Page 19 of A Duchess Worth Stealing (Saved by Scandal #2)

Chapter Seventeen

C ordelia stood in the center of her room, surrounded by packed trunks and the hollow silence that always came before a goodbye.

It was her birthday. It was also her freedom.

The word echoed strangely in her chest, as though it should have rung like bells but instead sounded more like the aching hush of a church after the hymns had stopped.

She turned toward the looking glass, her fingers fumbling with a ribbon that wouldn’t tie quite right in her hair. The mirror greeted her with the usual uncertainties: pale skin, wide blue eyes, black hair that refused to be tamed this early in the morning… or ever.

She tilted her head. No matter the angle, she still looked like herself, a little too much of herself. She was the same woman who once declared she would never wed, never tie her life to a man, never bend to a system that didn’t care for the shape of her heart or the swell of her dreams.

And yet, here she stood, with her eyes rimmed red from weeping at the thought of leaving behind a house that had come to feel like home and a man who never asked her to stay.

Cordelia sniffled and dragged the back of her sleeve across her nose before remembering she was no longer six. She reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes instead though the tears were too quick for the linen to catch them all.

“Foolish,” she muttered to her reflection, half-heartedly scolding. “You wanted this. You planned for this. You said you’d dance in the street the day you were free.”

She didn’t feel much like dancing now.

She looked around her room one last time.

There was the slightly crooked stack of novels beside her bed and the pillow she’d accidentally torn open in a midnight fit of re-fluffing.

To her left was a half-finished sketch pinned to the wall—a tree she’d seen during a walk with Isabelle, the leaves slightly smudged because she’d leaned her elbow into the charcoal by mistake.

She thought of Mason, of his maddening half-smiles and biting remarks and the rare, quiet look in his eyes that made her heart forget how to keep a steady rhythm.

He had protected her. He had stared at her like she was something rare and utterly bewildering, like he didn’t know whether to lock her away or set her free.

But he never asked her to stay, and so, she wouldn’t.

Cordelia drew in a sharp breath, blinked furiously, and said aloud to herself, “Very well, Miss Brookes. Chin up. Shoulders square. No falling down the stairs on your last day.”

With that, she spun on her heel, caught the hem of her gown on the edge of her trunk, stumbled, caught herself, and huffed indignantly as she steadied her skirts.

“Perfectly graceful,” she mumbled and marched out the door with as much dignity as a woman could muster when her heart was splitting into three different pieces and leaking out through her eyes.

The hall was quiet as she made her way to the dining room. Cordelia paused just outside the dining room door, pressed a hand to her chest, and whispered softly to herself, “Please don’t let me cry over toast. That would be so terribly embarrassing.”

She stepped into the dining room, bracing herself for the usual quiet clink of teacups and clatter of silverware.

Instead, she heard voices in unison.

“Surprise! Happy birthday!”

The sound of joyful shouting hit her like a gust of summer wind. Her eyes widened as her gaze swept across the room. Everyone was there.

Hazel waved a fork triumphantly from her seat.

Matilda gave her a small, bright smile. Isabelle was practically bouncing in place, holding a bundle of wildflowers in her arms. Even the cook’s two daughters were peeking from behind a sideboard, beaming with pride.

And there, at the head of the table, stood the Dowager Duchess, regal as ever, lifting a teacup as though toasting her very soul.

And Mason. Always Mason.

The long table had been transformed. Her favorite dish, rosemary pheasant with golden potatoes, sat steaming in its silver dish alongside little pastries shaped like woodland animals, likely made by very eager small hands.

In the center, on a raised cake stand, sat the most peculiar cake she had ever seen.

It was slightly lopsided. The frosting had melted a little on one side. And on top of it were three blobby, vaguely rabbit-shaped creatures made of pink and white icing. Their ears sagged. One had a frosting eye falling off the side of its face. They were… perfect .

Cordelia pressed a hand to her mouth.

“Oh my…”

Her heart cracked clean in half and flooded her with warmth. She was very much in danger of sobbing in front of a room full of people and rabbits made of sugar.

“You all…” she began, but her voice caught. She blinked furiously and forced the corners of her mouth upward. “You all are ridiculous, and I love you.”

Isabelle crossed the room and pressed the bundle of wildflowers into her hands. They smelled like the woods: wild mint, heather, and little yellow flowers Cordelia didn’t know the name of but wanted to learn.

“I made my special strawberry jam,” Isabelle said, eyes bright. “And Robert promised not to eat the entire jar before I could wrap it.”

Cordelia hugged the flowers to her chest. “You didn’t have to?—”

“I wanted to,” Isabelle interrupted. “And Cordelia? You are always welcome here. Always . Not just in the house but with us. ”

Something tightened in her throat again, and all she could do was nod, her eyes wide and shining.

Soon enough, they were all seated. The cake was cut—with a little help from Mason when one of the bunny heads tried to roll off—and the first bite was so sweet it nearly knocked the melancholy out of her entirely.

