Page 48 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

He had not set foot in the house for nearly six weeks. The knowledge landed with surprising force, pricking at his conscience. He followed the sound of laughter along the hallway and into the breakfast room. His sister, Jane, saw him first. She gave an excited squeal, her chair scraping across the floor as she sprang to her feet and flew across the room with irrepressible enthusiasm.

“George!”

He barely had time to brace himself before she flung herself into his arms. He caught her easily, laughing as the force of her embrace nearly sent them both sprawling.

“You will be the death of me,” he said fondly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“I do not care,” she declared, grinning up at him. “You never come to see us. Mama is forever saying you are busy. Pray tell, what occupies your time so completely, brother? I grew tired of waiting and visited Seaview Manor without you!”

Jane was fifteen and utterly enchanted by the novelty of London, despite the fact that she would not make her debut for another two or three years. Her thick, glossy, dark hair, inherited from their mother, had been arranged in an artful chignon, and her eyes, the same striking silver-gray as his and their father’s, danced with delight.

Their parents watched the reunion from the breakfast table.

His father, the Earl of Bloomfield, regarded him over the top of a neatly folded newspaper, one dark brow lifting in quiet appraisal. Time had etched fine lines at the corners of his eyes, yet his posture remained erect, his presence as steady and composed as ever.

“Is all well, son?” his father asked mildly.

Before George could answer, his mother’s hand flew to her chest.

“What is wrong?” she demanded, her eyes already bright with concern. “Do not tell me you have come to confess to something dreadful.”

“Must my arrival always herald catastrophe?” George asked dryly.

“Yes,” his mother replied without hesitation.

Then she smiled. She was as elegant as ever, her dark hair impeccably arranged, her expression lively and perceptive. Warmth shone in her gaze, but so too did an intelligence that allowed very little to escape her notice.

“Is this,” she continued, tapping the folded scandal sheet beside her plate, “in any way connected to the scandal sheet mention suggesting you have at last fixed your attention upon a lady this Season? We cannot say we recognize this Miss M they so coyly reference.”

Jane gasped. “George! Is it true?”

He smiled, the expression carefully neutral. “Do I visit so infrequently that my presence invites interrogation and such gross speculation?”

His father lowered the paper slightly. “You do tend to appear only when something occupies your thoughts.”

George took the empty seat and helped himself to breakfast: rashers of bacon, toast, thinly sliced ham, and a generous spoonful of strawberry preserves. As he ate, a strange, quiet pang settled in his chest.

He had missed this. Not merely the food or the comfort of routine, but the ease of it. The unguarded familiarity. The sense of belonging in which no performance was required. Six weeks, he thought. In six weeks, he had not found time for his family.

Jane chattered happily beside him, his mother watched him with far too much insight, and his father folded his paper at last, giving him his full attention.

George drew a measured breath. “I did dance with Miss Maubry last night.”

His mother frowned slightly. “Maubry? I do not believe I am acquainted with the family.”

“Her father is Sir Roland Maubry,” George replied. “And Miss Maubry is only a friend.”

His father’s brows rose in unmistakable skepticism, and George winced inwardly, instantly aware of precisely what sort of friend his father assumed her to be. He moved to correct the impression at once. “Miss Maubry is a lady of refinement and quality,” he said firmly.

His father fixed him with a pointed look that said, quite plainly, as though that had ever stopped you before.

George suppressed a groan.

His mother tilted her head, thoughtful. “I am not familiar with the baron,” she said. “Are we, perhaps, to meet this young lady and her family soon?”

“I am not yet certain that will be necessary.”

Silence followed. Both his parents stared at him as though he had uttered something wholly incomprehensible. The stillness itself was telling, for George had never before even hinted at the possibility of considering a lady in earnest.