Page 45 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

And when several evenings passed without a visit, he missed her with an intensity that was becoming increasingly difficult to dismiss.

Yet he had been careful to keep their interactions within the bounds of friendship, partly because he enjoyed her company far too much to risk losing it, and partly because he had not yet decided what to make of the growing desire to draw her closer whenever she stood before him. He had known many beautiful women and enjoyed their company, but he had never found himself so thoroughly captivated by the simple pleasure of talking to one.

Miss Cordelia Maubry had somehow made herself indispensable to his evenings without either of them quite realizing how it had happened.

And yet the look in her eyes a moment ago refused to make sense. George had exercised restraint in every regard. They were not courting. No private understanding existed between them. He had given her no promises, offered no declarations, and encouraged no expectations beyond this unlikely friendship he believed they both understood.

So why did it feel as if he had somehow betrayed her?

Bloody nonsense.

“Has that little mouse gone? Or is she still skulking about?” the countess asked with a dismissive sniff, giving her skirts a final smoothing before deftly arranging the few loosened curls about her face. Within moments, no one would have guessed she had just emerged from a clandestine rendezvous.

A cold sensation slid through George. “Why,” he asked coolly, “do you insist upon describing Miss Maubry in such an uncharitable and unflattering manner?”

Lady Ashcombe blinked, clearly taken aback by the steel beneath his tone.

“I merely observed that Miss Maubry is so often standing alone at balls,” she said with a light laugh. “Looking rather pitiable. Though many tongues will undoubtedly wag, you did the poor thing a kindness tonight by taking pity on her.”

“I did not take pity on Miss Maubry,” he said, his voice calm and unyielding. “I saw a lovely young woman whose quiet composure drew my attention, and I requested the honor of her hand for the waltz. While we danced, I discovered she possessed uncommon wit and intelligence. If that surprises you, I suggest the fault lies not with Miss Maubry, but with the company you keep.”

The countess stared at him, momentarily bereft of speech. “I apologize,” she said at last, her tone clipped. “I was unaware Miss Maubry was a friend. I shall not overstep again.”

“See that you do not,” he replied with icy civility.

Beatrice slid a hand to his chest. “Come home with me.”

“Perhaps another night.”

She pouted prettily, though the effect did nothing to soften his resolve.

“But tonight is perfect,” she protested, her fingers already tracing idle patterns along his sleeve. “My husband is out of town. You barely engaged with me earlier. In truth, I felt like the seducer when what I want is for you to ravish me with your tongue and then your body.”

George searched himself for the familiar spark of interest and found, to his astonishment, nothing. Even when Beatrice had perched upon his lap and whispered of the wicked pleasures she longed to explore with him at Aphrodite, she had stirred no desire whatsoever.

George experienced another sharp jolt.

His thoughts had not been upon the beautiful countess in his arms. They had been fixed upon a lady with the most arresting dark-brown eyes and a smile that lingered in his mind. He’d spent the evening trying to make sense of the admiration she had awakened within him. Yet admiration seemed inadequate, and every other possibility felt absurd.

Whatever this strange attachment was, it had persisted even when George found himself in another woman’s embrace, and it was hardly the first occasion upon which his thoughts had strayed to Cordelia. Since meeting her, he had visited Aphrodite several times, yet had felt no inclination to take a woman to his bed. Instead, he had contented himself with the company of his friends and a few profitable hands of cards.

That, more than anything, unsettled him.

Including this evening, he and Cori had met only six times. Their first encounter had lasted mere moments, but the others had stretched for hours, filled with conversation remarkable for its honesty and ease. Never before had he spoken so openly with a woman, nor enjoyed such lively exchanges without calculation or ulterior motive. Cori was refreshingly candid, reckless in her curiosity, and quite unafraid to speak her mind. Her intelligence and quick wit delighted him, particularly when she met his teasing with a barb of her own.

He admired those qualities, certainly, but what troubled him was the growing realization that his feelings went beyond admiration.

He simply... liked her.

And George could not recall the last time he had found himself so thoroughly captivated by a woman.

“You are distracted. Your thoughts are not with me, Templeton.” The countess pouted. “I do not like it.”

George lowered his head and brushed a brief, perfunctory kiss against Beatrice’s mouth. “I am indeed distracted, and I fear I shall make very poor company. I believe it is best that I take my leave.”

Ignoring her startled gasp, he turned away and returned inside. George collected his coat and walking cane without ceremony. Within moments, his carriage was called, and he surrendered himself to habit, allowing it to carry him where he had always gone when his thoughts grew unruly.

Aphrodite.