Page 31 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

Cordelia frowned. “What matter?”

He bent toward her, and this close, she could see the wicked amusement in his eyes.

“You stole something from me earlier.”

Her cheeks warmed. “I did no such thing.”

“A kiss, if memory serves.”

Mortified, she mumbled, “That was hardly a kiss!”

“Then you will have no objection to my reclaiming it.”

Before she could formulate a suitable reply, he leaned closer and pressed a fleeting kiss to her cheek, so near the corner of her mouth that her breath trembled on her lips. The warmth of his mouth lingered upon her skin, and for one bewildering instant, she wished he had turned his head just a little farther.

“There,” he murmured. “I never allow anyone to steal from me without taking it back.”

Cordelia stared at him, too astonished to speak.

His smile softened. “Sleep well, Cori. And I think it is quite permissible for you to call me George.”

Then he slipped from the room, closing the door so quietly that she scarcely heard the latch settle. For several moments, Cordelia remained perfectly still, one hand rising to the cheek he had kissed.

The dratted man.

She had never encountered anyone quite so infuriating, so outrageous, or so dangerously adept at making her forget every sensible thought in her head. And heaven help her, she was already wondering when she might see him again.

Sir Charles leaped into her arms, and she scowled at him. “This is entirely your fault.”

Sir Charles merely purred, apparently untroubled by the accusation. He soon abandoned her for the comforts of her pillow, where he settled himself with such an air of satisfaction that an unexpected giggle escaped her.

“Do you know, it is rather odd, but you and George possess precisely the same arrogant expression. I cannot decide which of you is more insufferable.”

Sir Charles blinked at her before closing his eyes, looking so remarkably pleased with himself that Cordelia laughed again.

“Quite right. I ought to have known better than to expect humility from either of you.”

Still smiling, she pushed herself upright against the pillows and began removing her brother’s borrowed clothes. Her fingers fumbled rather inelegantly with the buttons of her shirt, and after several frustrating attempts, she finally managed to slip it from her shoulders and toss it onto the floor. Her trousers proved considerably more troublesome. She wriggled beneath the coverlet, tugging and twisting until she succeeded in freeing herself of the offending garment, which she promptly sent sailing after the shirt.

She was far too exhausted to summon her maid or trouble herself with finding a nightdress, and the lingering warmth of the brandy made the prospect of sleeping beneath another layer of clothing decidedly unappealing. Instead, she settled beneath the covers entirely naked and gave a startled little shiver as the cool sheets brushed against her still overheated skin.

Good heavens, that felt wonderful.

She nestled more comfortably against the pillows, then frowned as a rather astonishing realization occurred to her. She had never slept naked before in her entire life. Not once. And now here she was, after climbing through a gentleman’s window, drinking his brandy, kissing his cheek, and making wishes upon falling stars, lying in her bed without a stitch of clothing.

Cordelia pressed a hand over her mouth to smother another giggle. She was becoming entirely too wicked since meeting her neighbor. The thought ought to have alarmed her considerably more than it did. Instead, she closed her eyes, smiling faintly as the memory of George’s silver-gray eyes returned to her, along with the delicious recollection of his fingers brushing her bare skin and the impossible knowledge that he would miss their conversations if she never returned. Before she could decide whether that pleased or terrified her more, sleep claimed her.

CHAPTER 8

For seven interminable days, clouds had hung low and heavy over London, turning the streets slick and muddy while rain drummed against the windows from morning until night. Even Sir Charles, who ordinarily considered such inconveniences as weather beneath his notice, had declined to venture farther than the covered terrace.

He had not, however, ceased thinking about the neighboring house.

More than once, Cordelia had found him perched upon the drawing room windowsill, staring through the rain toward George’s townhouse and meowing plaintively, as though the heavens themselves had conspired to keep him from some desperately important engagement.

“Do stop carrying on,” she had told him yesterday, looking up from her book. “You have a perfectly comfortable home here.”

Sir Charles had looked at her, then toward the neighboring house, before turning his attention upon her once more with an expression of such pointed dissatisfaction that Cordelia had narrowed her eyes.