Page 22 of A Duchess Worth Stealing (Saved by Scandal #2)
Chapter Twenty
“ Y ou are looking very pleased with yourself, my dear,” the Dowager Duchess observed, her needle paused mid-stitch. “Have you frightened away another unwanted solicitor?”
Mason smiled faintly as he closed the door behind him. “Not today, Mother. I have come to tell you something rather more serious.”
She set her work aside at once, regarding him with patient expectation.
The lamplight softened the fine lines about her eyes though the years had written their sorrows plainly upon her face.
Yet, as ever, there was that air of quiet grace, hope worn not like a banner but like a stubborn flame that refused to be extinguished.
“I am going to marry Miss Brookes,” he said simply.
For a moment, her lips parted, as though she could scarcely believe she had heard aright. Then her whole countenance brightened with an expression so unguardedly joyful that it stole his breath.
“Mason!” She rose, crossing to him with an agility that belied her years, and she took both his hands in hers. “You cannot know how happy that makes me.”
He chuckled softly, drawing her into an embrace. She was slight in his arms, and he was struck, as he always was, by how she had endured so much without letting bitterness take root.
“I think I can guess,” he murmured. “You and she must have been conspiring over tea these past weeks.”
He knew it was not true, but the jest made his mother laugh, and that was all he wanted to hear right now, that warm and untroubled laugh.
“She is a remarkable young woman. I have seen her sit with me for hours, never impatient, always ready to listen or to distract me with some amusing tale when she sees I am melancholy. And I believe she has brought more color into this house than it has seen in many years.”
He eased back to look at her properly. “Then you approve?”
“My dear boy,” she said, squeezing his hands, “I cannot imagine a lady more suited to you, not merely because she is intelligent and spirited, though she is both, but because I believe she sees you for yourself. Not for your title, not for your position, but for you .”
A warmth spread through him, unexpected and steadying as he revealed much more than he wanted to. “That is precisely what I fear,” he said, only half in jest. “It is a rare and disarming thing to be seen so clearly.”
And that much was true. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was a marriage of convenience—not after she appeared so happy for him.
Her eyes softened with a mother’s knowing affection. “And yet it is what you need most.” She reached up, brushing an errant strand of hair from his brow in the old, familiar way. “You have always carried so much, Mason. Allow her to carry a little with you.”
He held her gaze, a tenderness in his chest that he could not quite put into words. “You have always believed I could be something better than… him.”
His mother’s fingers tightened slightly on his arm. “I have never doubted it for a moment.”
She suddenly released his hands and rose, her eyes alight with a girlish eagerness that made her appear years younger.
“I must help her,” she declared. “The preparations! There will be so much to arrange, and I can give her guidance but only as much as she wishes. I shall not be one of those dreadful mothers-in- law who meddle in every ribbon and flower. No, I will be the best she could possibly imagine.”
Mason smiled though the sight of her joy caught him rather in the throat. “She will be fortunate indeed to have you by her side.”
His mother reached for her sewing though she was far too animated to return to it. “Oh, Mason, you do not know what this means to me. To see you settled, to see her safe… It is as if some great weight has been lifted. I cannot remember when I have looked forward to something so much.”
He nodded, forcing the gesture to be steady, even as the words pressed like stones against his ribs.
She could not know. He would not allow her to know that this was not a true marriage, that there would be no vows of the heart behind the vows at the altar.
To tell her now, to dim that light in her eyes, would be unthinkable.
Instead, he reached for her hand once more and brought it to his lips as he had done since boyhood. “Your happiness is worth more to me than I can say.”
She smiled at him with such trust, such unshaken faith, that for an instant, he wondered whether his own heart had been more entangled in this arrangement than he had allowed himself to admit. But the moment passed, and he let her hand go gently.
“Now,” she said briskly, as though commanding a regiment, “you had best tell me everything. Dates, arrangements, oh, and I must make a list of all the ladies she ought to call upon. There is no time to lose!”
The Dowager Duchess was already crossing the room a moment later, her thoughts spilling out in a cheerful stream.
“We must decide on a date before the month is out… oh, and I know the very modiste who will suit her style. Something elegant but not ostentatious. Cordelia is far too refined for unnecessary frippery.” She paused only to pick up her embroidery basket then set it down again as if that were an entirely inadequate outlet for her energy.
“Flowers, too, though I suspect she prefers something simple. Lilies, perhaps? Or…”
Mason nodded at the proper intervals, murmuring the occasional “Indeed” or “I am certain she will value your advice” . Yet beneath his polite attentiveness, his thoughts were elsewhere.
This was a marriage of convenience. That was the truth he had to hold to, the truth that would keep them both unentangled. She would be safe, her fortune beyond Vernon’s reach, and he… well, he would fulfil a duty, nothing more.