They laughed, and they teased. The Dowager insisted Cordelia try all four kinds of jam on her plate to determine which was best. Mason didn’t say much, but he never looked away for long either.

And for one perfect hour, Cordelia forgot that her trunks were packed, and she forgot that the future loomed just outside the manor walls.

“Now,” the Dowager announced, eyes sparkling, “presents.”

Cordelia froze mid-chew.

“Oh, I… presents? You really didn’t have to?—”

“Nonsense,” said Hazel firmly, already reaching for a small parcel wrapped in crisp brown paper and tied with navy twine. “We wanted to. And we would’ve done it whether you liked it or not.”

Cordelia laughed as she took the bundle, her heart thumping in a way that had nothing to do with sugar. She untied the twine carefully and opened the paper to reveal a slender, leather-bound journal with her initials embossed in gold on the cover.

“I thought,” Hazel said, “you might want something to write in. For your plans or your adventures.”

Cordelia held it to her chest. “It’s perfect. Thank you. I’ll try not to get jam on this one.”

Next came Matilda with a shy, blushing smile and a small box that smelled faintly of lavender. Inside was a delicate silver hair comb, carved with tiny blossoms and inset with pale blue glass beads.

“I saw it and thought of you,” Matilda said. “The blue reminded me of your eyes.”

Cordelia swallowed hard and leaned across the table to hug her tightly. “I’ll wear it every time I need to feel pretty.”

Isabelle brought a small jar of homemade jam, a bundle of wildflowers, and most touching of all, a hand-drawn portrait of the two of them in the garden, rendered with more enthusiasm than realism.

Cordelia held it up with an enormous smile. “Isabelle, your artistry never fails to make me feel like I live in a magical land of long-necked ladies and very plump rabbits.”

“They’re stylized,” Isabelle said haughtily then grinned. “Besides, the jam’s better.”

The cook’s daughters had wrapped up a slightly squashed lavender sachet, which smelled divine, and Cordelia made a great show of pressing it to her heart and declaring it the greatest treasure she had ever received.

Laughter filled the room. When the table had quieted, and the last ribbons were collected and folded, she glanced toward the end of the table. Mason hadn’t moved, nor had he spoken.

Cordelia quickly looked away. Of course, he hadn’t given her a gift. Why would he? He had already given her a home, a seat at his table, and more second chances than she’d ever dared to hope for. And yet a small, traitorous part of her wished he’d thought of her, too, just enough to say I see you.

Still, she smiled wide and bright and brave and thanked everyone again, slipping the comb into her hair and the journal beneath her arm, the wildflowers cradled like a bouquet against her chest.

About an hour later, she was standing by the open carriage door which was to take them to the Duke’s solicitor.

Legal matters would be sorted. They had already said their goodbyes.

They had sung her birthday song twice, in two very different keys, and the cake had long since vanished.

Yet still, she lingered, her heart swollen and aching.

Something inside her was trying desperately not to burst.

And then Mason was beside her with a hand outstretched to help her up into the carriage. She hesitated, wondering how come he always looked so calm, so unshaken, but this morning, there was a tension about him.

She climbed in, arranging her skirts with more fuss than necessary, and just as she sat back, Mason reached into his coat pocket.

“I have something for you,” he whispered, obviously not used to such tender moments.

Cordelia blinked, surprised. “You already gave me cake. And your scowling presence. What more could a lady ask for?”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk. He simply handed her a small, square box wrapped in dark green paper and tied with an ivory ribbon.

She looked at it for a long moment then back at him.

“Your Grace…”

“Mason,” he corrected her, then added, “Open it.”

She swallowed heavily at the permission to call him by his first name. Why now? Why?

Her fingers were clumsy on the ribbon, and her breath caught as she lifted the lid.

Nestled inside was a glint of gold: a small, coin-sized compass on a delicate chain, its surface engraved with the faintest flourish around the edge.

She lifted it carefully, the chain sliding like silk between her fingers, and stared at the little needle as it spun, searching, before settling north.

She looked up at him with her mouth slightly open. “It’s… beautiful.”

His eyes met hers, unwavering. “So you always find your way back.”

The words were so simple, so casual in tone… and yet they cracked something open in her. Back? Back where? Back to him?

She smiled, blushing. “You think I’ll get lost?”

He shrugged. “You’ve got a talent for it.”

She laughed and clutched the gift to her chest as if it might stop the ache blooming behind her ribs. He was looking at her like he wanted to say more. She felt it, that pause before something crucial. But the moment was stolen before it could settle.

The carriage door opened once more, and the Dowager Duchess climbed in, with her cheeks pink from the wind.

“Goodness, what a chill!” she declared, smoothing her skirts. “I told Cook to send up spiced cider when we return. Cordelia, my dear, you’re not being sent to your doom, only to collect what is rightfully yours!”

Cordelia hastily wiped her eyes and smiled far too brightly. “Yes, of course. How lucky I am… truly.”

Mason said nothing while she still held the compass in her palm, its tiny needle steady and sure. And she wondered whether it was possible to feel both found and utterly lost at the very same time.