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The dratted man knew precisely what he was doing.
“You are remarkably conceited, Mr. George.”
“I prefer observant.”
“You cannot possibly believe Sir Charles is conspiring to deliver me into your clutches.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “Clutches? What a wonderfully wicked imagination you possess, Miss Cori.”
“I possess nothing of the sort.”
“No?” His gaze dipped to the rapier, then traveled with infuriating leisure over her borrowed shirt and trousers. “You have climbed through my window after dark, dressed as a man and armed with a blade, yet somehow I am the dangerous one in this room.”
Cordelia’s pulse gave an inexplicable leap. “You most certainly are.”
His smile deepened.
At once, she wished she had chosen different words.
“Have I mentioned that I have a particular fondness for clever women?”
“I assure you, I have devoted no thought whatsoever to what you like, my good sir,” she said tartly, trying to ignore the wild little feeling stirring inside her.
Cordelia had never had a conversation quite like this with a gentleman. There was nothing false about it, none of the sense that they were following some tedious, well-rehearsed script. No polite inquiries about how one had passed the morning, which events one might attend, or how pleasant the weather had been.
This was…something different.
She could not predict what Mr. George might say next, nor, more alarmingly, what she might say in return. There was freedom in that uncertainty, an exhilarating sense that she could speak as she pleased without him recoiling from her sharpness or attempting to soften it into something more docile. If anything, the mischievous gleam in his silver-gray eyes suggested he delighted in provoking her.
She enjoyed it too, perhaps rather more than she ought.
Yet beneath that enjoyment lay a warning. However innocent their conversation, she was once again alone after dark in a gentleman’s home, without a chaperone or anyone in her family knowing where she was. If a servant glimpsed her face or a neighbor spotted her crossing the garden, word might reach Mama. Remaining here could destroy what little reputation she possessed.
Beyond the glass, a sudden gust stirred the branches, and thunder rolled across the night. Cordelia startled as rain struck the panes, first in scattered drops, then in a steady rush.
Mr. George glanced toward the window. “Do you intend to take him out in that?”
“No.”
“Excellent.”
“There was altogether too much satisfaction in that answer, Mr. George.”
“Was there?”
“Yes.”
He smiled again. “Indulge me.”
Cordelia became conscious of how little distance remained between them. At some point, she had moved farther into the room, leaving only a few feet separating them. The air carried faint scents of burning wood, beeswax, and something she associated entirely with him: clean linen, sandalwood, and a lingering trace of brandy. She had never paid such attention to a gentleman’s scent before, and the realization disturbed her.
Her eyes narrowed. “In what regard?”
The dratted man laughed. The sound was low and rich, and something unfamiliar tightened deep in Cordelia’s belly.
“I mean only that you should play a game of chess with me. My good friend Sebastian, who is usually a worthy opponent, has become quite occupied with his new bride and has not called in some time.” His gaze lingered upon her. “Play with me.”
There was something about the words that made them sound considerably less innocent than an invitation to chess had any right to be. Cordelia tightened her fingers around the hilt of her rapier. “That is all you require? A partner for chess?”
