Page 29 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

Then he made a low, scoffing sound, averted his gaze, and resumed walking.

Cordelia remained unusually quiet in his arms as they crossed between the houses, keeping to the shadows. Sir Charles suddenly leaped from her arms and darted ahead toward the side garden, while she directed George in hushed whispers toward the door she had used earlier that evening.

“Here,” she murmured as they reached it.

George carried her along the uneven path with effortless ease, and Cordelia began to suspect she was enjoying the arrangement rather more than she ought.

“You may put me down now,” she whispered. “I’ll slip inside.”

“And have you stumble into a door or some piece of furniture and injure yourself? I think not.”

Warmth blossomed in her chest at his concern. It revealed yet another side of him she found herself liking. “I am perfectly capable of walking.”

“An assertion somewhat undermined by recent events, Miss Cori.”

She might have argued had he not opened the door and slipped inside with such practiced ease, without making the slightest sound, that she could only stare at him in astonishment. “Good heavens. You have done this before.”

“Entered a house after dark? On occasion.”

“Carrying a lady?”

His answering chuckle was low. “I have found myself in a few bedchambers under circumstances best left unexplained.”

Cordelia gasped.

“Though I confess this is the first occasion upon which I have been required to carry a lady into her own home because she developed an unfortunate disagreement with a decanter of brandy.”

She sniffed. “I did not disagree with it. I merely underestimated its potency.”

“A distinction I shall endeavor to remember.”

He moved silently through the darkened drawing room and into the hallway, displaying a remarkable familiarity with the business of entering houses without attracting attention.

“You are alarmingly accomplished at this,” she observed, then hiccupped. “I cannot think that is an admirable quality.”

“Would you prefer I stumble about and awaken the servants?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then I suggest you direct me to your bedchamber before someone discovers us and your reputation suffers an injury from which even my considerable talents cannot rescue it.”

Cordelia indicated the staircase. “The second door on the left.”

He carried her upstairs without apparent effort while she listened anxiously for any sound that might betray their presence. The household was quiet, her family still absent for the evening, and by some miracle they reached her bedchamber without encountering anyone. He nudged the door open and stepped inside.

Her head swam, and her heart fluttered as though she had indulged in another glass of brandy. Cordelia had never imagined a gentleman entering her private sanctuary, much less one who carried her in his arms. The intimacy of it made her pulse race, though she assured herself the brandy was responsible.

“Your bed, I presume?” he murmured.

“Unless you intend to deposit me upon the dressing table.”

“An intriguing suggestion, but I believe the bed would be more comfortable,” he replied dryly.

“Mr. George!”

His low laugh followed him as he crossed the room and gently lowered her onto the bed. Cordelia immediately attempted to sit upright, only to discover that the room still possessed a most disagreeable tendency to sway.

“Steady,” he said, catching her by the shoulders.