Page 28 of A Duchess Worth Stealing (Saved by Scandal #2)
Chapter Twenty-Six
“ I still say it was a poor excuse for a dinner,” Mason remarked as they followed the winding path from the estate toward the village, wearing clean and dry clothes once again.
Cordelia glanced at him with a smile that carried both amusement and warmth. “I told you, I enjoyed it very much. Candlelight, wine, good company… what more could I want?”
“Actual food, for one,” he countered though there was no edge in his tone. “You barely ate last night.”
“I wasn’t very hungry.”
He gave her a sidelong look, one brow arched. “Which is exactly why we’re buying something substantial today. I need to make up for that sorry spread we called supper.”
Her lips curved in quiet amusement, but she didn’t argue further.
As they crested a small rise, the village below came into view, its narrow streets winding toward a lively square. The sound of distant fiddles and laughter floated up toward them, mingling with the tang of salt air. Mason gestured toward the bustle ahead.
“The festivities last two days,” he explained. “Yesterday was only the first. The square is full of events even now, games, stalls, music, all of it. Tonight will be livelier still.”
Her eyes lit with interest. “How wonderful. Then we must attend this evening.”
“We shall,” he assured her. “But first, provisions.”
“I thought you said the celebrations last all day,” she teased.
“They do,” he replied, lips twitching. “And that includes the part where we find something edible.”
They continued down the lane toward the growing sounds of merriment, the bright flutter of bunting and the warm chatter of villagers drawing them closer with every step.
And though Mason’s thoughts lingered on food, a quieter part of him noted the way her face shone in the morning light, in that content, curious, and entirely unburdened manner, and decided he’d do anything to keep her looking that way.
The moment they stepped into the village square, the hum of life seemed to wrap around them.
Fiddles and flutes struck up a lively tune from a small stage near the green, and ribbons of bright fabric fluttered from poles strung across the square.
The air was rich with scents, fresh bread from a baker’s cart, roasted chestnuts, sugared almonds, and the sharp tang of the sea carried in on the breeze.
Mason slowed his stride, letting Cordelia take it all in. Her eyes darted from one sight to the next. There were children racing with painted wooden hoops, a man balancing three mugs of cider while a crowd cheered, and a circle of women in patterned shawls weaving ribbons around a maypole.
“That’s the rope climb,” he told her, nodding toward a tall post smeared with grease. A pair of determined boys were already halfway up, scrambling for the little purse of coins tied at the top. “Winner keeps the prize. Though, truth be told, the fun is watching them slide back down.”
She laughed softly, and he found himself smiling simply because she did.
“And over there,” he continued, pointing toward a booth draped in wildflowers, “is the fortune-teller. Mrs. Priddy’s been reading palms longer than I’ve been alive. She’ll tell you whether you’re destined for riches, misery, or something in between.”
Cordelia tilted her head, a faint crease forming between her brows. “Do people truly believe her?”
He smirked. “When she predicts good things, they do.”
Every few steps she stopped, her gaze was caught by some new curiosity, whether it was a pair of fiddlers trading tunes, a table of carved trinkets or the shimmer of ribbons in the afternoon sun.
Mason found himself watching her more than the festivities, relishing the unguarded delight in her expression.
There was no trace of London’s careful composure here, no shadow of her guarded smiles.
She looked as though the world were entirely new to her, and he would have gladly spent the whole day just walking at her side, showing her every last corner of it.
That was when Mason spotted two women weaving through the crowd toward them. They were familiar faces, both rosy-cheeked and wide-eyed with their simple gowns brightened with the token ribbons of the festival.
“Your Grace!” one of them exclaimed as they drew near, their surprise more than evident.
“We didn’t expect to see you here until after the festivities!”
The other nodded quickly. “Aye, Sir, we thought you were to arrive tomorrow?—”
“There was apparently some… miscommunication,” Mason said with an easy smile, not wishing to make more of it than it was.
Both young women looked instantly stricken, exchanging anxious glances before launching into overlapping apologies. “We’re so sorry, Sir—truly, we didn’t know—if we’d been told?—”
“It’s quite all right,” he cut in gently, holding up a hand. “No one is to blame.”
Still, they looked as though they might dissolve into mortified tears right there in the middle of the square. “We should come at once, Sir, right away,” one began, already glancing toward the road. “The house will be put to rights before?—”
Before Mason could speak again, Cordelia stepped forward, her voice kind but firm. “No, you mustn’t. That wouldn’t be fair to miss the celebrations. Please, stay and enjoy the day.”
The girls blinked at her in surprise then smiled genuine, relieved smiles that warmed Mason’s chest. He wasn’t surprised at all. It sounded precisely like something Cordelia would say, her instinct toward kindness as natural as breathing.
“Well,” he said, his voice carrying a faint note of pride, “allow me to introduce my wife, Her Grace, the Duchess of Galleon.”
The two servants curtsied deeply, their eyes bright with admiration. “Your Grace,” they chimed together, the sincerity in their voices making the moment feel unexpectedly sweet.
“And these are Anna and Isabelle, right?” Mason nodded to the two servant girls, who nodded in agreement.
Then, one of the girls leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice as though she were sharing the most precious of secrets.
