Page 5 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

A shocking, traitorous thrum of awareness rushed through her, so sudden and physical that she nearly recoiled from it. Heat flooded Cordelia’s cheeks, and for perhaps the first time in her life, she found herself utterly at a loss for words.

Delectable?

Such an innocuous word, yet the way he said it sent wild flutters stirring low in her belly. The sensation was so strange, so utterly baffling, that another choked sound escaped Cordelia. Irritation rushed in to rescue her from mortification.

What sort of man sat alone in a darkened drawing room without so much as a lamp? Surely he could not have anticipated her arrival. It was absurd to resent a gentleman for occupying a room in his own house, but resentment was vastly preferable to embarrassment, and Cordelia embraced it at once.

“Do not quibble with me, sir. You know perfectly well why I am here, Mr....” Her words trailed away as she realized, with some annoyance, that she had no idea what his name was.

A soft sound of surprise escaped him.

“How very reckless of you. Breaking into a gentleman’s home after dark alone, without the slightest notion of who lives here.” His gaze lingered upon her, wicked amusement curling at the edges of his smile. “One wonders whether you are remarkably brave...or simply have yet to appreciate precisely what sort of man you have so obligingly found yourself alone with.”

Good God.

Something in his expression warned her that fear would only sharpen his amusement. Whatever else happened, she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing hers.

“I confess, sir,” she said coolly, “what I have thus far observed of your conduct has given me little confidence in your character. It follows that I may indeed be in some peril, and I certainly cannot place much faith in your presumed gentlemanly honor.”

“Oh?”

She cleared her throat, summoning as much dignity as she could manage. “My present assessment of your character is far from charitable. Though I came alone, I am armed with a sword cane, and I know very well how to wield the blade concealed within it, should you decide to test my mettle.”

A low, mocking chuckle sounded. “What, pray tell, have I done to earn so damning an assessment that you feel compelled to threaten me with a blade?”

“You have taken Sir Charles hostage.”

One dark brow arched with deliberate insolence. “And who, may I ask, is Sir Charles?”

“My cat,” she replied tightly. “Who is at this very moment asleep in your lap.”

“Ah.” His mouth curved faintly. “You refer to the stray I found upon my doorstep, shivering in the rain, who has been my constant companion for the past couple of weeks. Is that how you treat your companion?”

Cordelia gasped. There was a cool rebuke in his tone, though that insufferable smirk remained firmly fixed upon his lips.

“Sir Charles is not a stray. No one in my household would ever leave him at the mercy of the elements. One afternoon, he slipped out the window, and when the rain began, the windows must have been shut. He sought shelter in your house, that is all.”

“His name,” the man interrupted smoothly, “is Lord Wellington.”

“I beg your pardon?”

As if summoned by the audacity of it, Sir Charles chose that moment to emit a deep, contented purr and tuck himself more snugly into the gentleman’s lap. The man stroked him with unmistakable familiarity. The sight unsettled Cordelia no less now than it had that morning. So this was where Sir Charles had been disappearing for the last two weeks. Not to some secluded corner of their own house or gardens, but here. Always to this man.

Until today, only Cordelia had ever been granted such easy affection. Her mother, brother, and even her father received little more than Sir Charles’s cool indifference and lofty disdain. The small sting of jealousy that pierced her was ridiculous, but no less real for being so.

And yet, upon this man’s lap, Sir Charles looked entirely at home. Before Cordelia could decide whether she was more offended by the cat or the gentleman, Sir Charles stirred. His eyes blinked open, unfocused at first, before fixing upon her with unmistakable recognition. With a soft sound of greeting, he leaped from the gentleman’s lap, landed lightly at her feet, and wound himself around her ankles with a familiarity that nearly undid her.

Relief flooded her so swiftly that it left her unsteady.

“Oh,” she breathed, sinking to gather him up. She pressed her face into his fur and closed her eyes as his purr vibrated warmly against her cheek. “You vexing creature. You have frightened me half to death.”

Sir Charles only purred louder, utterly unrepentant. When Cordelia straightened, she found the gentleman watching her with open amusement.

A lump formed in her throat. “Thank you for taking care of Sir Charles when he was in need. My heart cannot bear to think what might have happened had he not found his way to your doorstep. I am truly grateful, Mr....”

He rose unhurriedly to his feet, every movement languid and assured, then executed a bow so precise it bordered upon mockery. “George,” he said smoothly. “A pleasure.”

She stared at him, her fingers still buried in Sir Charles’s plush coat, suddenly uncertain whether she ought to return the introduction at all. The entire affair had crossed so many boundaries of propriety that she scarcely knew which one she ought to attempt to salvage first. Still, habit prevailed. “Thank you, Mr. George.”