Page 47 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

“It always begins that way,” Bainbridge said with a quiet laugh. “One day you admire her courage. The next, her smile occupies your thoughts without invitation. Before long, you cannot imagine your life without her in it.”

George stared at him in disbelief.

Bainbridge only smiled. “Do not make the mistake of convincing yourself there is always more time. If you believe she could bring you contentment, pursue her. A gentleman’s happiness has precious little to do with lineage or fortune. The women who have claimed our hearts have come from every walk of life. In the end, only one thing has ever mattered.”

“And what is that?” George asked.

“That she chooses to love every part of you, even the wicked bits.”

He frowned but offered no response to Bainbridge’s words. George drank with them, laughed, and joined the conversation, yet it all felt distant—mere noise humming at the edges of his thoughts. Before long, he excused himself. Out in the corridor, he nearly collided with Madam Rebecca, who approached in all her lush splendor, her presence as commanding as ever.

“Leaving so soon?” she asked archly.

“I am,” he replied evenly. “I find I have need of the cool air. To clear my head.”

A flicker of concern softened her gaze. She asked no questions, merely inclined her head and continued on her way. George paused. For a moment, he silently urged himself to turn back. To pour a glass of whisky, draw Rebecca into conversation, and indulge as he always had. It would be easy. Familiar. Comforting. Then, unbidden, a pair of warm, chocolate-brown eyes rose in his mind, followed by a smile of such quiet sweetness that his resolve quietly dissolved.

George collected his coat and cane and stepped outside. Rather than summon his carriage, he signaled to the coachman that he intended to walk home. The night air was cool, crisp, and bracing.

If you believe she could bring you contentment, pursue her.

“Is she not merely a friend?” he muttered, frowning.

Who was he trying to deceive? Ladies and gentlemen of the ton were never merely friends. Propriety erected firm walls between them, walls only marriage was permitted to erode. Something undeniably improper had existed between them from the beginning, even when he had exercised every ounce of restraint and resisted pulling her into his arms to claim the kiss he wanted. Whatever hopes she had unwisely allowed to take root, he had crushed them tonight.

This is the beginning of it.

According to his friends, this disquiet, this persistent, unwelcome awareness of one woman above all others, was how love announced itself. Or at least how it began.

If you believe she could bring you contentment, pursue her.

George could crush these feelings if he chose. He possessed more than enough discipline. He could return to the life he had always known. He had wealth earned through his own investments, a magnificent estate awaiting him, and he would never lack comfort, pleasure, or willing companionship. Did he truly need to acknowledge this unfamiliar attachment that had bound itself, inexplicably, to Miss Maubry?

Would it matter if he lost it?

Yes.

The answer rose from a quiet place within George he had never before recognized. Had he ever met another woman like her?

No.

Perhaps he never would. Yet he was only nine and twenty, with much of life still before him. Surely another lady might one day enchant him just as deeply. Perhaps he and Miss Maubry were merely two souls whose paths had crossed for a brief time before diverging forever.

There would be others. Yet even as he clung to the thought, it rang hollow. George had always prided himself upon his self-command. It was therefore deeply unsettling to discover how swiftly he was losing it.

He slowed his pace.

I could exercise discipline over my body and thoughts. I could forget her.

Perhaps it was the way she had looked tonight in her ice-blue ball gown, her hair arranged in a most becoming chignon, with delicate tendrils brushing her cheeks. How beautiful she had appeared when he first saw her across the ballroom, even with that hint of loneliness in her expression. A loneliness that had vanished the instant their gazes met.

George scrubbed a hand over his face. Perhaps dawn would bring reason, and with reason, the return of his accustomed appetites. Even as he made the vow, he recognized it for the lie it was. Whatever had begun between him and Miss Maubry, he suspected it would not release him so easily.

CHAPTER 12

The following day, George entered the Grosvenor Square townhouse without ceremony, surrendering his coat and cane to the footman with the easy familiarity of a man returning home. The scent of breakfast greeted him at once: toasted bread, crisp bacon, strong tea, and the faint sweetness of fruit preserves. It was this, more than anything, that he had missed since moving into his townhouse in Russell Square. Yet there came a point when a gentleman’s bachelor pursuits made it decidedly impractical to continue residing with his parents.

Then, quite unexpectedly, another realization struck him.