Page 17 of A Duchess Worth Stealing (Saved by Scandal #2)
Chapter Fifteen
T he morning light was soft as it filtered through the tall windows of Mason’s study, turning the wood-paneled walls to honey and dust. A decanter sat untouched on the sideboard. Papers were arranged in perfect, deliberate order upon his desk, but Mason could barely force himself to look at them.
Yesterday had been a beautiful day. It was too beautiful, even, and he should have known better than to allow it.
But damn him if he didn’t keep playing the fool where Cordelia Brookes was concerned.
He saw it all too clearly now: yesterday afternoon, the garden soaked in sunlight, the laughter of women threading through the hedges like music, his sister seated in the heart of it all with color in her cheeks, and Cordelia…
He had meant only to observe, to be sure Isabelle felt comfortable, and to ensure no trace of risk lingered near the edges of her joy.
Instead, he found himself lingering longer than he should have.
Instead, he had smiled more than once. Instead, he had allowed himself the indulgence of watching Cordelia’s eyes light up like a sky before a summer storm, listening to her weave nonsense into poetry with that quicksilver tongue of hers and feeling actually at home.
Today, the study felt too small.
He moved toward the window, bracing one hand against the sill the other still clenched at his side. Outside, the garden lay empty, the remnants of yesterday’s gathering already swept away.
It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just a moment, just a lovely illusion, but Cordelia had changed something. It wasn’t just that she fit. It was that she belonged… with Isabelle, with this home, with him.
The thought cut deeper than he liked.
He couldn’t allow this. He couldn’t be this.
He had built a careful world, and it was careful for a reason.
He had already given up too much to protect what mattered, to protect Isabelle, to ensure his family’s safety after the chaos his father had left in his wake.
Everything that remained of his life—its structure, its cold, predictable walls—was meant to contain his grief, his anger, even his longing… not feed it.
Cordelia Brookes was fire and freedom and far too bright for a man who had spent years keeping his desires under lock and key.
She stirred things in him that had long gone dormant, things he couldn’t afford to let loose again.
Because if he opened that door, if he allowed himself even one step toward her, he wasn’t sure he’d ever find the strength to shut it again.
And he couldn’t ask her to stay, no matter how much he wanted her to, no matter how many times he caught himself imagining what it would be like to find her in his library each morning, curled in a window seat or smiling at his mother over tea or?—
Enough.
He turned sharply from the window, swallowing hard. His life had been shaped by secrets, and Cordelia deserved sunlight.
That was when the sharp crack of a raised voice shattered the quiet of his study, and Mason froze, mid-step. Immediately after, another shout followed. The voice belonged to a man, rough with rage and sharpened with entitlement. The sound echoed down the main corridor like a blade scraping stone.
Mason was already moving, listening to the sound of his boots striking against the polished floors. He couldn’t make out the full exchange yet, only snatches. On one side, there was the furious pitch of the intruder’s voice, and on the other, the muffled edge of hers.
His pulse surged. As he rounded the corner into the grand entryway, the scene came into focus. Cordelia stood a few paces back from the front door, pale and doing her best to remain composed.
Lord Vernon, that oily bastard.
“You will come with me,” Vernon growled, not bothering to lower his voice. “Do not forget who your guardian is, Cordelia. I decide what’s best for you. And I will not have you wasting your name in this house?—”
“I am not wasting anything,” Cordelia said, her tone fraying at the edges. “I’ve done nothing wrong; please lower your voice?—”
“You will do as you’re told!”
“Enough.”
Mason’s voice cut through the air like thunder.
Lord Vernon turned, and for the briefest moment, something uncertain flickered across his face. He had the sense, it seemed, to realize he had just crossed a line. But it vanished almost as quickly, replaced by a brittle sneer.
“Your Grace,” he said with thin civility. “A private matter. You’ll excuse?—”
“I will not excuse anything,” Mason snapped, advancing without pause. “You barge into my home unannounced, shouting at my guest like a common tradesman? You’re lucky I don’t throw you through that door myself.”
“She is under my care,” Vernon spat. “And she is meant to return with me?—”
“She is under my roof,” Mason growled, his voice low now and almost lethal. “And she is not going anywhere.”
Vernon barked out a short laugh, but there was a nervous twitch in his jaw. “You think you can keep her here? I can have the courts involved; her estate is mine to manage until?—”
“I don’t give a damn who you try to involve,” Mason cut in, stepping so close now their shoulders nearly brushed. “If you try to take her from this house again, I will make it very clear to the entire ton just what you tried to do to gain access to her inheritance.”
