Page 4

“Oh, Cori,” Emelia exclaimed, crossing the room in a flurry of movement. “Please say you feel well enough to attend the ball with us. I shall be so dreadfully bored without you.”

Cordelia smiled, genuine affection softening her features.

“You will not be bored,” she replied gently. “We hardly ever remain together at such events. Some gentleman always contrives to carry you off within a quarter hour. I promise you shan’t miss my company.”

Emelia laughed, unconvinced but indulgent. Her expression softened before she bent to kiss Cordelia’s cheek. “Rest, then. But I reserve the right to be very cross with you if you are not miraculously recovered by tomorrow.”

Emelia lingered a moment longer before departing with a final imploring look. Nearly an hour passed before the house grew quiet enough for Cordelia to slip into her brother’s bedchamber. Philip, at four-and-twenty, was slender, and she had borrowed his clothes often enough in the countryside to know which garments would fit.

She donned his trousers, shirt, waistcoat, and dark coat, wincing when the trousers clung rather too closely to her hips and thighs. She buttoned the coat to conceal what she could and trusted the darkness to disguise the rest. In her father’s study, she selected a plain ebony sword cane from his collection, its narrow blade concealed within. The familiar weight of its handle lent her a measure of confidence.

Then came the most difficult part: waiting. Once darkness had fallen, Cordelia ventured into the garden and watched the neighboring townhouse through the shrubbery. Its windows remained unlit, suggesting the occupants had departed for an evening of indulgence and frivolity.

At least something is in my favor.

She would not return to the front door, where the dratted butler would undoubtedly turn her away again. Instead, Cordelia approached the high brick wall separating the gardens, stepped onto a stone bench, and rose onto her toes to peer over it. Finding the neighboring garden deserted, she glanced around to ensure no one was watching before tossing her sword cane over the wall. It landed upon the graveled path with a muted thud.

She grasped the branches trained against the brickwork and began climbing, grateful that Philip’s trousers afforded far greater freedom than any gown. Finding each foothold with practiced ease, she pulled herself onto the broad coping, then caught hold of a sturdy rose-covered trellis on the opposite side and carefully descended to the path below.

A triumphant smile touched her lips. She had always loved climbing, and the childhood warnings that her limp made such pursuits unsuitable had only strengthened her determination to prove otherwise. Trees, garden follies, and walls had all presented challenges she had delighted in conquering.

Retrieving her cane, Cordelia lifted her chin. She would enter the townhouse exactly as Sir Charles had. Moving swiftly beneath the cover of darkness, she reached the window and tested the sash. It did not budge. A sharp pang pierced her chest, but she gripped the frame more firmly and tried again, putting considerably more strength behind the effort. To her relief, the sash gave way and slid upward.

She leaned in, peering into the darkened room. Cordelia could discern no movement within, though her cat might already be asleep.

“Sir Charles,” she whispered, then made the soft, familiar sound she always used to call him, one he invariably answered with a meow before rushing to her side. She made the sound again and listened keenly.

No familiar meow answered her. Cordelia’s heart thudded as she climbed through the window, landing with a louder thump than she intended. She straightened quickly and held her breath for several beats, listening. No footsteps hurried along the hallway, and she allowed herself to relax.

She moved forward, determined to search every inch of the townhouse for her companion. First, she needed to light a lamp so she could see whether Sir Charles had simply curled himself into some corner of the music room and fallen asleep.

“Well. This is unexpected,” a low, masculine voice said.

Sheer fright gripped Cordelia, rooting her to the spot as a tight, choking sound escaped her throat. The room was dark, the air heavy with shadow, and it had never occurred to her that anyone might still be within it. In all her planning to sneak into the house, Cordelia had never once considered what she might do if she were caught. She had simply assumed that if she remained quiet, waited until no one was in sight, and called softly for Sir Charles, she would escape detection. It had never occurred to her that someone might be sitting alone in the darkness.

Who did such a thing?

“I have always found the unexpected enticing.”

The words were uttered with such perilous provocation that Cordelia’s heart thumped even faster. Her lips parted. She desperately wanted to offer something in her defense, to explain that the room had been so still and that, had she known someone was here, she would never have dared break in. Yet no words would push past the tightness in her throat.

“Do you intend to explain yourself...or shall I take your silence as permission to indulge in precisely the sort of bold wickedness your presence here so temptingly invites?”

Her heart pounded in her ears. The languid mockery in the voice belonged to no startled servant. Whoever he was, he sounded entirely too amused by finding an intruder in his house.

“Have I frightened you so thoroughly that you have forgotten how to use your tongue?” he drawled.

She heard the scrape of movement, then the soft sound of a lamp being lit. Light crept across the room, banishing the shadows inch by inch until she could see him clearly. The gentleman lounged in a chair as though it were an extension of his own body, one arm draped with careless elegance over the side and one broad hand resting upon her cat’s back.

Relief and outrage collided within her chest.

Recognition came on the heels of alarm. It was the man Sir Charles had perched upon with such scandalous familiarity. The lamplight revealed a face that was, infuriatingly, very well made. Midnight-black hair fell untidily across his brow, the darkness of it throwing into sharp relief the clean lines of an arrogant nose and elegantly sculpted cheekbones. His mouth was sensual, unapologetically so, shaped for indulgence rather than restraint.

His eyes caught the lamplight, dark and intent, holding a glint of something far more dangerous than amusement. He appeared neither startled nor displeased by her presence. Rather, he seemed composed, watchful, and entirely at ease, with Sir Charles contentedly asleep in his lap.

His gaze traveled over her body, assessing and unhurried, lingering upon the curve of her hips and the way the trousers clung far too closely to her figure.

“How delectable,” he murmured, one corner of his mouth curving into a slow, indolent smile.