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Her father smiled warmly at her. “Is that cake?”
“It is.”
“Then I see precisely why our daughter refuses to attend. She intends to spend the evening reading and eating as much cake as she pleases.” He inhaled appreciatively. “And I cannot say I blame her. It smells divine.”
Cordelia laughed. “You may have some tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” he repeated, looking thoroughly aggrieved.
“You are going to a ball, Papa. It would hardly do to arrive with your appetite already satisfied, especially when your hosts have gone to such trouble to provide refreshments.”
Her father shook his head in mock disgust. “Cruel child.”
Her mother slipped her hand through his arm. “Come along. We shall apparently be denied both our daughter and her cake.”
Emelia appeared a moment later, already dressed for the evening, and joined in their attempts to persuade her. Cordelia remained resolute, and eventually, all three departed, shaking their heads at her peculiar preference for a quiet evening at home over another crowded ballroom.
Cordelia waited until she heard the front door close, followed by the murmur of voices outside and the familiar rumble of carriage wheels as her family departed. When silence finally descended over the house, her heart began to pound with an excitement she could scarcely account for.
She looked at the cake.
“This is absurd.”
The cake, being considerably more sensible than its maker, offered no opinion.
Cordelia went upstairs, and by the time she returned, she had exchanged her gown for Philip’s borrowed trousers and shirt, secured her hair, and retrieved her cane. In the kitchen, she packed the cake carefully into a picnic basket, added two forks, then hesitated before placing two small plates inside.
She stared at them.
Two plates, when she had not even ascertained whether George would be at home, much less inclined to share an evening repast with her. Cordelia nearly removed one before reminding herself that doing so would be ridiculous when she plainly intended to share the cake.
“Entirely sensible,” she muttered, as though saying the words aloud might make them true.
With the basket in one hand and her cane in the other, she slipped outside. The evening was beautiful after so many days of rain. The air smelled freshly washed, the earth remained damp beneath the surface, and the last of the sunlight stretched golden across the adjoining gardens.
Her belly knotted as another inexplicable thrill rushed through her.
Cordelia had grown rather fond of these secret visits to the neighboring house. A sensible lady might have found that realization troubling. Cordelia merely adjusted the basket upon her arm and continued toward his house. The familiar boundary between the houses no longer seemed quite so formidable. She crossed it, made her way through George’s garden, and approached the music room window, which stood invitingly open.
My window will always be open to him.
Cordelia's heart thumped as she recalled his words, though she reminded herself firmly that George had been referring to Sir Charles and certainly not to her.
She set the basket carefully upon the sill, maneuvered herself through the window with considerably more dignity than she had managed upon her earliest visits, then retrieved the basket and straightened.
“Sir Charles?”
When no answering meow came, Cordelia glanced around the empty music room with a puzzled frown. She had been so certain she would find the wretched creature here, comfortably ensconced upon George’s lap or occupying some equally inappropriate place of honor.
Then pianoforte music drifted faintly from somewhere deeper within the house, and her heart trembled with sudden recognition. Cordelia glanced at the grand pianoforte in the music room, puzzled that he should possess another such instrument. She moved toward the door, only to hesitate upon reaching it.
She had never ventured beyond the music room. Climbing through a gentleman’s window was scandalous enough, but to venture uninvited into the more private rooms of his residence was surely a liberty no respectable young lady ought even to contemplate.
What if a servant discovered her? Or worse, a member of his family? How would she explain her presence? Then she recalled George mentioning that he lived alone, free to pursue his varied interests without interference. Well, surely having a young lady steal into his home in such a reckless and unconventional fashion might be counted among those pursuits!
The thought almost made her laugh, though it did little to quiet the nervous fluttering in her stomach. If he lived alone, then surely the greatest danger was encountering a servant, and she supposed she could manage that. Should anyone challenge her presence, she would simply lift her chin, assume the most imperious expression she could muster, and demand to be taken to the master of the residence.
After all, the gentleman had once held her beloved cat hostage. Surely that afforded her some privileges. Whether any servant would accept such an explanation was another matter entirely, but Cordelia refused to dwell upon it. With her heart pounding at the sheer audacity of what she was about to do, she slipped out of the music room and ventured farther into the house, following the distant melody in search of George.