That hit, and the color drained from Vernon’s face with startling speed.
Mason’s tone softened—barely. “I wonder, Vernon, how many of your political allies would be willing to defend a man who schemed to trap his ward into financial dependence before her birthday? Or shall I remind the Lords of your… correspondence with those solicitors in York?”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Vernon hissed, but his voice was hollow.
“I would,” Mason said coldly. “And you know I would.”
Evidently summoned by the commotion, two uniformed guards appeared in the entryway at that moment, silent and efficient. Mason barely needed to gesture.
“Escort Lord Vernon out.”
He watched the two men approach him. “No need to be rough,” he added dryly as Vernon flinched away from one of the guards. “He’s learned his lesson, I’m sure.”
Vernon didn’t resist. He couldn’t. He turned but said nothing more as the guards led him, stiff-legged and defeated, back out through the manor doors. The moment the doors shut, silence fell again like snow. Cordelia hadn’t moved.
Mason turned to her, taking a breath to calm the adrenaline still roaring through him. “Are you all right?” he asked softly.
She nodded once, but her eyes shimmered. And he wanted, more than anything, to close the space between them, to pull her into his arms and tell her she never had to fear that man ever again. But even as he opened his mouth, a rustle of skirts down the hall made them both turn.
“Good heavens, what on earth was that shouting?”
His mother appeared in the corridor, looking concerned. She was already halfway across the floor before either of them could answer, stopping right between them.
Mason could see the shift instantly. This was the mother , not the duchess. Her tone softened further as she spoke. “Cordelia, my dear… are you quite all right?”
Cordelia nodded mutely.
The Dowager’s eyes narrowed. “I heard everything from the landing. Was that Lord Vernon? That horrid, creaking—” She cut herself off with a glance at her son. “I see you handled it.”
Mason gave a brief nod. “He’d better not return here again.”
“Good.” Her jaw tightened for a flicker of a moment before she turned back to Cordelia with the warmth of a practiced caretaker. “Come with me, darling. Let’s have some tea, something calming. You’ve had quite a fright.”
“I’m—” Cordelia began, her voice too soft.
But his mother was already taking her hand and guiding her gently away.
“No arguing. You’re coming with me, and we’ll sit in the drawing room with the fire and some scones, and you’ll pretend that man never existed.”
Cordelia cast one last glance over her shoulder. It nearly unmade him. He wanted to go with her, to sit beside her and make sure she never doubted, not even for a second, that she was protected. But he didn’t move. He just stood there silently and watched her be led away.
Though Lord Vernon was gone, Mason could feel the weight of him still lingering in the way Cordelia’s eyes had searched his face, uncertain and afraid, and also in the way Mason hadn’t crossed the space to hold her.
Because he couldn’t, because it would mean too much, because if he allowed himself to feel anything more than this storm in his chest, he’d never be able to walk away, and very soon, he would have to watch her leave.
So, he returned to his study and tried to bury himself in work.
He had letters to write and three drafts of contracts to review.
Not only that but also an estate ledger needed his final approval and there was a tenant dispute from Galleon’s southern border.
All of it was perfectly ordinary. All of it was comfortably distant from emotion.
He sat down, pulled the ledgers toward him, and began writing.
“Tenant acreage disputes in?—”
Cordelia’s face interrupted his flow of thought, and he ground his pen down harder. A small blot appeared.
He cursed under his breath, dabbed it with sand, and then started again.
“The northern pastures are under?—”
Now, it was her voice, trembling as she tried to reason with Lord Vernon. She hadn’t raised her voice once when speaking to him, even when she had every reason to do so.
Mason stared down at the page, the ink now beginning to blur in his vision. He blinked hard, swore again, and shoved the ledger away. He’d been a fool to think he could continue like this, that he could balance cold duty and vivid longing without something breaking.
She was everywhere now, not just in his thoughts but in the very bones of this house. Cordelia Brookes had stitched herself into his world without even trying. And now, even his work, his last fortress of control, was bleeding with her name.
He had thought he was stronger than this, that he was smarter and more guarded. But it turned out, he was just a man.
A knock on the door interrupted him just then.
“What?” he snapped.
The door squealed open only a fraction, and her angelic face appeared, one more glimpse of everything he could not allow himself to want.
With a trembling voice, she pleaded… “Do you have a moment?”