Page 52 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

She hurried forward, her heart thudding, and carefully plucked the small, folded note from among the blossoms. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded it.

For you,

Viscount Templeton.

Her breath caught.

When she lifted her gaze, she found the familiar, unmistakable glint in her mother’s eyes. Hope. Triumph. Matchmaking fervor. Cordelia scarcely had time to protest before her mother briskly instructed the footmen to carry the flowers upstairs to Cordelia's bedchamber. Then her mother clasped her arm and ushered her into the morning room, Sir Charles giving a faint sound of displeasure at the sudden change in direction.

“My dear,” her mother said, lowering her voice as though entrusting her with something of the greatest importance, “this is your chance.”

Cordelia's stomach tightened. “Mama, please, I⁠—”

“The viscount paid you particular attention,” her mother continued, her eyes shining with expectation. “You must not let him slip through your fingers.”

Cordelia froze. “Mama, Lord Templeton has shown me nothing beyond kindness and courtesy. We must not read more into his actions than⁠—”

“A letter was also delivered,” her mother interjected briskly. “I did not read it. I believe that, at your age, my dear, I need not be quite so vigilant. Particularly if there is any hope you might yet make a match.”

Cordelia straightened slowly, her heart giving a traitorous little leap. Her mother extended an envelope. She accepted it with fingers that trembled despite every effort to remain composed. A knowing smile curved her mother's lips before she swept from the morning room, leaving Cordelia alone with the letter.

She drew a steadying breath and broke the seal.

Dear Miss Maubry,

I am informed, by what I am assured is the highest authority, that a gentleman conveys his intentions through flowers and poetry. This authority, I should clarify, is my sister Jane.

Why I listened to her counsel and attempted verse is a mystery I cannot presently explain. The effort resulted in the following:

Pale roses are not brown like your eyes,

But they seemed perfect for you.

At which point I stopped at once, thoroughly appalled by myself. I suspect poetry is best left to braver men. Sir Charles has informed me, quite without consulting either of us, that he intends to visit again this afternoon. I hope you might be persuaded to follow, so that we may speak as candidly and without restraint as we have before.

I trust you will enjoy the flowers.

Yours,

George, Viscount Templeton

Cordelia read the short letter three times before releasing a ragged breath. He truly expected her to sneak out and see him again. Worse still, he made no mention whatsoever of what she had witnessed with her own eyes. A tryst with a married woman. A violation of vows made before both man and God.

Her jaw tightened.

With swift, decisive movements, Cordelia tore the letter into tiny pieces, letting them flutter onto the table before her. Her thoughts turned, unbidden, to her beloved elder sister, Katherine, who had married a notorious rake. Before their courtship, her husband had been renowned throughout the ton for his shameless pursuit of women. Yet upon meeting Katherine, he had seemingly fallen hopelessly in love, courting and adoring her so openly that everyone declared him a changed man. Cordelia had heard it said more than once that reformed rakes made the very best husbands.

What utter nonsense.

Katherine had worn her heart upon her sleeve. She had loved her husband wholly and without reservation. She had lived in perfect contentment until a few months ago, when she fled her husband’s house in tears after discovering he had maintained a mistress who was now carrying his child.

The betrayal had shattered her. Cordelia had held her sister as she wept, weeping beside her as though the wound had been her own. Then there was Hyacinth Williams, a dear friend who had been pursued relentlessly by a young and handsome baronet, a gentleman the scandal sheets had christened as a libertine. His attentions had been so public, so shameless, that when he cast Hyacinth aside for a woman of greater fortune, it was Hyacinth whom society blamed. She had refused another Season altogether and retreated to the countryside, heartbroken and hardened.

And now yet another rogue had crossed Cordelia’s path.

She knew the failings of a few men did not condemn them all. Yet she had come to understand the anatomy of a rake...a rogue...a scoundrel, whatever name society chose to bestow upon him. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, moving easily among the flock, lulling his victims into a false sense of safety before striking. Gentlemen such as these cloaked themselves in fine clothes, polished manners, easy smiles, and respected titles, all of which suggested honor, sincerity, and perhaps even marriage.

In truth, they sought only flirtation, seduction, and pleasure without consequence, secure in the knowledge that such indulgence jeopardized nothing of theirs while placing everything a woman valued at risk. Cordelia gathered the torn fragments of the letter and closed her hand tightly around them.