Page 23 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

He reached for the decanter.

“I find it rather refreshing,” he said. “No weeks of tedious calls and careful politeness before we may finally engage in something resembling honest discourse.”

There was something dangerously appealing about that sentiment. With him, she did not have to sit perfectly poised in a drawing room while Mama watched from three feet away. She did not have to wonder whether her laugh was too loud, or her opinions too decided. She did not have to endure the peculiar stiffness that descended upon gentlemen when they noticed her limp and became so determined to treat her delicately that she ceased to feel like a woman at all.

Mr. George did not appear to find her delicate. He seemed to find her entertaining, interesting, perhaps even...

She stood abruptly. In her haste, her troublesome leg failed to bear her weight cleanly, and she caught herself with her cane before turning toward the window. This had gone quite far enough.

“Leaving?”

Cordelia reached the window and stared out at the rain still streaking the glass. “Yes.”

“You’re leaving Sir Charles with me for the night?”

She whirled. Sir Charles had apparently abandoned his chair during their conversation and now occupied Mr. George’s recently vacated spot on the carpet. As he returned to sit beside the chessboard, the cat promptly climbed into his lap and settled there.

Both of them looked at her.

Cordelia stared. The same calm, faintly indulgent expression seemed to occupy both their faces. It was uncanny. “You are doing that deliberately,” she accused.

Mr. George glanced down at Sir Charles. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Precisely like him.”

Mr. George looked at the cat. Sir Charles looked back and purred.

“I see no resemblance.”

The dratted cat meowed as if he agreed. Cordelia nearly laughed again and resented him for it. She worried her lower lip between her teeth and glanced toward the rain. She had always wondered what brandy tasted like. Or whisky. Or sherry. Why should gentlemen be permitted to sit together after dinner and sample whatever they pleased while ladies were expected to retreat obediently to the drawing room?

Her mother occasionally drank brandy.

Cordelia had seen it herself once in Berkshire, quite by accident, when she’d entered her father's study late one evening and discovered Mama curled comfortably in a chair beside him, sipping from his glass as they talked. The memory had astonished her then. Perhaps the rules were not nearly so immovable as everyone pretended.

Her gaze returned to George.

He had not pressed her.

That realization came quietly. For all his wicked remarks, all the provoking looks and outrageous suggestions, he remained where he was. He had not approached her. Had not blocked her path to the window. Had not attempted to touch her. She had always believed that rogues possessed none of the qualities she admired in an honorable gentleman. Both her sister Katherine and her dear friend Hyacinth had warned her of the characteristics she ought to beware of in such men. Whether a gentleman was called a rake, a rogue, a libertine, or a scoundrel, whichever title he preferred to flatter himself with, they all seemed to possess certain unmistakable characteristics.

They possessed an extraordinary talent for charming ladies, employing pretty words, wicked smiles, and carefully bestowed attentions to make a woman believe herself singularly special. They were accomplished seducers who pursued pleasure with little regard for the tender feelings or reputations of the women they enticed. At every opportunity, they would steal kisses and indulge in scandalously intimate caresses, even when no understanding existed between them and the ladies upon whom they bestowed such liberties! They were notoriously fickle in their affections, capable of declaring an ardent devotion one evening and transferring their attentions to another lady before the week was out. They regarded society’s rules of propriety as tiresome inconveniences, taking liberties that no honorable gentleman would dream of attempting with an unmarried lady. They possessed a remarkable gift for making promises they had little intention of keeping, particularly when those promises might persuade a lady to surrender more than she ought. And perhaps most dangerously of all, they had a way of making a sensible woman forget every warning she had ever received, until she found herself excusing the very conduct she had once sworn never to tolerate.

Cordelia pondered him for several beats, and he did not fill the silence with conversation. He merely waited, Sir Charles purring contentedly upon his lap, leaving the decision entirely hers.

Somehow, that made staying even more tempting.

Cordelia looked once more at the rain, then at him. “One glass,” she said.

Mr. George’s smile was immediate. “Naturally.”

“And then I am leaving.”

“If you insist.”