Page 10 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

“Ah, but that rather depends upon the view.”

Her breath caught.

His smile deepened. “And whether one discovers the fall might be worth it.”

“You are outrageous.”

“And yet,” he replied, his eyes glinting with quiet amusement, “nothing has happened. No touch. No kiss. No whispered indecencies. Merely two neighbors engaged in polite conversation.”

She gasped. “There is nothing polite or respectable about you, sir, and our conversation has been neither!”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “No?”

“Certainly not.”

His gaze drifted over her once more, slower this time, though not quite so boldly as before. That was somehow worse. This time he was not merely appraising her; he was paying attention.

“Unless,” he continued softly, “you believe intent alone is enough to compromise a lady.”

“Yes.” The answer escaped before she had time to consider it.

A surprised laugh slipped from him, warm and genuine. “How extraordinary. You credit me with far more influence over your virtue than I have yet attempted to earn.”

Cordelia did not answer. She could feel it now, the restless fluttering beneath her ribs, the strange, disquieting awareness that had stolen over her since the moment she found him sitting in the darkness. She had never experienced anything remotely like it. The word attraction hovered at the edge of understanding, and she refused to claim it. Whatever this curious sensation was, she wanted no acquaintance with it.

“I must go,” she said, and this time there was no hesitation.

One dark brow arched, and his silver-gray eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. “Then go, Miss Cori. I shall not keep you.”

She tucked Sir Charles securely against her with one arm, held tightly onto her father’s cane with its hidden blade, and hurried toward the window, her heart pounding so fiercely she feared Mr. George might hear it. The cat’s warm little body was a small comfort amidst her mounting discomposure. At the window, she paused only long enough to glance back.

Mr. George watched her with an expression she could not decipher. “I hope we meet again…Miss Cori.”

He spoke her shortened name with faint, deliberate amusement, as though he knew perfectly well it was not her proper one and intended to enjoy the deception. Cordelia slipped through the window and into the night, pulse racing. She had Sir Charles back. That was all she had come for, and it ought to have been enough. Yet as she crossed the dark garden, Mr. George’s voice followed her in memory.

I hope we meet again.

The truly alarming part was that some reckless part of her hoped so too.

CHAPTER 4

George Aston, Viscount Templeton, chuckled as he watched Miss Maubry’s mouth-watering derrière disappear through his window. He nearly called her back to suggest using the front door, but suspected she rather enjoyed her unconventional adventures. He listened until her footsteps faded, then glanced at the empty place beside him. Already, he missed Wellington’s company.

The Persian cat was delightfully arrogant and absurdly lovable, and George rather wished Wellington belonged to him. When he had first discovered the creature, wet and trembling upon his doorstep, he had been furious at the thought of someone abandoning him. George despised those who took animals into their homes without accepting responsibility for their care and protection. Yet despite calling Wellington a stray, he had quickly recognized that beneath his drenched fur was a well-fed, cherished creature who had simply needed warmth and shelter.

His entire household had grown fond of Wellington during his frequent visits to the townhouse. His housekeeper, Mrs. Hargrove, had even suggested that George keep him. Yet the creature’s habit of disappearing without warning had convinced George that he had another home where he was equally comfortable.

Tonight, he had finally met the person who provided it.

George’s amusement softened into admiration. Miss Maubry had astonishing nerve. She was brave, perhaps a little ridiculous, but exceedingly intriguing. Chuckling, he leaned over the chessboard and played several moves against himself, though his concentration wandered repeatedly to a pair of deep brown eyes, a lush mouth, and the indignant way she had insisted he address her as either Miss Maubry or Miss Cori.

Interesting indeed.

Eventually, George abandoned the game, extinguished the lamp, and made his way upstairs. Fenton was already in his bedchamber, laying out his evening attire with customary precision. A black coat lay upon the bed beside a freshly pressed waistcoat, cravat, and linen shirt.

The valet glanced toward George. Then, rather conspicuously, looked behind him. When no cat appeared in the doorway, Fenton released a forlorn sigh. “Has Wellington vanished again, my lord?”

George smiled. The animal had somehow reduced a household of otherwise sensible people to this. “His owner came for him.”