Page 25 of A Duchess Worth Stealing (Saved by Scandal #2)
Chapter Twenty-Three
N o. No. No. This can’t be happening.
The words pounded in Cordelia’s mind as though they might somehow undo what she was seeing. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and the edges of the world blurred.
Lord Vernon.
Her guardian, no… her gaoler stood there at the far end of the garden, his face flushed a mottled crimson and his voice loud enough to carry to the farthest row of guests.
“This is an outrage!” he declared, striding forward with the confidence of a man who believed himself wronged. “This was to be my own wedding, my own bride, stolen from me by the Duke of Galleon!”
Cordelia’s breath caught. Her foot shifted back instinctively, but Mason’s hand tightened around hers, warm and unyielding, keeping her steady. His presence was like a steel anchor in a tempest.
Vernon’s voice rose further as he pointed an accusatory finger at Mason, the gesture sharp enough to cut the air. “You have interfered in my affairs, Your Grace. She is mine by right and by prior understanding!”
Cordelia’s stomach twisted with dread. She wanted to speak, to deny every venomous word, but her throat seemed locked.
Then Mason moved not away from her but forward. In one smooth step he placed himself between her and Vernon, his broad shoulders a shield, his body blocking her entirely from view.
The murmurs among the guests grew louder, yet Mason’s voice, when it came, was calm and measured but carried the unmistakable edge of command.
“You will lower your voice, My Lord,” Mason said evenly, his tone more dangerous for its restraint. “And you will step back. This lady is under my protection, and she does not, nor will she ever, belong to you.”
Cordelia’s fingers curled into the back of his coat, clutching the fabric almost without thought. The tension in his frame was steady and sure, and yet she could sense the readiness in him, like a blade drawn but not yet swung.
Vernon’s lip curled. “You think your title gives you the right to rob me?”
“I think,” Mason replied, his voice a low warning now, “that your presence here is unwelcome, your claim unfounded, and your conduct unfit for a gentleman.”
Cordelia’s heart pounded harder. She was deeply afraid that Vernon’s desperation might drive him to some rash act, but Mason did not so much as flinch under the man’s glare. His stance told the truth as clearly as his words: if Vernon meant to take her, he would have to go through him first.
And Cordelia, standing in the shelter of that unwavering defense, realized that in all her life she had never felt so wholly safe.
Vernon’s eyes glittered with something dark and unrestrained.
“You may hide her behind your fine words and your fine title, Galleon,” he spat, “but you cannot change the truth. She is mine by prior agreement, and the law will see it so. You think yourself her savior? You are nothing but a thief in silk.”
Gasps rippled through the guests, whispers darting like startled birds. Several matrons put gloved hands to their mouths; others craned their necks for a better view.
Cordelia’s pulse hammered. This was the scandal Vernon had been waiting to unleash. If he said enough, loudly enough, it would be all over London by supper.
But Mason did not retreat. His voice cut through the murmurs, deep and carrying. “You speak of law, My Lord, yet your conduct shames every principle of honor. You presume to call this lady your bride without her consent, without even the courtesy of her agreement. That is not law; that is tyranny.”
The air shifted. Cordelia could sense the crowd leaning toward Mason now, the subtle sway of public opinion turning in her favor.
Vernon’s jaw worked. “You will regret crossing me.”
Mason’s reply was quiet, but it carried the force of a hammer striking iron. “The only man who will regret anything today is the one attempting to force a lady into his grasp. And should you so much as take another step in her direction, I will personally remove you from my grounds.”
The stillness that followed was electric.
Vernon’s eyes flicked between Mason’s steady gaze and the circle of watching faces.
For all his bluster, he was no fool. There was no ground here for him to claim without humiliating himself further.
With a final glare directed at Cordelia, sharp enough to chill her blood, he turned on his heel and stalked back the way he had come, disappearing through the garden gates.
Only when he was gone did Cordelia realize her grip on Mason’s coat had tightened to the point of wrinkling the fine fabric. He did not seem to mind. Slowly, he looked back at her, his expression softening as if she were the only person left in the world.
