Page 16

Cordelia released the sash and stepped back. Feeling remarkably foolish and embarrassed, she turned away, but had taken scarcely a few steps when the unmistakable sound of a window being thrust upward brought her to a halt.

Slowly, Cordelia looked over her shoulder.

The window stood open.

What on earth?

She stared at it. There was no sign of Mr. George or Sir Charles, and nothing stirred within the dimly lit music room. Cordelia swallowed as she thought of all the Gothic novels she had read that contained such unsettling occurrences! She turned fully around. She waited. One minute passed, then another. Still, the window remained open. Perhaps Sir Charles was inside, and Mr. George had opened it to allow him to leave.

That must be it. Cordelia started toward it. The window slammed shut. She halted so abruptly that her breath caught. For several seconds she simply stood there, staring at the firmly closed sash.

Her eyes narrowed. Surely not. Cordelia waited, increasingly uncertain whether she ought to be irritated, amused, or concerned that she had somehow wandered into the midst of a situation she did not understand. The window abruptly flew open again. This time, Cordelia could have sworn an irritable curse drifted from somewhere inside the room.

Her lips parted. Was he...?

No.

Surely no grown man would behave so absurdly. Cordelia took two cautious steps toward the house. The window slammed shut again. She stopped.

For heaven’s sake!

Now thoroughly perplexed, Cordelia remained where she was. She ought to leave. Indeed, there could be no sensible reason for her to stand in a neighboring garden after dark, waiting to discover whether a gentleman intended to open his window for the fourth time.

And yet she did.

A few minutes passed before the sash rose again. Cordelia regarded it with growing suspicion. This time, it remained open for scarcely a minute before being firmly closed once more. Perhaps he truly was attempting to let Sir Charles out, and her stubborn cat simply refused to oblige him. It would hardly be surprising. Sir Charles possessed an astonishing ability to behave as though every human being in his vicinity existed solely to accommodate his whims.

The window opened again, and she silently counted until a full minute had passed. Still, she did not move, merely stared.

Five minutes.

Cordelia folded her arms.

Ten minutes.

The window remained raised. By the time fifteen minutes had passed, she could no longer pretend this had anything to do with Sir Charles. Her heart began to beat with a peculiar mixture of anticipation and disbelief.

It was an invitation.

A wicked, irresponsible, thoroughly improper invitation that no true gentleman ought to extend to an unmarried lady, and certainly not by repeatedly opening and closing his window like a man engaged in some private argument with himself.

A wholly improper thrill rushed through her. She ought to turn around, climb back over the wall, return to her bedchamber, and allow Sir Charles to suffer whatever indignities befell cats foolish enough to cultivate friendships with disreputable gentlemen. Instead, Cordelia drew a deep breath and started toward the open window, for she knew perfectly well that she intended to accept the invitation. Still, after only a few steps, her pace slowed as good sense made one final, valiant attempt to reassert itself.

“Are you not coming in?”

The low masculine voice drifted through the open window, carrying an indolent amusement oddly tempered by irritation.

Cordelia stopped.

“Or have your delicate sensibilities finally become too rattled to permit another invasion?”

Her belly tightened, a sudden little pull low inside her that she firmly chose to call annoyance. The man was insufferable. She moved closer to the window and peered inside. The music room was dimly illuminated by the fire and several candles, their wavering light casting pools of amber across the polished wood and leaving the corners in shadow. Mr. George lounged in a deep chair near the hearth, one ankle resting casually across the opposite knee, as though gentlemen routinely spent their evenings awaiting improperly dressed young women who entered their homes in unconventional ways.

Sir Charles lay sprawled across his lap.

Mr. George’s dark hair was slightly disordered, several midnight-black strands falling across his brow. He wore no cravat, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone beneath his waistcoat, exposing a narrow glimpse of skin at his throat. Cordelia’s attention lingered there for an instant before she hastily looked at Sir Charles.

A dark eyebrow winged upward.