Page 64 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

Her pounding heart must have drowned out every other sound in the room. His heat seemed to envelop her, and the faint scent of his cologne, mingled with something unmistakably masculine, stirred a rush of awareness that made her fingers tighten around the door handle.

“I did not expect to rob you of your tongue,” he said, his tone low and faintly mocking. “I have always found you so delightfully willing to use it.”

“How do you know it is me?” she whispered.

There was no point in denying it or pretending otherwise. Cordelia had always been abysmal at subterfuge.

“I suspected it the moment you entered. At first, I thought I had imagined you, that my mind had finally taken leave of its senses. Then I caught your scent, and I knew.”

She blinked, dazed. “My…scent?”

“Yes.” His voice lowered, becoming intimate, almost reverent. “Have you forgotten what I told you? Your scent lingers in my house long after you have gone. In the music room, upon the cushions, sometimes even in the air. I have grown rather absurdly fond of it.”

His thumb brushed the delicate curve behind her ear, a deceptively light touch that sent a delicious shiver through her. She nearly turned to face him, caught between the instinct to retreat and the far more dangerous temptation to lean into his caress.

“Sometimes I think of you even after I have retired, and the memory follows me into sleep.”

Her breath hitched.

“And sometimes,” he continued softly, his thumb tracing the sensitive place just beneath her ear, “you find your way into my dreams.”

Her lashes fluttered. “You…you dream of me?”

“Oh yes.”

The words were unhurried, certain, and laden with such unmistakable intent that her imagination supplied what he had not said.

“Are they pleasant dreams?” she asked before she could think better of it.

“Exceedingly.” His mouth drew nearer to her ear. “Though I suspect you would blush yourself quite senseless if I told you what we get up to in them.”

“George!”

He chuckled softly. “You did ask, my sweet.”

The endearment sent a peculiar warmth unfurling through her chest, and she was suddenly grateful that she had her back to him, for she had no notion what expression she wore.

“Do you always speak so wickedly to ladies?”

“Only to the one who has made a thorough nuisance of herself in my thoughts.”

Her heart gave an extraordinary little leap.

At last, summoning what remained of her composure, Cordelia turned to face him, lifting her chin even as her pulse betrayed her.

It was a mistake.

He stood close enough that she could see the faint shadow of his evening whiskers, the dark sweep of his lashes, and the way his silver-gray eyes moved over her face with an appreciation so frankly masculine that her breath caught.

His gaze lingered upon her mouth. “How pretty you are.”

The words were spoken with such quiet sincerity that she could not summon a clever reply.

Heat rushed to her cheeks, spreading downward until she felt quite unsteady.

“Do not blush,” he murmured, although the slow curve of his mouth suggested he was enjoying her embarrassment immensely. He leaned closer, his warm breath brushing her cheek. “Or perhaps you should. You are exquisite when you do.”

“Then you ought not say such things.”