“Shall we?” he asked gently.
Her breath caught. She gave a small nod, but a hush still lingered in the garden, as though every leaf and blossom held its breath. Cordelia could feel the eyes upon her, hundreds of them, waiting and judging, wondering if the moment had passed beyond repair.
The officiant, a portly clergyman with kind eyes, cleared his throat with a delicate cough, as though brushing away the residue of unpleasantness.
“If the company would kindly return their attention to the purpose for which we have gathered,” he said, his tone a mixture of dignity and gentle reproach, “I believe there remains a most joyous union to be solemnized.”
A few guests tittered nervously, others shifted in their seats, but the air began to warm again.
Somewhere near the front, the unmistakable voice of the Dowager carried, “Well, I, for one, should very much like to see this concluded.” And it immediately earned a ripple of laughter that smoothed the tension further.
Cordelia’s heart still beat far too fast, but it was no longer from fear.
Mason had not only stood before her, shielding her from Vernon’s venom, but he had done so without hesitation, without doubt.
That kind of loyalty which was public and unwavering was worth more than any whispered vow spoken in private.
She lifted her gaze to him. His eyes found hers instantly, as though he had been watching her every breath since Vernon’s departure. There was a subtle softness there, a quiet reassurance that no harm would touch her while he drew breath.
Her friends, seated in the front, gave her tiny encouraging smiles. Matilda dabbed her eyes discreetly with a handkerchief, and Hazel mouthed something that looked suspiciously like “You’ve already won.”
The officiant smiled faintly, turning back to Mason and Cordelia. “Shall we proceed?”
Mason did not look away from her as he murmured. “We shall.”
Cordelia took a steadying breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle once more into something almost magical.
The garden seemed to brighten as the scent of roses drifted more keenly on the breeze.
Though she stood before a crowd, she felt as though they were alone.
And this time, when the officiant spoke, her hands were steady in Mason’s.
Cordelia’s pulse thrummed in her ears. She had told herself countless times this was merely a marriage of convenience, yet as the officiant’s words wrapped around her, they began to feel like a vow she longed to believe in.
When the vows were spoken and the ring, which was his grandmother’s delicate band of gold, was placed upon her finger, the officiant gave a small, satisfied nod.
“By the power vested in me, I pronounce you man and wife. Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
A murmur of approval swept through the guests. Mason’s eyes never left hers. He stepped closer, and though propriety allowed only the briefest kiss before a crowd, the touch of his lips to hers was warm, unhurried, and brimming with something she dared not name.
As they turned to face their guests, Mason’s hand found hers, fingers interlacing with quiet possession. The garden seemed to erupt in color: the sunlight warmer, the roses sweeter, the applause a gentle thunder all around them.
Cordelia glanced up at him. “Well,” she whispered, “it seems we have done it.”
Mason’s answering smile was faint but full of meaning. “We have indeed, Duchess.”
And though she reminded herself again that this was a union of necessity, her heart refused to listen.
That was when the guests began to stir, their smiles blossoming as they approached the newly wedded pair with warm congratulations and heartfelt wishes. The garden, bathed in the soft glow of early summer afternoon, seemed indeed a setting from some gentle fairy tale.
Cordelia’s heart fluttered uneasily beneath her composed exterior.
Each gracious word, each shy smile from a friend, chipped away at the careful walls she had built around herself.
It became increasingly difficult to persuade herself that this union was merely a matter of convenience, a shield against her guardian’s grasp.
Mason’s hand remained a steady, grounding presence at her side as well-wishers came and went. His quiet attentiveness and his genuine warmth unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
How was it possible, she wondered, that a marriage so born of necessity could already feel so tender, so full of unspoken promise?
And yet, beneath the joy of the day, a whisper of doubt lingered. Was she ready to open herself to something more when fear and uncertainty still clung like shadows to her heart?
For now, she chose to savor the moment in the smiles, the music, the gentle murmur of happiness surrounding her, knowing that soon enough, the true work of their union would begin.