkles marring his forehead. Pulling herself up, she settled at the foot of the bed, tucking her knees into her chest and resting her chin on them. “Why do you ask?”
He was quiet for a long minute, and while she was tempted to prompt him, she sensed he was waging some sort of internal debate.
His eyes were faraway when he said, “My parents’ marriage was heralded as a great match, and yet they did not enjoy a happy union. I’ve often wondered why they could not find contentment together. I suspected my mother’s sullen disposition was part of the reason, but I now know that to be false.”
“How so?”
“Alethea found the countess’s diary. She’d written in it since she was a girl. It was shocking to read her words and trace her metamorphosis from a cheerful young lady to a bitter, angry woman.”
“Why did she change, Fin?” Her pulse roared in her ears as she waited for his answer.
Finlay’s gaze gripped her own. “She learned that my father, her husband and the man she loved, had carried on an affair with her sister.”
He said the words like he was announcing it was time for supper. As if they were inconsequential and not packing the weight of a racing mail coach.
Surely, she’d swallowed shards of glass. “How did she find out?”