“If you make your way past the fountain and toward the green, Your Grace, you’ll come to the Maypole.
They’ll be starting the ribbon dance soon; it’s the prettiest part of the festival. ”
The other nodded eagerly. “And if you stay until dusk, there’ll be lanterns lit all along the square. Looks like a sky full of stars come down to earth.”
Mason inclined his head, smiling. “We’ll be sure not to miss it. Thank you both.”
Cordelia’s eyes lit with that eager curiosity he had already grown fond of, and she added warmly, “Yes, thank you. It sounds perfectly magical.”
The girls beamed at them, cheeks pink with pleasure, before offering another quick curtsy. “Enjoy the day.”
And with that, they vanished into the moving swell of villagers, their laughter trailing behind them as they were swallowed by the crowd.
Mason stood for a moment watching them go, then glanced at Cordelia. She looked just as delighted as when they’d first stepped into the square, as though she intended to drink in every sound, every color, every moment. He felt a quiet satisfaction at the thought of showing her more.
Cordelia tilted her head at him, an amused sparkle in her eyes. “I must say, I did not expect a duke to know his servants by name.”
Mason arched a brow, feigning offense. “And why not?”
She smirked. “Oh, I suppose I imagined you had far too many to keep track of.”
“But you’ve forgotten the fact that old families such as mine like to have the same servants for years, decades even,” he explained.
She smirked. “But those two,” she gestured in the direction the girls had gone, “can’t have been in your service for very long. They’re far too young.”
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “That’s because they’re the daughters of my gardener, Mr. Robinson. Both born at our house here. I’ve known them since they could barely toddle without falling into the flowerbeds.”
“Ah,” she said with mock solemnity though the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “That makes sense. I shall forgive your suspiciously familiar knowledge of them, then.”
“Glad to hear it.” He offered her his arm, his smile deepening. “Now that I’ve explained myself enough to satisfy your curiosity, would you care to see the ribbon dance?”
Her eyes brightened at once. “Yes, please,” she said with the unguarded enthusiasm of a child promised a sweet.
The sheer delight in her voice was enough to make his own chest feel lighter. “Then we mustn’t waste a moment,” he said, matching her quickening step, her joy so infectious that he found himself grinning like a fool without even trying.
Mason followed Cordelia toward the Maypole, his gaze never leaving her. The square seemed to fade around him, the bustling crowd, the fiddles and flutes, the scents of roasted nuts and fresh bread, all of it melting into a blur as he watched her.
She darted ahead a step then paused, eyes widening with delight as the dancers twirled around the tall pole, long ribbons streaming in a rainbow of color.
The sunlight caught the ribbons and made them glitter like spun sugar, and the gentle wind tugged at Cordelia’s gown, causing her skirts to flutter and her dark hair to lift slightly.
He noticed how her pale blue eyes caught every detail, how her small hands reached out as if she could touch the ribbons themselves. The faintest laugh escaped her lips, light and musical, and he felt it echo in his chest, tugging at him in ways he hadn’t yet allowed himself to admit.
The smell of warm earth, mingled with fresh-cut flowers tied to the Maypole, seemed to follow her as she stepped closer.
He could see the soft curve of her shoulders, the graceful tilt of her head as she absorbed every movement, every color, every sound.
Even the squeals of children racing around the edges of the circle seemed to frame her, highlighting her presence.
She spun in a small circle herself, just enough to let her gown swirl lightly, and he caught the tiniest of smiles playing at her lips.
His own lips twitched in response before he even realized it.
He could not stop thinking how utterly alive she seemed, how impossible it was to look at her and not feel drawn in completely, as though every other detail of the world existed only to showcase her delight.
Cordelia’s voice rang out across the Maypole, bright and teasing. “Come, Mason! Surely even a duke can manage a ribbon or two!”
He shook his head, attempting a mock grimace. “I’m afraid I am utterly hopeless at such… coordinated feats.”
Her laughter rang clear, full and unrestrained, and it had a way of breaking down his stubborn resistance. She stepped closer, and he noticed her eyes were gleaming with mischief. “Oh, nonsense! You only need a partner, and I insist on being that partner.”
He tried to protest again, but the warmth of her gaze and the playful lift of her chin rendered him powerless. “Very well,” he admitted. “If you insist, I suppose I must endure.”
Cordelia clapped her hands in delight, and he took her hand carefully, as though it were the most precious thing he might ever hold. The music started again, and together, they approached the ribbons.
Their first steps were tentative, stiff, as Mason tried to follow her lead. Cordelia, ever patient, laughed softly with each small misstep, her hand firm yet gentle in his. He stumbled a little, she twirled, and the ribbon between them wove in a chaotic, yet somehow perfect pattern.
By the third turn, he found a rhythm. It was not perfect, but it was steady enough, and the awkwardness faded into something sweeter. He caught the look of pure joy on her face, the sparkle in her eyes, and he could not help but smile fully, allowing himself to be lost in the moment.
For that brief, fleeting time, the worries of London, the shadows of guardians, and the complexities of their “marriage of convenience” fell away.
All that remained was the warmth of her hand in his, the soft music of the fiddles, and the laughter that floated between them.
And in that, Mason felt, perhaps for the first time in a long while, entirely, recklessly alive.