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His brows rose. “A tree?”

She wrinkled her nose. “A rather enormous one, as it happens. My brother and I were flying a kite, and it got caught among the branches. Naturally, I decided I was the only person sufficiently capable of retrieving it.”

“Naturally,” he murmured, amusement touching his mouth.

“I climbed rather higher than I ought, and when I reached for the kite, I lost my footing.” She gave a small shrug. “The fall was quite dreadful, and I injured my leg rather badly. It healed, eventually, but not as it should have, and I have walked with a limp ever since.”

George regarded her thoughtfully. “Does it pain you?”

“No, not anymore. It did for a considerable time afterward, but the pain eventually disappeared. I simply cannot walk quite as other people do.”

“I see.”

She waited for the inevitable expression of pity, the murmured commiseration, or some well-intentioned remark about how bravely she bore her misfortune.

Instead, he asked, “Did you retrieve the kite?”

Cordelia stared at him, a rush of good humor and appreciation warming her chest before a laugh escaped her. “You are so very different from what I expected.”

His mouth quirked, his beautiful eyes gleaming with amusement. “I should think that a most pertinent question, considering the lengths to which you went to recover it.”

Still smiling, she replied, “I did not retrieve the kite. I fell before I could reach the wretched thing.”

“A most unsatisfactory conclusion to your adventure.”

“Indeed, and I was thoroughly scolded for my trouble. My parents declared that no properly brought-up young lady would ever have climbed a tree in the first place.”

“You were a rather spirited child.”

“I was,” she admitted, recalling those carefree days with a touch of nostalgia. “Though I fear the accident put an end to most of my climbing adventures.”

“An unfortunate consequence.”

She looked at him, bemused by the absence of pity or reproach in his voice. Most people, upon hearing how she had come by her limp, seemed instinctively inclined to blame her for the accident, asking what on earth she had been thinking or how she could have been so foolish as to climb so high. George, however, appeared to regard the entire affair rather differently.

“You do not think me terribly foolish?”

“For climbing a tree?”

“For being so reckless that I injured myself.”

One dark eyebrow winged upward. “It was hardly deliberate. I have known gentlemen to break their necks attempting considerably less interesting feats. I should hardly condemn a twelve-year-old girl for possessing a spirit of adventure.”

“But surely you must think it a dreadful misfortune.”

“I think it unfortunate that you were hurt,” he said, his expression turning thoughtful. “But accidents happen, even to the most cautious among us. I should hate to think that one unfortunate moment in your childhood has made you regret all the adventures that came before it, or discouraged you from seeking new ones.”

Cordelia regarded him in silence, something warm and tender unfurling within her chest. He spoke as though her accident were simply something that had happened to her, rather than the defining misfortune of her existence. And for reasons she could not quite explain, Cordelia found that extraordinarily comforting.

They began another game of chess, and after nearly an hour of intense deliberation and carefully calculated maneuvers, George emerged victorious. He looked rather pleased with himself, which only stirred her competitive spirit and prompted her to demand another round.

Cordelia could not remember the last time she had laughed so much, nor when an evening had passed with such astonishing swiftness. That was the strangest thing about being with George. Nothing between them felt forced, and one conversation flowed so naturally into another that she quite forgot to choose her words with care or guard against the possibility of revealing too much of herself.

Here, laughing and talking with him felt like entering a secret, wondrous world, hidden from society’s watchful eyes. She was not required to measure every word or movement against the rigid standards of ladylike conduct, nor did she feel compelled to conceal the more unconventional aspects of her character. With George, she could indulge her curiosity, challenge his opinions, tease him mercilessly, and speak with a freedom she seldom permitted herself elsewhere.

And he seemed to welcome every bit of it.

Indeed, he regarded her with such open fascination that she sometimes fancied he considered her the most intriguing puzzle he had ever encountered, one he intended to examine from every possible angle until he had discovered all her hidden pieces. The realization ought to have frightened her, and perhaps some part of her was frightened, though she could not bring herself to regret a single moment of their evening.