Page 33 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

A week ago, he had told her he would miss their conversations.

Did he?

Had he wondered why she had not returned? Had he stood at his music room window during the rain and thought of her at all?

Cordelia frowned at herself, recognizing what a thoroughly dangerous line of thought she had allowed herself to pursue. She rose, determined that if she intended to retrieve Sir Charles, she ought to do so without further delay. Yet instead of going upstairs for Philip’s borrowed trousers and the cane concealing her rapier, Cordelia found herself walking toward the kitchen.

She stopped halfway down the corridor, wondering why on earth she was going there when she had a perfectly good reason to be heading in the opposite direction.

A perfectly sensible answer presented itself.

She wanted cake.

Cordelia continued walking, reassured by the knowledge that there was nothing peculiar about wanting cake, nor was there anything unusual about making one when baking happened to be a pastime she loved and enjoyed.

And if she happened to make enough to share with someone else, well, that was merely good manners.

An hour later, Cordelia stood before the kitchen worktable, grinding vanilla beans, while Cook regarded her with the long-suffering resignation of a woman who had long since learned that discouraging Miss Maubry from entering her domain was an entirely futile undertaking.

The rich fragrance of vanilla rose from the bowl as Cordelia worked it into the batter, stealing a little taste from the end of the spoon before pouring the mixture into the prepared tin. With Cook’s assistance, she placed it in the brick oven, where the heat had been carefully judged to ensure the cake would bake evenly. While it baked, she prepared a lemon icing, tart enough to temper the sweetness, exactly as she preferred it.

She did not wonder whether George liked lemon, or at least she did not wonder more than twice. By the time the cake had cooled sufficiently for her to spread the icing over its top, her mother appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Cordelia.”

Cordelia glanced up, surprised to discover that her mother had already returned from the musicale. “Mama.”

Her mother’s dark brown eyes, so like Cordelia’s own, traveled from her daughter to the cake, and that familiar expression of maternal despair settled upon her elegant features.

“You have flour upon your cheek.”

Cordelia promptly wiped her cheek and chin.

“The other cheek.”

She wiped again, earning a weary sigh from her mother.

“I shall never understand why you insist upon doing something so tiresome when Cook is perfectly capable of making anything you desire.”

“Because I enjoy it.”

“That,” her mother said gravely, “is the incomprehensible part.”

Cordelia laughed.

“You are quite certain you will not accompany us tonight to Lady Melbourne’s midnight ball? Your father and I would be delighted to have you, and your cousin has already asked whether you might reconsider.”

Cordelia glanced toward the kitchen window, where the last traces of daylight were fading into the soft blue of evening. “I think I shall remain at home.”

Her mother's expression softened with concern. “Are you unwell?”

“Not in the least. I simply do not wish to attend a ball tonight.”

It was not even a lie, for she would much rather spend the evening elsewhere, though the realization sent another wild little thrill through her.

Her father appeared behind her mother and peered into the kitchen. Whenever her parents could not find her elsewhere in the house, they knew to venture down the servants’ staircase in search of her. Even the servants had grown accustomed to the family’s little oddities, particularly the sight of the master and mistress descending into the kitchen to discover what their daughter was baking.

A sudden pang of affection warmed Cordelia’s chest, accompanied by the unexpected realization that she missed spending time with them. So many of the outings they still enjoyed no longer held the same appeal for her. When she had first entered society a few years earlier, she had delighted in accompanying her parents to balls, musicales, exhibitions, and the countless entertainments London had to offer. Now she had grown rather inured to it all, though her parents continued to take genuine pleasure in the social whirl. Watching them together, she felt a fleeting nostalgia for those earlier days when she had shared their enthusiasm.