Page 24

She returned to the carpet before she could reconsider. He poured only a modest measure and passed it to her without comment, which somehow made the choice feel even more entirely her own. The first sip of brandy burned a path down her throat and made her cough, much to George’s obvious amusement. She glared at him over the rim of the glass, which only deepened the wicked curve of his mouth.

The second sip was considerably better.

By the third, the unfamiliar warmth of the brandy had made her feel pleasantly at ease.

She remained seated upon the carpet opposite him, the chessboard between them forgotten; Sir Charles stretched nearby in shameless contentment. The rain continued its steady patter against the windows, while the fire crackled softly behind George, bathing the room in a warm, intimate glow.

Cordelia felt increasingly incautious and far too honest. He had made no move to refill her glass, though she suspected he had noticed the precise moment the brandy began loosening her tongue.

Her gaze wandered to Mr. George. He had settled more comfortably against the chair behind him, one long leg bent at the knee, his glass held loosely in one hand. Firelight caught in his silver-gray eyes and traced the hard, handsome planes of his face. His midnight-black hair remained slightly disordered, and that open collar continued to reveal a distracting glimpse of his throat.

Cordelia squinted at him. “It is rather unfair.”

He paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. “What is?”

“That you are so handsome.”

His glass stopped. For one terrible second, silence descended. Cordelia's eyes widened as her own words reached her ears. Oh. She had said that aloud. George lowered his glass slowly. Something flashed in his eyes before amusement softened it, and his mouth curved.

“Since we are exchanging observations,” he replied mildly, “you are remarkably pretty yourself.”

She went very still. There could be no pretending he had failed to notice the limp, yet he said pretty without the faintest trace of concession or kindness, as though one fact had nothing whatever to do with the other.

“Pretty?” Cordelia laughed, and an appalling little hiccup escaped her. She pressed her fingers to her lips, then dissolved into another laugh. “I daresay no one has ever called me remarkably pretty before. Mr. George, are you certain you do not require spectacles?”

His gaze moved over her face with such leisurely attention that her laughter faltered.

“I am a connoisseur of women,” he said smoothly. “You may trust my judgment.”

“A connoisseur of women?”

She blinked at him, then pealed with laughter again. “I cannot decide whether to be amused, aghast, or alarmed. Good heavens. Do not tell me you are truly a rogue. I was only guessing when I called you a scoundrel earlier. Rogues must be avoided at all costs!”

Even as she laughed, some sensible corner of her mind whispered that the entire situation was scandalous beyond reason. She was alone in a gentleman’s home, seated upon his carpet, playing chess and drinking brandy as though such intimacy were not utterly forbidden. No chaperone watched from across the room. No mama sat nearby listening to every exchange. No carefully prescribed rules governed what she might say or how long she might look at him.

Only Mr. George.

She ought to leave.

The thought had come to her several times already. She ought to collect Sir Charles, climb back through the window, return to her bedchamber, and never come here again. Not even if Sir Charles returned. Yet each time the sensible thought arose, an aching hollowness settled inside her chest. The notion of retreat, of returning to polite distance and quiet exclusion, felt unexpectedly unbearable.

It disturbed her to recognize why.

This gentleman was infinitely more compelling than the strangers of the ton, who measured her appearance, her family, her modest dowry, and undoubtedly her limp with cool precision, only to dismiss the whole of her as insufficient.

Mr. George had not measured her that way. If anything, he seemed endlessly curious about her. Cordelia studied him over the rim of her glass.

“I should be running away from your home and from you,” she whispered. “You are a rogue, and I always told myself I would flee as though the devil himself were in pursuit if ever I encountered one, as they are unprincipled seducers who make false vows and promises!”

Mr. George’s expression changed, the teasing light in his eyes sharpening into something more intent.

“A rogue,” he murmured. “Who am I to flatter myself so boldly?”

She laughed again, another hiccup escaping her. Warmth suffused her from the brandy, leaving her languid and utterly absorbed in him, dangerously so.

“Being a rogue is no compliment, sir,” she informed him. “Pray do not believe it to be so! A rogue is little better than a blackguard, a knave, and a thief.”

“Never say it is so.” His brows lifted. “A blackguard?”