Page 38 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

His eyebrows lifted.

“Well?” she prompted.

He swallowed slowly, appearing to consider his judgment with unnecessary care.

Cordelia frowned. “If you tell me it is merely adequate, I shall take the remainder home.”

“I was deciding whether honesty would encourage you to bring another.”

Her heart gave a peculiar little skip. “And?”

“It is excellent.”

Pleasure warmed her at the simple praise, particularly because she had watched him take that first bite with far more apprehension than she would ever have admitted.

“How did you bake it?”

She smiled. “Oh, it is quite simple once you understand the process. You must first measure your ingredients carefully, then cream the butter and sugar together until the mixture becomes wonderfully light. After that, you add the eggs, flour, and other ingredients, taking care to blend everything thoroughly without making the batter too heavy. One of the most important considerations is the oven temperature. If it is too hot, the outside will burn before the middle is properly baked, and if it is too cool, the cake may not rise as it ought. One must learn to judge the heat very carefully.”

He took another bite, his expression revealing just how thoroughly he was enjoying it.

“How very interesting,” he murmured. “I do not believe I have ever considered the amount of thought and effort required to prepare the food I eat.”

“Oh, I love food!” she said with a delighted laugh. “My mother has never understood my fascination with it, but I have always wondered who first thought to bake a cake. How did someone discover that combining butter, flour, eggs, and sugar would produce something so delicious? And who thought to make icing? How did they determine which ingredients would give it precisely the right sweetness and consistency? It is all rather marvelous when one considers it.”

“I daresay it must have been a gentleman of a scientific disposition who first deciphered such mysteries. I have a great many books in my library. Perhaps we might discover something of the history of cakes and their invention.”

She laughed, thoroughly delighted by the suggestion. “I should like that very much! And perhaps I might show you how to bake one yourself. Would you care to learn?”

He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Good God, no. I should much rather admire the accomplishments of those who possess such talents and enjoy the results of their efforts.”

Cordelia shook her head at him, thoroughly amused. “Then why did you ask me how I made it if you have no desire to learn?”

His smile softened. “I enjoy listening to you speak of the things you love, Cori. Your entire face comes alive when you do, and I find it quite impossible to look away.”

She stilled, struck by the quiet sincerity of his answer.

George, meanwhile, appeared entirely unaware that he had said anything remarkable and took another appreciative bite of cake. She studied him, wondering how he could so effortlessly say things that left her feeling as though the ground beneath her feet had shifted.

Perhaps that was why she found conversing with him so wonderfully absorbing. He possessed a rare attentiveness that made even her most ordinary observations seem worthy of consideration, and when she spoke, she had the extraordinary impression that he was interested not merely in what she said, but in why it mattered to her.

When he asked how she had occupied herself during the week of rain, they turned to books, which led to a spirited disagreement over whether a particularly celebrated poet was profound or merely incomprehensible. Somehow, that argument became a discussion of childhood mischief, then horses, and finally whether Sir Charles possessed enough intelligence to understand that he was manipulating both households.

Time slipped past unnoticed as they laughed and argued, occasionally agreeing upon something only to discover another subject where their opinions differed.

At some point, they abandoned their chairs entirely and settled on the carpet as they had before, with the remains of the cake between them and Sir Charles sprawled nearby, looking thoroughly satisfied with the evening’s arrangements. Cordelia lay comfortably upon her stomach, several plump cushions tucked beneath her chest to support her upper body, her chin resting in the palm of one hand as she regarded George.

His gaze fell briefly to her leg.

“May I ask you something rather personal?”

She tilted her face toward him and peered up through her lashes. “You may ask, though I cannot promise I shall answer.”

“Your leg. Were you born with the difficulty, or was there an accident?”

Cordelia was quiet for a moment. Gentlemen rarely asked her so directly about her limp. Most pretended not to notice it, though their glances betrayed them often enough, while others spoke of her infirmity in such excessively sympathetic tones that she invariably felt obliged to reassure them she was not at death’s door.

“I fell from a tree when I was twelve.”