Cocky Earl - Annabelle Anders Page 0,36

into a piece of potato. “Mrs. Jackson worked diligently alongside her husband in his campaign. I don’t agree with all that Mr. Jackson stands for, but the press was unusually cruel to her, especially after their son died. It wasn’t as though she intentionally remained married to her first husband. No one deserves to be villainized like that. In the end, her heart just gave out on her.”

She bit the potato off her fork and then chewed and then, glancing up, realized that the guests seated around her were staring at her as though she’d sprouted wings of some sort. Or a second head.

“Your president’s wife was a bigamist?” The matronly woman’s brows had disappeared into her hairline.

“It is complicated,” Charley answered, wondering if she ought to go into the details of the controversy.

“Perhaps the criticism was deserved,” another cultured voice offered.

“The son was a savage, I believe,” said another.

“Your Mr. Jackson isn’t exactly popular in Great Britain,” Lord Stokely leaned in to inform her.

“It’s a mutual sentiment, I’m sure,” Charley said.

Charley’s father glanced at her from where he sat, a warning look in his eyes. She swallowed hard. She’d seen the scars on Mr. Jackson’s face. Scars that had been carved into his cheek by a British soldier for refusing to shine the man’s shoes. Her father had told her that Andrew Jackson’s father and both of his brothers had been killed by the English during the revolution.

“It’s all in the past, now, though, isn’t it?” Lady Westerley effectively ended this particular discussion.

Heat flushed up her neck and into her cheeks. Dropping her gaze, she returned her fork to her plate, feeling chastised. Her father didn’t want her, and neither did she fit in with these aristocratic English people. Not that she wanted to, nor that it even mattered.

Conversation resumed but she didn’t bother to pay attention. She would rather be anywhere but there. As the footman reached to remove yet another plate upon which she’d merely moved her food around, she nodded. Even if she was hungry, none of the courses were recognizable, and she feared that she’d find herself eating some poor animal’s kidney or… fish heads stuffed into pig intestines and then baked into a pie.

She’d kill for a good slice of cornbread. She’d kill to be at home.

If homesickness was a real thing, she’d wager she’d caught an extremely fierce case by now.

“Ladies.” The countess rose. “Shall we leave the gentlemen to take their port?”

Her hostess caught her gaze and gave her a reassuring nod but five minutes later, Charley went purposefully striding in the opposite direction as all the other ladies. The shadows darkened as she left the main section of the manor, but she didn’t care. She simply needed away from all of them—away from all of this.

Away from herself even, if that was possible.

When she finally took note of her whereabouts, she found herself wandering the gallery Lord Westerley had shown her earlier. Sconces had been lit and she slowed her pace to study the paintings more carefully this time.

What must it be like for no one to question who you wanted to be, what you wanted to do or even where you wanted to live? Her father’s decision to leave her behind had left her shaken. Whiskey was her purpose. It had to be. She’d been born into it. It was in her blood, in her bones.

She’d always thought her father would be on her side. And she’d be by his.

She hugged her elbows, wrapping her arms around her front.

Her mother had never understood her, but she’d always thought her father had.

The deceased Lord Westerley’s eyes stared back at her almost mockingly. How certain he looked!

It wasn’t fair that men had so much control over their lives and women had to fight so much harder to have even a modicum of control over their own.

“I thought I might find you here.” Charley didn’t turn around to see who it was. She’d find herself looking into eyes very similar to the ones in the painting.

“I’ve had enough conversation for one evening.”

“Ah, the war with the Colonies does tend to be a sore spot over here.” He chuckled as his footsteps neared.

“Over there as well.” Charley didn’t move.

She felt his warmth behind her. “Do you want to talk about it now? I won’t stop you.”

Was he mocking her? She turned and sent him a suspicious glance.

He crossed his arms in front of himself, but not because he was cold or uncertain. She doubted