Except that his mind betrayed him. It brought back the vision of her from earlier that night, seated before her dressing table, hair unbound and spilling over her shoulders like dark silk.
He had been unprepared for the sight, the way the lamplight had caught the pale line of her neck, the curve of her cheek. Mesmerizing did not begin to cover it.
And yet beauty alone was not what held him.
He recalled her voice—that low, steady tone, edged with the hurt she would not admit as she spoke of her mother.
He had heard defiance in her words but also a fierce longing for something beyond the reach of any man’s control.
He recognized it as independence, as a life on her own terms.
He could not offer her love, not when she had no wish to bind herself in truth, but he could give her that much: salvation from Vernon and freedom to arrange her life as she pleased. His name could be her shield. The rest… she could shape for herself.
“Yes, lilies,” his mother decided at last, beaming at some vision in her mind’s eye. “They will suit her perfectly.”
Mason smiled faintly, more to himself than to his mother.
Perfect. Yes. She deserves nothing less.
The garden was awash in early summer light, the roses heavy with bloom and the air sweet with lavender. Cordelia trailed her fingers along the hedge as she walked beside the Dowager Duchess.
“I think here,” Cordelia said, pausing beside a broad expanse of lawn framed by climbing roses. “It is shaded enough for the guests but open enough for the sun to make everything bright. A garden wedding would be… lovely.”
“My dear, it would be perfect !” the Dowager Duchess declared, clasping her hands in delight.
“And early summer is such a forgiving season for brides—no biting winds, no rain to spoil the day. Oh, I must write to Mrs. Cavendish at once. And Mrs. Penworth of course, though if I invite her, I must also invite the Cunninghams, and they will expect…” She continued on, happily naming acquaintances from every corner of the county.
Cordelia smiled though a faint guilt pressed at her.
The Dowager Duchess was so warm, so unassuming, so pleased to welcome her into the family that Cordelia felt almost wretched for the deception.
She could not tell her that this marriage was to be in name only, that the love the Dowager so clearly hoped for between them would never be what she imagined.
They paused near a bed of peonies, and Cordelia turned slightly, her gaze drifting toward the great house. There, in the tall window of the study, she caught sight of Mason. His figure was half in shadow, but she could feel the weight of his gaze even from this distance.
Without thinking, she lifted her hand in a small wave.
He inclined his head in answer, one corner of his mouth curving—not quite a smile but near enough—and raised his own hand. Then, as swiftly as he had appeared, he stepped back and was gone.
The Dowager Duchess, still discussing possible seating arrangements, did not notice. But Cordelia did. And for reasons she could not quite name, the absence at that window left her oddly aware of how much of him still remained a mystery.
By the time they had walked the length of the garden twice, the Dowager Duchess had quite made up her mind about the guest list and helped Cordelia with the flowers. Now, the time had time to set their minds on the wedding meal.
“You must come to the kitchen with me,” the Dowager said, her arm slipping through Cordelia’s in a manner that brooked no refusal. “Cook has the most delightful ideas for the menu, and I should like to hear yours as well.”
Cordelia allowed herself to be led indoors, their skirts brushing together as they passed through the cool stone hall toward the heart of the house. The kitchen was warm and fragrant because of a great copper pot which was simmering gently on the range.
The Dowager Duchess greeted the cook with affectionate familiarity before taking up a basket of herbs.
“I was thinking,” she began, setting them on the broad wooden table, “cold roasted chicken with a lemon glaze, perhaps, and that cucumber salad you liked so well at luncheon last week. And for the sweet course, we could have syllabub served in little crystal glasses. What do you think, my dear?”
Cordelia smiled, the ease and kindness in the Dowager’s manner making her feel, just for a moment, as though she belonged here. “It sounds delightful,” she said honestly, reaching to help pluck sprigs of rosemary from their stems.
“Oh, we shall make it delightful,” the Dowager Duchess replied with a conspirator’s wink. “A wedding should always taste of joy.”
Cordelia’s hands stilled for a heartbeat at those words.
Joy . She told herself again, and firmly so, that this was not a real wedding, that it was only a sensible arrangement, a shield against Vernon’s grasp.
And yet, here in this warm kitchen with the scent of herbs clinging to her fingers and the Dowager’s cheerful voice beside her, she found herself enjoying every detail.
The choosing of dishes, the quiet laughter when the cook offered an over-generous spoonful of cream for tasting, the gentle bustle of planning something beautiful, it all wrapped around her like a comfort she had not known she wanted.
She was still smiling faintly when the Dowager pressed a small piece of sugared biscuit into her hand for energy and moved on to discussing the arrangement of the wedding table. Cordelia took a bite and allowed the sweetness to linger on her tongue.
She thought, against all reason, that if this were real, it might be something worth cherishing.