Page 69 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

“Nothing,” Cordelia said, flushing. “I merely confirmed the truth. He is indeed a rake.”

She closed her eyes and leaned against the squabs, her chest aching with an emotion she could neither name nor understand. Her body still throbbed with an inexplicable longing, as though all the astonishing pleasure George had given her had somehow awakened a hunger that even those exquisite moments had failed to satisfy.

Cordelia could not explain why she felt so utterly bereft of composure, why her heart continued to race, or why, beneath the lingering sweetness of his touch, a painful uncertainty had taken root. She had gone to Aphrodite seeking the truth about Viscount Templeton, yet she had emerged more confused than ever.

CHAPTER 17

“Ascoundrel, a libertine, a rogue!” Cordelia cried, pacing the length of the room. She had scarcely slept since returning home the previous night, having spent the intervening hours thinking about the viscount and how easily she had fallen under his spell. It was only after hours of restless contemplation that she had finally understood the true source of her fear. “What singular misfortune to have encountered such a wretch!”

“Are you quite finished, my dear?” her mother asked calmly, lowering the embroidery upon which she had been working with neat, practiced stitches.

“No,” Cordelia snapped. “A blackguard. A rascal. An utterly unscrupulous villain!”

“I am not entirely certain what has inspired this fervent denunciation,” her mother said dryly. “I have now asked you three times what, precisely, the viscount has done, and each time you merely turn scarlet and condemn his character anew.”

“That wretch! Why, even his smile,” Cordelia burst out, “something as simple and seemingly harmless as a smile, is proof of his debauchery. It is as though God Himself looked upon him and declared, Let me grant this devil such a pleasing countenance that innocent ladies shall have no hope of resisting him, however thoroughly they have been warned.”

Her mother blinked. “Your reasoning defies all sensible logic,” she said mildly. “From what Katherine conveyed, you have discovered that Lord Templeton has had previous lovers. This is not a conversation we ought to be having before your marriage, but given your age, I suppose I must make certain allowances.” Her mother sighed. “Society does not demand the same chastity of gentlemen that it expects of ladies, my dear. You cannot condemn a man merely for possessing a past. There is, after all, a saying that reformed rakes make the best husbands, and…”

“Ah!” Cordelia exclaimed triumphantly, wheeling about. “You admit he is a thoroughly disreputable rake and therefore entirely unsuitable!”

“I said no such thing,” her mother interrupted. “I said he is a rake. And any woman with sufficient experience of the world knows that a reformed rake may make a very satisfactory husband. It is for that reason, among others, that your father and I have consented to his courtship.”

Renewed indignation surged through Cordelia. “I would not marry that man,” she declared fiercely, “if he sprouted wings of gold and took flight before my very eyes.”

“No,” her mother replied evenly, “but you may find yourself willing to marry him when you consider that he possesses the means to relieve this family of the dreadful debt under which we have suffered.”

The words struck Cordelia with the force of a blow. “This debt is not my responsibility to bear!”

“Yet you have enjoyed the fruits of your father’s inheritance of the barony. Our circumstances changed for the better, but it takes considerable effort to maintain our way of life. Your father tries very hard, and we must all play a part in keeping this family afloat.”

Her father had once promised that she would be permitted to choose the gentleman she married, but he had never promised that she might refuse marriage altogether. Until now, she had scarcely considered the distinction.

A lump rose in her throat, and she turned away, blinking hard.

How could she possibly choose Viscount Templeton?

She hated that for one wild, wicked, and wonderful moment, she had been utterly ensnared by him. Hated that he had made her question her judgment and doubt the convictions she had always believed would protect her from precisely such a man.

Cordelia had been called plain for most of her life. Plump. Passably pretty, provided one did not examine her too closely. For two Seasons, she had occupied the edges of ballrooms, watching other young ladies receive the admiration and attention she had once foolishly hoped might come her way. She had even overheard a gentleman remark that she was not a wallflower at all, merely a wall, for flowers were lovely, and she decidedly was not.

And yet George looked at her as though she were something else entirely. As though she were precious, someone worthy of his attention, a woman whose company he genuinely sought and whose presence gave him pleasure. There were moments when the hunger in his gaze made her feel as though he wished to devour her, and she could scarcely reconcile such ardent desire with the indifference she had endured from other gentlemen.

Surely there was some game afoot, some purpose behind his attentions that she had failed to comprehend. A heavy ache settled in her chest as she recalled the way her heart had stumbled whenever he smiled at her, and how the warmth of his hand and the faint scent of his cologne had lingered in her thoughts long after their waltz had ended.

But it was Aphrodite that had undone her.

She had permitted him to kiss her, and the wicked man had employed such devastating skill in his seduction that she had nearly forgotten every principle by which she had governed her conduct. Even now, she could scarcely think of what had transpired between them without a fierce blush warming her cheeks and an unsettling longing stirring deep within her.

Where had her good sense gone? Her determination to remain indifferent to a rogue?

Both had deserted her with astonishing ease beneath the persuasion of his mouth, and what terrified her most was that, even knowing everything she now knew of his wickedness, she could not honestly say she regretted the pleasure he had given her.

And worst of all, he had known precisely what he was doing.

What if she had allowed him to take her to his bed, only to discover afterward that he was not the man she believed him to be? What if she had surrendered her heart along with her innocence, trusting in an affection that might prove no more enduring than his passing desire?

Yet, almost as though he meant to mock her fears, earlier that very morning he had appeared upon her father’s doorstep with a bouquet of flowers, an easy smile, and a formal request for permission to court her, conducting himself as though nothing improper had ever passed between them.