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Cordelia.

He saw her as she had been the night before the scandal, smiling up at him with such unguarded happiness that he had scarcely been able to resist kissing her before the entire ballroom. He remembered the softness of her laughter, the warmth of her embrace, and the way she had looked at him when he spoke of their future.

She had trusted him with her heart.

And he had promised to cherish it.

The thought of losing her brought a pain so fierce that he could scarcely draw a breath.

If he married Lady Bramwell, Cordelia would suffer a heartbreak he could not bear to contemplate. She would believe their future had been stolen from them, that the love they had found was powerless against society's expectations. And he would be condemned to a lifetime without the woman who had somehow become more necessary to his happiness than anything else in the world.

The very notion made him want to roar.

Yet he remained perfectly still.

He had spent years learning to conceal his emotions beneath an appearance of effortless composure, and he called upon every measure of that discipline now.

When he opened his eyes, his expression was calm.

He rose from his chair.

His mother watched him anxiously, while his father stood behind the desk with the air of a man awaiting the only sensible answer to an exceedingly disagreeable problem.

George inclined his head toward them both. "I know what must be done."

His mother gave a soft, unhappy sigh. "Oh, George, I am so sorry."

He turned toward her. For a moment, the sight of her distress threatened to disturb his carefully maintained composure. She had always been the gentler of his parents, and he knew she would grieve for him if she believed he was being forced into a marriage he did not desire. "There is no need to apologize, Mother."

She looked at him searchingly.

His father cleared his throat. "Are you going to make an offer?" he demanded frostily.

George met his gaze. "First, I am going to secure a special license."

The earl's expression eased. "Good. That is the most sensible thing you have said."

"There is no reason for a long, drawn-out courtship," George continued evenly, "or even the pretense of one."

"Quite right. The sooner this matter is settled, the better for everyone concerned."

His father nodded with unmistakable approval, evidently satisfied that his son had at last recognized the necessity of fulfilling his obligations.

George bowed once more. "Mother. Father."

He turned and walked toward the door. Every step required a degree of effort he would never have admitted aloud. His head still ached, his stomach remained unsettled, and beneath the carefully maintained calm of his expression lay an anger so profound that he feared what might happen if he allowed himself to dwell upon it.

But anger would serve him nothing now.

Neither would the hurt of knowing how readily his father had believed him capable of such dishonorable conduct. Matters remained to be attended to, arrangements to be made, and a future to secure.

And above all, there was Cordelia.

He shut down every feeling that threatened to interfere with the cold, practical clarity he needed, letting nothing but calm determination guide his movements as he left his father's study.

Cordelia was dreaming of George when a faint sound disturbed her sleep. At first, she thought it was part of the dream, for she had been dreaming of him rather a great deal these past two days. Sometimes he was smiling at her beneath the spreading branches of the treehouse, and sometimes he was kissing her with such tenderness that she awoke with tears upon her cheeks. More often, however, she dreamed of him lying helpless upon that chaise longue, his face pale and his eyes clouded with confusion.

A soft thud came from somewhere near her balcony.