Page 17

Goodness. He noticed my improper regard.

Heat climbed her throat, and she was suddenly, painfully conscious that she had never seen a gentleman in such a state of undress. Worse, the knowing curve of his mouth suggested he understood precisely what had distracted her.

“I…I have come to collect Sir Charles.”

“At last,” he drawled. “Boredom had very nearly sent me to sleep, but something told me you would be here tonight.” His silver-gray gaze traveled over her with unhurried interest before returning to her face. “A pleasure, Miss Cori. Won’t you join me?”

Another peculiar little thrill swept through Cordelia at the realization that he had been waiting for her. It was an unfamiliar, almost giddy sensation, and she could not quite understand why the thought should please her so much. She ought to have been indignant at his presumption, yet she found herself wanting to smile. “You anticipated me, yet could not decide if you should let me in?”

A glint of amusement entered his silver-gray eyes. “I was allowing you the opportunity to reconsider your intentions. Repeatedly, as it happens. You proved remarkably stubborn.”

Cordelia chuckled softly. “Is that what it was?”

“Perhaps there was a bit more to it, but I am not willing to explain myself.”

She regarded him with growing curiosity. “Oh?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Hmm, it was a peculiar sort of madness that seized me as I debated whether to help you merrily along your path to ruination.”

“Have you finally decided that a woman can indeed be ruined merely by being in the same room with you?”

“A lady would have to come considerably closer to me before there was any real danger of that.” His gaze drifted deliberately to the space beside his chair. “Though you are welcome to test the proposition, Miss Cori.”

She felt an unwelcome warmth creep into her cheeks. The wretch was being deliberately provocative, and she was not so naive as to believe for a moment that his indecision over the window had anything to do with protecting her reputation. Whatever had truly occupied his thoughts, he had neatly sidestepped the question, and the wicked amusement in his eyes suggested he had no intention of enlightening her.

There was also something terribly unsettling about the way he looked at her. Not improper precisely. She almost wished it were. Impropriety she could condemn. Instead, his attention seemed to settle upon her completely, as though for those few moments there was nothing else in the room worth observing. Cordelia was accustomed to gentlemen looking past her in ballrooms, their attention already seeking prettier women, more accomplished women, women who did not walk with a pronounced limp.

Mr. George never seemed to look past her; he looked at her, and somehow that was considerably more dangerous. Cordelia ignored the ridiculous flutter beneath her ribs and finally climbed through the window. She managed the narrow sill with practiced ease, but when she straightened and took two steps into the room, the slight drag in her gait betrayed what her borrowed trousers could not conceal.

His gaze dropped briefly to the leg she favored.

Cordelia went still, bracing for the familiar discomfort and subtle reassessment that turned a gentleman’s interest into polite indifference. But Mr. George’s expression remained unchanged. His eyes returned to hers without pity or discomfort, only that same maddening interest, perhaps keener than before. He had noticed her limp, yet nothing had changed. Something inside her eased, though she quickly returned her thoughts to the reason she had entered his home. “Sir Charles is not in the habit of imposing himself,” she said.

Mr. George glanced down at the Persian occupying his lap. “Oh?”

That single syllable contained such blatant disbelief that Cordelia jutted her chin.

“I assure you of it. I cannot fathom why he insists upon sneaking into your home so often. I cannot keep coming here to retrieve him. I will be discovered, and that…that is not something I want. Perhaps the next time he invades, you might send him home with a servant. That would spare me the necessity of climbing through your windows like a hoyden.”

Mr. George’s mouth curved faintly. “Lord Wellington seems quite convinced we are old friends. And I immensely enjoy his company, as he does mine.”

“His name is Sir Charles,” Cordelia corrected, fixing him with a pointed look. “Not Lord Wellington.”

“So you have mentioned.” His fingers continued their lazy strokes over Sir Charles’s head, entirely unrepentant.

“And yet you persist.”

He lifted his gaze to hers. “I have found persistence to be one of my more rewarding qualities.”

There it was again, that suggestive undertone beneath perfectly innocent words, delivered with such effortless charm that Cordelia could not be entirely certain whether he meant to provoke her or flirt with her. She narrowed her eyes. His smile slowly deepened, as though her suspicion delighted him.

Drat.

He raked his fingers over the crown of the cat’s head. Sir Charles stretched with majestic elegance, then tipped his chin upward so those long fingers could scratch beneath it. Cordelia’s attention inexplicably followed the movement.

His hands were beautiful. A man’s hands ought not to be beautiful. They were merely hands. Yet his were long-fingered and elegant, with strength evident in their shape and a peculiar gentleness in the way he handled Sir Charles.

“We get along rather well, don’t we, my boy? So much so that you cannot help coming to visit me.”