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CHAPTER 9
Cordelia followed the faint strains of pianoforte music along the corridor, her heart beating with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. She had scarcely gone a dozen paces when a housemaid appeared from a doorway, carrying a small stack of folded linens.
For one dreadful moment, Cordelia thought the girl might demand to know what she was doing there. Instead, the maid's eyes widened in surprise before she hastily bobbed a curtsy and continued on her way.
Cordelia stared after her, then pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a delighted giggle. Good heavens, was it truly so easy to wander through a gentleman's house uninvited? She ought to have been mortified by her own audacity, yet she felt wonderfully daring, almost giddy with the unfamiliar pleasure of doing precisely as she pleased.
How extraordinary it was to feel so utterly free.
Still smiling to herself, she followed the music to a smaller sitting room, where she discovered George seated at a pianoforte near tall windows thrown open to the evening air. His back was partly toward her, his dark head bent slightly as his fingers moved with effortless grace over the keys.
And Sir Charles sat upon the instrument, looking entirely at home, as though he had been personally invited to attend a private performance.
Naturally.
The cat’s tail swayed lazily in time with the music, and Cordelia could not help wondering whether the shameless creature had developed an appreciation for the arts or merely enjoyed being the center of attention. She leaned against the doorway and watched them for several moments without announcing herself.
George played beautifully. There was none of his usual teasing in his expression, none of that wicked amusement perpetually lurking in his eyes. His face was composed, almost contemplative, and something about seeing him so absorbed in his music, entirely unaware of her presence, made Cordelia strangely reluctant to interrupt.
She had known he played, of course, but there was a difference between knowing a gentleman possessed a talent and witnessing the quiet pleasure he took in exercising it. His fingers moved with a confidence that suggested years of practice, coaxing a melody from the instrument that was by turns lively and tender.
Then Sir Charles noticed her, and his ears pricked with sudden interest.
George’s hands stilled upon the keys.
“You took your time.”
Cordelia's heart gave an unexpected leap, and she straightened as George turned upon the bench. His silver-gray eyes found her immediately, and for a moment, neither spoke. He regarded her with an attentiveness that made her suddenly conscious of the basket upon her arm and the warmth creeping into her cheeks. Something in his expression softened, merely the faintest easing around his eyes before his mouth curved into a slow smile, yet Cordelia felt the effect of that small transformation with astonishing force.
“You knew I was here?”
“I suspected you would come eventually.”
Her fingers tightened around the basket handle. “How?”
George glanced pointedly toward Sir Charles, and she followed his look to discover that the cat had already begun purring.
“Lord Wellington has spent the last hour behaving like a gentleman awaiting a particularly tardy guest.”
She stepped farther into the room. “He escaped the instant the weather improved.”
“He arrived shortly after the sun appeared, muddied his paws in my garden, demanded food, and then stationed himself at the window.”
Cordelia looked accusingly at her cat. “You are shameless.”
Sir Charles blinked at her with an expression of supreme indifference.
George returned his attention to her. “You stayed away for a week.”
The quiet observation caught her off guard, and something warm and nervous unfurled beneath her ribs. “It rained.”
“It did.”
She shifted the basket upon her arm. “Sir Charles dislikes rain.”
“Ah.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What does ah mean?”
