Page 37 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

Cordelia smiled.

His gaze dropped to the basket. “What have you brought?”

Cordelia suddenly became acutely conscious that she had baked a cake and carried it into a gentleman’s house expressly for him. The undertaking had seemed considerably less revealing while she was grinding vanilla beans in her mother's kitchen. “A cake.”

George regarded her with undisguised interest. “A cake?”

“Yes.”

“For Lord Wellington?”

“Do not be absurd. Cats should not eat cake.”

“Then I am forced to conclude it might be for me.”

Heat crept into her cheeks. “I made it this afternoon.”

His expression brightened with interest. “You made it?”

“Yes, why do you look so surprised?”

“Because most ladies of my acquaintance would consider entering a kitchen a greater scandal than climbing through a gentleman’s window.”

A laugh escaped her before she could prevent it. Something shifted in George's expression, his attention sharpening upon her face with an intensity that made Cordelia suddenly remember that whenever she laughed, he seemed beguiled.

Her laughter faded as George rose from the pianoforte bench, bringing him unexpectedly close to where she stood admiring the instrument. She caught his familiar, clean scent, and her pulse immediately became troublesome.

“Your eyes,” he said quietly, “are truly lovely. They gleam whenever you laugh, and I find that I rather enjoy hearing your laughter, particularly when you forget yourself enough to do so without restraint.”

Something inside her seemed to tumble, leaving her momentarily incapable of deciding whether she ought to be flattered or thoroughly scandalized.

“If I had known you intended to be such a shameless flirt tonight, I would have attended the ball with my mother.”

“A society ball?”

She hesitated, then decided it would be rather foolish to conceal anything about her circumstances when this peculiar attachment between them was beginning to feel so wonderfully comfortable. “Yes.”

“Why did you not go? Ladies generally seem to enjoy such entertainments considerably.”

She rolled her eyes. “I find them dreadfully dull, though I confess that is largely because I am so seldom asked to dance. I might as well be another piece of furniture adorning the ballroom. I would much rather spend an evening arguing with you or playing chess.” Cordelia lowered her eyes to the basket. “Or eating cake.”

“You consider an evening spent eating cake a worthwhile pursuit?”

“Most certainly! I adore cake, and it would be a terrible disappointment to discover that you do not share my enthusiasm.” She lifted the basket slightly. “I brought this for you, as a thank-you for so generously welcoming Sir Charles into your home.”

For a moment, George simply regarded her before laughter escaped him, warm and rich and so genuinely delighted that she found herself smiling despite her embarrassment.

“I enjoy cake.”

Cordelia unpacked the cake upon a low table near the lit fireplace, and George watched with unconcealed amusement as she produced two plates and two forks.

“You came prepared.”

“I was hardly going to bring an entire cake and expect us to eat it with our hands.”

“Or alone.”

She paused, her gaze meeting his across the table. There was something entirely too knowing about his expression, and she decided that answering him would only invite further mischief. Instead, she cut two generous slices and handed him one. George accepted the plate and took a bite while Cordelia watched him with an anticipation she could not quite conceal.