Page 53 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

She would not be fooled.

Not again. And most certainly not by Viscount Templeton.

George sat in the music room, the fading evening light slanting across the polished floor and the open pianoforte. Sir Charles, who had arrived precisely as expected, was curled contentedly upon his shoulder, purring with such vigor that George could feel the vibrations through his collarbone as he played.

His fingers moved automatically over the keys, Handel flowing beneath them with practiced ease. One hour passed. Then another. The time at which Cordelia usually appeared, quietly and resolutely, came and went.

George’s mouth curved into a faint, wry smile.

Of course, she would not come.

He had half expected it from the moment the thought of inviting her had occurred to him. Yet the certainty settled with an unexpected weight. Something unfamiliar tightened in his chest, sharp enough that his fingers stumbled over the next phrase.

The music faltered into silence.

He lowered his hands and stared through the open window, the room suddenly feeling far too still. Cordelia had found him with the countess upon his lap, and only now did he fully comprehend the hurt he had seen in her eyes. She had begun to care for him, just as he had for her, and in one thoughtless moment, he had wounded her deeply enough to drive her away.

George frowned as he rose slowly from the bench. Had she understood, upon receiving his flowers, that he intended to court her? That whatever his reputation, he had no desire to behave as a debauched rake where she was concerned? The possibility that she might no longer believe him capable of anything more unsettled him considerably.

He found himself wishing for one more hour in her company, eating cake, playing chess, or simply enjoying the easy conversation he had come to cherish. Several minutes passed. Sir Charles shifted upon his shoulder and stretched languidly, entirely untroubled by George’s growing disquiet. He gathered the cat into his arms, absently stroking his soft fur. Ordinarily, the creature would have returned home by now, but tonight he seemed perfectly content to remain.

Cordelia must be anxious without her beloved cat, yet even that concern had not brought her to his door. He sighed and rose. There was little point in prolonging matters. He left his townhouse, crossed to Cordelia’s residence, ascended the steps, and rang the knocker. When the butler appeared, he surrendered Sir Charles into his care.

“Sir Charles has strayed again. See that he is delivered safely to Miss Maubry,” George said quietly.

The butler inclined his head, and George turned away without another word.

As he descended the steps, he reminded himself that he was not a man accustomed to forcing his attentions where they were unwelcome. If Cordelia Maubry had decided she wanted nothing more to do with him, he would respect her wishes, however much he regretted losing her company.

Perhaps they were destined to be no more than ships passing upon the open sea. He had known countless fleeting acquaintances, yet he could not recall another whose absence had troubled him quite so much. Back in his townhouse, George settled in the library, determined to occupy himself with more practical concerns. Ledgers lay spread across his desk, their figures neatly tallied, while several investments awaited his review. Ordinarily, such work was sufficient to command his attention, but tonight he had scarcely begun when the door opened.

“Forgive the interruption, my lord,” his butler said. “A footman from your father’s house has arrived with a note. He was instructed to place it directly into your hands.”

George looked up sharply. “From whom?”

“Your sister, my lord.”

Frowning, George accepted the folded paper and dismissed the man with a nod. He broke the seal at once. The handwriting was unmistakably Jane’s.

Brother,

Mama and I attended a late-afternoon picnic in Hyde Park, and as we departed, we witnessed the most ghastly scene. A gentleman, though I cannot bring myself to call him such, was beating a dog repeatedly with a stick. The poor creature wore a collar and could not escape his cruelty.

Mama stopped the carriage and rebuked him sharply. Though he appeared contrite, there was something in his eyes that has not left my thoughts.

Until today, I never truly understood what you meant when you spoke of rescuing abused and stray animals. I had imagined those at Seaview Manor were mostly wanderers without homes. Now I cannot cease thinking of that poor creature.

Mama says nothing can be done, as the dog belongs to Lord Pottinger. But I wondered whether you might think otherwise. Do you think anything can still be done?

Jane

George’s hand tightened around the paper. A cold, precise rage slid through him, settling deep within his bones. Viscount Pottinger was known to him, an excessively loud fellow, ill-mannered even when sober, which, of late, was a rarity. He had gambled away a small fortune within the past year and borne the loss with a bitterness that had seeped into every aspect of his character.

George rose at once. There was no need for deliberation. He crossed the room, retrieved his coat, then paused only long enough to lift the rapier from its resting place. As he strode into the hall, he called for his horse to be brought round from the mews.

“And have the carriage follow,” he added without looking back. “Load it with whatever provisions the kitchens can spare.”

“Yes, my lord.”