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George inclined his head, wondering where this conversation was leading.

“Which is precisely why I find myself rather curious about the young lady whose name has appeared alongside yours in the society pages.”

Ah. Clearly, his earlier responses had done little to satisfy his mother's curiosity. “Miss Maubry,” he said.

“You dancing with her is worthy of considerable speculation.”

“People will speculate about anything, Mother.”

“Indeed they will. But you must admit that you have never before given them reason to associate your name with that of an unmarried young lady.”

George said nothing.

His mother studied him for a moment. “Your father has formed certain conclusions, I fear.”

“I am well aware of what Father thinks.” George rested his hands upon his knees, considering his words. “He believes Miss Maubry is my mistress, or that she is soon to become my lover.”

“And is she?”

“No.” His answer came without hesitation. “She is neither.”

“Then may I ask why you singled her out for a waltz?”

He could have offered any number of explanations. That she was an acquaintance, that he had wished to be courteous, or that he had simply wanted to confound the expectations of everyone in attendance. Yet none of those answers would have been entirely truthful. “Because I wanted to dance with her,” he said at last.

His mother waited, plainly expecting more.

George glanced toward the keys, remembering Cordelia’s astonished expression when he had approached her, the warmth of her hand in his, and the pleasure he had taken in seeing her enjoy herself upon the dance floor. He had not considered what anyone might think when he asked her to waltz, nor had he particularly cared.

“I enjoy her company,” he admitted. “She is intelligent, amusing, and quite unlike the women with whom I am generally acquainted. I find our conversations remarkably agreeable, and I suppose the simplest explanation is that I like her.”

His mother regarded him with an expression he could not quite decipher. Then a slow, delighted smile curved her lips. “Do you like her enough to court her?”

George opened his mouth to offer some suitably evasive reply, but found himself thinking instead of Cori’s laughter, her lively curiosity, and how eagerly he anticipated their next meeting. More troubling still was the realization that he no longer wished to wait for her to seek him out. He wanted the freedom to pursue her himself.

His mother was still watching him, her smile softening as the silence lengthened. “Well, George?”

To his considerable bemusement, he heard himself answer, “Yes.”

Yes, I want her…more than I had ever wanted any woman, he thought silently, and by God, he would not let her pass him by, for he knew deep in his bones that should he do so, he would endure a lifetime of regret.

CHAPTER 13

The late afternoon light filtered softly through the tall windows as Cordelia descended the stairs, Sir Charles nestled contentedly in her arms. His warm weight steadied her, as it always did, his familiar presence offering a small measure of comfort after a night that had left her thoughts tangled and restless. She wanted to find Emelia and ask if she might accompany her on a walk. The notion faltered almost as soon as it formed. Her cousin had been in a petulant humor throughout the journey home from the ball the previous evening, her silence heavy with injured pride. All because Viscount Templeton had not asked her to dance.

Cordelia had attempted to reason with her, gently pointing out that such behavior was both immature and nonsensical, but it had only worsened matters. Emelia had turned her face toward the carriage window and refused to utter another word for the remainder of the journey.

Cordelia sighed softly as she reached the foot of the stairs. Her mother stood in the entrance hall, directing three footmen with meticulous care. Each carried a large vase brimming with lilies, their pale petals lush and fragrant, their sweet perfume filling the air. A fourth vase followed close behind, overflowing with pale pink roses, while another was crowded with violets, their modest blooms no less striking for their quiet elegance.

Cordelia paused, struck by their beauty. “How lovely,” she said absently. “Who sent those to Emelia? I hope they might improve her spirits.”

“They are for you, my dear,” her mother exclaimed, delight ringing in her voice.

Shock rooted Cordelia to the spot. “For me?”

“Yes,” her mother said with a radiant smile.

“No one... no one has ever sent me flowers before.”