Page 44 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

The night was cool and quiet. Cordelia lifted her face to the sky, drawing in a steadying breath. “Somehow, tonight was glorious.”

A soft laugh escaped her. An irrepressible urge to twirl there upon the terrace seized her, but she resisted it. Then she looked down. Below, along the garden path, she saw him. The viscount walked with unhurried purpose toward a more secluded part of the grounds, the lamplight catching the dark sheen of his hair as he moved. A reckless impulse seized her.

She wanted to know whether she had imagined the tenderness of their waltz, or whether he might truly regard her as something more than a friend. Moving carefully, she slipped back inside, left the ballroom, hurried along the long hallway, and passed through the music room before easing out into the garden.

She followed the winding path, her footsteps light, her pulse thundering in her ears. Rounding a small alcove, Cordelia came to an abrupt halt as though she had walked headlong into a wall. The viscount sat upon a stone bench. Straddling his lap was a lady Cordelia recognized at once: Lady Ashcombe, the young countess renowned for both her beauty and her audacity. Her hands rested upon his shoulders, her skirts drawn scandalously high, while her mouth was perfectly fitted to his.

There could be no mistaking the intimacy of their embrace. Cordelia must have made some sound, for Lady Ashcombe’s head whipped around, her eyes widening in shock before she buried her face against George’s throat, hiding herself from view.

Cordelia did not know why she remained rooted to the spot. George looked at her. In the dim glow of the lanterns, his expression was impossible to read. Whatever warmth she had imagined in his eyes during the waltz had vanished, replaced by the composed reserve of a gentleman rarely surprised. Lord Templeton lifted one dark brow, the gesture so exquisitely practiced that it carried the unmistakable implication that she had intruded upon a private moment.

In that instant, understanding slid into place with unwelcome clarity.

This was the true nature of a rogue, and therein lay the greatest danger. A lady might find herself thoroughly ensnared before she ever suspected the trap.

She had known it, had even teased him about it, yet somehow she had persuaded herself that the tenderness of their stolen hours meant something different. Cordelia heard her sister’s voice echo through her thoughts, recalling the many warnings she had offered since discovering her husband’s betrayal.

“Rakes do not court young ladies; they amuse themselves. They do not cherish; they indulge. They are dangerous not because they are cruel, but because they possess the alarming gift of making a woman believe herself singular, only for her to discover she had merely been convenient.”

The joy of the evening ebbed, leaving her painfully clearheaded.

How foolish I have been.

She had mistaken his easy charm for a regard that belonged to her alone. Her eyes stung, and she hated that they did. Only moments ago, she had been foolish enough to believe that the evening might mark the beginning of something wonderful. Now she could scarcely bear to remember the way he had held her during the waltz.

CHAPTER 11

Cori turned and walked away, her pace measured, her composure held together by what looked to be sheer force of will. George gently eased Lady Ashcombe from his lap and rose to his feet, a sharp, wholly unexpected sensation tightening in his chest. The countess hastily turned her attention to the hair she had unpinned.

He frowned. Cori is hurt.

There could be no mistaking it. He had seen it in her eyes, in the proud lift of her chin, and in the rigid control with which she had retreated. George found himself utterly at a loss to explain it. They had shared a dance, several conversations, and an easy companionship he had found strangely delightful, but nothing more. What she had witnessed bore no relation to whatever curious, impossible-to-define connection had sprung up between them.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, irritation roughening his voice as he raked his fingers through his hair. Lifting his gaze to the night sky, he drew in a slow breath before letting it escape.

What was this damnable feeling clawing through his chest?

Reason insisted he had done nothing that required an apology. Yet reason proved remarkably poor company. The image of confusion and hurt in her eyes refused to release him, and with every passing moment an unfamiliar disquiet settled more deeply within George’s.

There was an observed truth every gentleman in the ton knew well. To dance with a lady more than once, to linger too long in conversation with her, or to smile at her too often across a ballroom was thought to signal an intention to court. The consequence was inevitable. Ambitious mamas descended with alarming determination, each convinced the gentleman had already chosen her daughter.

George had always considered the notion thoroughly absurd. Even so, he believed that genuine friendship between a gentleman and a lady was possible only when both exercised the utmost discretion. The moment others began assigning meaning to innocent attentions, expectations took root where none had been intended, and disappointment invariably followed.

He turned over every conversation he shared with Cori during the evenings she had slipped into his music room. If he were honest with himself, he anticipated those visits with a keenness he found impossible to explain. On the rare occasions Sir Charles appeared alone, George found himself unusually distracted, poring over estate ledgers without truly seeing the figures before him. Then she would arrive, climbing through the window with all the fearless determination of a woman who refused to let convention dictate her life, and something within him eased. Tension he had not even realized he carried quietly unwound.

George had never behaved as a scoundrel toward her. He’d not flirted with reckless intent, though he had teased her. He had never taken liberties with her person, nor sought to seduce her with practiced charm. Had he imagined kissing her?

Good God, yes.

He found her unspeakably lovely. More than once he had wondered what it might be like to lower his head and discover whether her lips were as soft and sweet as they appeared. But those thoughts had remained precisely where they belonged. Hidden behind the carefully cultivated insouciance of a gentleman determined to master his own desires rather than indulge them.

Are we friends?

When she had asked him that question, something unexpected had stirred deep within his chest, a peculiar tenderness that had drawn him toward her with an insistence he had not entirely understood. He had answered honestly, for he did consider her a friend, though he was beginning to suspect that friendship was a woefully inadequate description of what he felt whenever she was near.

He had looked forward to her visits with an eagerness that would have astonished him only a few weeks ago. There had been evenings when he found himself listening for the faintest sound at his window, hoping to discover her climbing through it with that determined expression upon her lovely face, Sir Charles invariably responsible for whatever excuse she had devised to explain her presence. Her unexpected arrivals had become the most delightful part of his evenings, and he had discovered that he would gladly abandon whatever occupied him for the pleasure of her company.

Even more disconcerting was how thoroughly she occupied his thoughts after she had gone home. Long after the house had fallen silent, he would find himself recalling some outrageous remark she had made, the mischievous gleam in her eyes when she challenged him, or the earnestness with which she spoke of matters that interested her. He revisited their conversations with a pleasure he could scarcely account for, sometimes smiling to himself at something she had said hours earlier. More than once, he had caught himself considering what he might say to provoke her laughter when next they met, or what subject might inspire another of their wonderfully spirited disagreements.