Page 32 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

“Traitor.”

His tail had flicked in apparent dismissal, and she had returned determinedly to her novel. The rain, unfortunately, had left her with altogether too much time for reading and, even more unfortunately, for thinking. She had spent her days tucked into various corners of the house with books, or in the kitchen indulging another of her favorite occupations: baking. Her mother deplored the latter habit, declaring it tiresome beyond comprehension that a young lady with servants at her disposal should willingly cover her hands in flour and spend hours measuring sugar, grinding spices, and hovering over ovens.

Cordelia loved every moment of it.

The kitchen possessed a large brick oven beside the cooking hearth, its heat carefully judged by the cook after the embers had been raked aside. Cordelia had learned to recognize when the bricks retained just enough warmth for her cakes and pastries, though Cook still insisted upon supervising whenever she attempted anything particularly ambitious.

There was something deeply satisfying about taking butter, flour, eggs, sugar, and whatever else caught her fancy and turning them into something entirely different beneath her hands. A cake did not care whether she walked gracefully, nor did pastry require clever conversation or fashionable accomplishments. Bread did not look upon her limp and silently calculate whether the rest of her sufficiently compensated for it.

And there was a particular pleasure in making something simply because she wished to, without anyone questioning whether the pursuit was suitable for a young lady of her station. Thus, she occupied herself with reading, baking, and entertaining Sir Charles, all while making a most determined effort not to think about George.

Unfortunately, her determination appeared to have little influence over her dreams. Every night since that extraordinary evening, George had invaded them with a persistence that would have been positively scandalous had he possessed any knowledge of it. Worse, her sleeping imagination seemed determined to improve upon events that had already been sufficiently improper.

In one dream, he had knelt before her as he had in her bedchamber, only instead of stopping at her boots and stockings, his wicked hands had continued their exploration until he had relieved her of every last stitch of clothing. In another, he had removed only her trousers, leaving her breathless with anticipation as he smiled up at her with that infuriatingly knowing expression.

And more than once, far more often than she cared to admit, she had dreamed of him kissing her mouth instead of her cheek.

Those dreams were the most troublesome of all.

She could never quite recall everything upon waking, only the delicious warmth of his lips against hers, the imagined pressure of his hands, and the extraordinary sensation of being wanted with an intensity she had never experienced outside the pages of a novel.

The recollections left her flushed, restless, and so thoroughly mortified that she had taken to burying her face in her pillow each morning, as though the embroidered linen might somehow conceal her thoughts from the Almighty.

It was perfectly absurd.

She had known George for scarcely any time at all, and already her imagination had granted him liberties she would never have permitted him while awake. At least, she was reasonably certain she would not have permitted them.

That particular uncertainty was perhaps the most alarming discovery of the entire week. And so Cordelia read her books, baked her cakes, scolded her faithless cat, exchanged the latest society gossip with Emelia, who was thoroughly enjoying her Season, and endeavored to convince herself that George was merely an agreeable neighbor whose company she happened to enjoy.

If only her dreams could be persuaded to agree.

She was especially resolved not to recall the warmth of his cheek beneath her lips, the startling stillness that had seized him when she kissed him, or the tenderness with which he had carried her home afterward. Above all, she refused to remember his quiet admission.

If you do, I shall miss our conversations.

Cordelia had thought about those words only occasionally, of course, and certainly no more than once every hour.

I would be honored to be your friend.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the recollection. Her dreams had made it abundantly clear that her thoughts concerning George had wandered well beyond the boundaries of friendship. It was perfectly silly, for she scarcely knew him, and despite his wicked humor and the sensual roguishness he exuded so effortlessly, he had behaved with remarkable gentleness toward her.

Indeed, the contradiction was becoming increasingly difficult to reconcile with the gentleman who had so shamelessly teased her in her own bedchamber.

Friends we are, she thought, though I am not at all ashamed to admit that I would welcome something more.

Well, perhaps she was a little ashamed, but only because she suspected that something more might involve considerably fewer clothes than propriety permitted. By the seventh morning, she had begun to wonder whether she ought to be grateful for the rain, since it had at least spared her the temptation of discovering whether George might truly welcome another visit.

Then, this morning, the clouds finally broke. By midafternoon, sunlight streamed brilliantly through the windows, warming the drawing room carpet and turning the rain-washed leaves outside a glittering green. The pathways began to dry beneath the unexpected warmth, and London seemed to exhale after a week beneath gray skies.

Her mother and Emelia had been delighted by the return of sunshine and had already departed for a musicale, while her father had gone out with Philip, leaving Cordelia once again to her own devices.

Sir Charles, too, wasted no time in taking advantage of the improved weather. Cordelia was halfway through a particularly engaging chapter when a streak of white shot past her chair with such astonishing speed that she scarcely had time to register what she had seen. She lowered her book. “Sir Charles?”

When no answering meow came, she glanced toward the open terrace doors, where the curtains stirred innocently in the breeze. Her heart gave one hard, traitorous thump as an all-too-familiar suspicion took hold.

She knew perfectly well where he had gone. Having spent the better part of a week staring mournfully toward George’s house, Sir Charles had evidently decided that the return of sunshine was sufficient reason to resume his scandalous attachment to the neighboring household.

Cordelia set her book aside, knowing she ought to retrieve him at once. Instead, she remained seated for another moment, and then another, while an entirely ridiculous excitement began fluttering inside her. She felt rather like a kite caught upon the wind, helplessly carried along by the exhilarating anticipation that seized her whenever she contemplated another encounter with George Ashford.