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Settling against the upholstered squabs, he closed his eyes as they departed.
Almost immediately, dark chocolate-brown eyes filled his thoughts, accompanied by an indignant voice declaring his concern for her reputation woefully deficient.
His heart gave an odd little jerk.
It is a damned annoyance to have that woman intruding upon my thoughts as though I have no control over them!
If she entered his home again, he would be waiting with his rapier.
George scowled at his own humor. He valued the agreeable simplicity of his life, particularly his pleasures, which he preferred to enjoy without complications or expectations. Yet tonight, neither Victoria nor Aphrodite had held their customary appeal, and he suspected Miss Maubry was responsible.
How the devil had a woman he had known for scarcely an hour managed to distract him so thoroughly? He could still picture her outrageous trespass, the sword cane clutched in her hand, and those remarkable eyes regarding him with equal measures of suspicion and reluctant amusement.
George did not like it.
With considerable satisfaction, he resolved to have every damned window in his house firmly latched whenever Lord Wellington visited, and opened only when the cat decided it was time to leave.
CHAPTER 5
Sir Charles had been missing all day, and Cordelia was growing increasingly exasperated. Dressed once again in Philip’s shirt and trousers, she slipped through the darkened garden, a rapier clutched in one hand. What had begun as a desperate attempt to retrieve her cat had somehow become a reckless habit, though she preferred to consider it a necessary response to Sir Charles’s increasingly capricious behavior.
At least she had established rules before resorting to breaking into someone else’s home.
Very sensible rules.
First, she would search her house and garden, discreetly calling for Sir Charles. If he failed to appear, she would wait until dusk, giving him every opportunity to return. Only after nightfall, when darkness offered sufficient concealment, would she climb the wall to the neighboring property, where she now knew precisely where the wretched creature was likely to be.
Tonight marked her third clandestine excursion from her parents’ house. During her second visit, four days ago, she had scarcely landed on the other side of the wall when she encountered Mr. George returning from an evening stroll with her cat, thankfully before she attempted another unlawful entry.
A stroll.
Sir Charles had trotted beside him as contentedly as though they had been companions for years. Indignant at the man’s audacity, Cordelia had warned that if he continued encouraging her cat’s desertions, she would complain to his family.
Mr. George had found the threat vastly amusing. During their exchange, he had casually revealed that he had recently taken the townhouse because, as a bachelor with varied pursuits, living beneath his parents’ roof no longer suited him.
Cordelia remained uncertain what constituted varied pursuits, though the lazy gleam in his silver-gray eyes suggested she was wiser not to inquire. Nevertheless, she had been tempted to investigate him. Philip might know something useful, and the servants undoubtedly knew more about their mysterious neighbor.
She had resisted.
Barely.
Asking Mama was entirely out of the question. Such an inquiry would invite explanations Cordelia had no wish to provide, and if her mother discovered where Sir Charles had been wandering, she would undoubtedly send him back to Berkshire to prevent further embarrassment.
Cordelia had occasionally wondered whether Mr. George might be a gentleman of consequence, though she considered it unlikely. He possessed none of the studied consciousness of rank she had encountered among titled gentlemen. Besides, Mama would surely have discovered any distinguished newcomer by now. The ladies of the ton had an extraordinary talent for learning who occupied a neighboring townhouse, his income, his family connections, and whether he possessed any eligible sons.
Had Mr. George belonged to a prominent family, Mama would already have devised a dozen perfectly respectable opportunities for the households to become acquainted, complete with conveniently timed calls and carefully orchestrated invitations, all while insisting she entertained no matrimonial designs whatsoever.
“I am only doing this for my beloved Sir Charles,” she muttered as she crept forward. “There is truly no other reason.”
She winced, for she had never been particularly adept at deceiving herself. Her secret visits to the neighboring garden had become exhilarating escapes from the monotony of her days. The entire situation was ludicrous, outrageous even, and increasingly difficult to resist. Though she would never have admitted it aloud, she had even begun to anticipate the inevitable moment when Sir Charles disappeared again.
Cordelia reached the music-room window and attempted to raise the sash.
It did not budge.
She tried again, applying more force, but to no avail.
A peculiar sensation of mortification stung her chest. Of course it was locked. Why had she assumed he would leave his window open merely because she had entered that way before? Mr. George never invited her to return. In fact, any sensible gentleman who had discovered a strange woman climbing through his window after dark would presumably ensure that every window in his house was firmly secured against another invasion.
