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Cordelia stirred beneath the coverlets, her brow furrowing as she struggled toward wakefulness. Another sound followed, this one suspiciously like a gentleman muttering a rather inventive curse.

Her eyes flew open.

For a moment, she lay perfectly still, listening to the quiet of her bedchamber. The fire had burned low in the grate, and the faint glow of the embers illuminated little beyond the hearthrug. Moonlight filtered through the open balcony doors, casting pale ribbons of silver across the carpet.

Open?

Cordelia distinctly recalled closing those doors before retiring. A shadow moved near the curtains. Her heart gave a violent leap. She pushed herself upright, clutching the coverlet to her chest, and drew breath to scream.

“Do not raise the household, my sweet. It is only me.”

Cordelia froze. “George?”

“Unless you have another gentleman in the habit of scaling your balcony at this ungodly hour, I should think so.”

“George!” She flung aside the coverlets and scrambled from the bed. She hurried across the room and hurled herself into his arms with such force that he staggered backward a step.

He caught her against him with a low laugh. “Good heavens, Cori. You might have warned me before launching yourself at me.”

But she was already winding her arms around his neck and pressing her mouth to his. He kissed her immediately, his arms tightening around her waist as he drew her close. Cordelia clung to him, overwhelmed by the familiar warmth of his embrace, the comforting scent of his cologne, and the wonderful realization that he was truly there.

George.

Her George. She had spent the better part of two days fearing that some dreadful obligation would steal him from her, and now he stood in her bedchamber, holding her as though nothing in the world could persuade him to let her go.

Her happiness was so fierce that it hurt. When he finally lifted his mouth from hers, she was crying.

He drew back slightly, his expression softening as he cupped her cheek. “Why the tears, sweetheart?”

Cordelia shook her head, unable to speak around the tightness in her throat.

His thumb gently brushed away a tear. “Come now, my love. I have not risked life and limb climbing up the side of your parents’ townhouse merely to make you weep.”

She gave a watery laugh. “George, I have been so worried.”

“I know.”

“Your letter said so little, and Mama believes you will be compelled to marry Lady Bramwell, and I could not bear the thought of...”

Her voice broke.

George kissed her forehead. “Hush, my sweet. I am here now, and I have come to take you on an adventure.”

Cordelia blinked. “An adventure?”

“A rather splendid one, if I do say so myself.”

She stared at him, suddenly noticing that he was dressed with his customary immaculate care, although every article of clothing he wore was black. His coat, waistcoat, breeches, and boots were so dark that he might have stepped out of the shadows themselves. “Why are you dressed like a highwayman?”

George glanced down at himself. “A highwayman? I had rather thought I resembled a particularly dashing gentleman engaged in a clandestine enterprise.”

“You look as though you intend to rob someone.”

“I do.”

Her eyes widened. “George!”

“I intend to steal a most precious treasure from this house, and I have no intention of returning it.”