Page 29 of A Duchess Worth Stealing (Saved by Scandal #2)
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“ O h, Mason, look at these apples! They’re almost too perfect to eat!” Cordelia’s voice trilled with excitement, and she held one up to the sunlight, turning it this way and that.
Mason laughed, following her from stall to stall, his amber eyes catching hers in quiet amusement. “If you say so. Then I suppose we must take the lot,” he said, gesturing to the whole crate with a playful bow.
She clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, do, please! I simply cannot choose; everything looks so lovely!”
He indulged her, picking up a wedge of cheese here, a basket of berries there, adding a carefully corked bottle of wine last, and placing it all in a small basket. Cordelia’s gaze never left him, a mixture of gratitude and wide-eyed wonder painting her expression.
“You are far too generous, Mason,” she said softly, but her eyes twinkled like a child discovering a secret garden.
“Nonsense,” he replied, brushing off her words with a grin. “You shall have whatever pleases you. This is no time for restraint.”
She twirled slightly, her skirts brushing the cobblestones, her laughter ringing in his ears, and he felt an unbidden warmth in his chest. She paused to peer at a stall selling delicate pastries then turned toward him, eyes shining.
“And you,” she said, her voice half-teasing, half-serious, “you must try some too. You cannot simply provide without partaking.”
He raised a brow, but there was no real objection in him. “Very well, then. I suppose I must endure the pleasures of the market as well.”
Her delighted squeal of agreement made him chuckle, and he followed her further, the basket growing heavier but his step lighter.
Finding a stall with fresh bread, Cordelia’s fingers hovered over the loaves of bread as she inhaled their warm, yeasty scent.
“Oh, these smell divine,” she murmured, turning one carefully in her hands.
A voice behind her caught her attention. “Cordelia, you may select whatever pleases you today,” Mason said, nodding to the vendor. “Wrap them all up for the lady if she wishes.”
The vendor, a cheerful man with flour-dusted sleeves, bowed slightly. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said, smiling.
Cordelia heard his words but did not lift her eyes from the bread. Mason stepped back, lowering his voice. “I’ll be right back,” he told her, and he disappeared toward the next stall, leaving her to her fragrant task.
“First time at the festival, Your Grace?” the vendor asked, leaning slightly closer, as if confiding a secret.
“Oh, yes!” Cordelia exclaimed, her cheeks coloring with excitement. “It’s all so splendid! I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The man chuckled, gesturing toward the colorful stalls and the ribbons fluttering overhead.
“Ah, you’re in for a treat then. Tonight, the dancers perform under lanterns, and there’s music that lasts till midnight.
The children race through the square with torches, and there’s a pie contest that draws folks from all the villages around. ”
Cordelia’s eyes widened, and she nodded eagerly. “I cannot wait! It all sounds so delightful. Thank you for telling me.”
She chose a few loaves, the crusts golden and warm, and the vendor wrapped them carefully.
She held one of the wrapped loaves close, enjoying the warmth that seeped through the paper. “And the pie contest… does someone actually win?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.
The vendor chuckled, nodding. “Oh, indeed, Madam. Every year, the baker from Eastwood claims the prize though the judges change; the crust must be perfect, the filling generous and sweet. Folks come from miles to see if anyone can beat him.”
She leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “And has anyone ever beaten him?”
“Once,” he admitted with a grin. “A young girl, only seventeen, made a raspberry tart that stunned the judges. They say she still bakes in the village though she keeps her secret ingredients close to her heart.”
Cordelia clutched the bread a little tighter, her eyes shining. “How marvelous! I wish I could see it or taste it!”
“You might, Your Grace,” he said kindly, “if you wander the square this evening. There’s room for everyone to watch, and a proper crowd always gathers near the judges’ table.”
She smiled, her excitement bubbling over. “I shall! I want to see everything, hear everything, and try everything if I can. It all seems so… alive!”
The vendor laughed, a warm, easy sound. “Aye, Your Grace, that’s the spirit! Enjoy it while it lasts, for these celebrations bring the village together like nothing else. You’ll remember it for years.”
Cordelia nodded, eyes still wide. “I already know I will. Thank you for sharing all of this with me.”
He smiled, handing her the carefully wrapped loaves. “It is my pleasure. Enjoy the festivities, and may they bring you as much joy as they do the rest of us.”
She tucked the parcels under her arm and turned, glancing toward Mason in the distance, her heart light and eager, ready to share every magical moment with him.
Mason turned just as he tucked a small bundle into the basket, and there she was, her eyes bright with excitement. A smile tugged at his lips.
“Did you get all the bread we needed?” he asked, his voice teasing but gentle.
“Yes,” she replied, returning his smile, “even more than we need.” She shifted the parcels under her arm, her energy still bubbling over. “But… I’d like to stay a little longer. Just to see some of the festivities. Then, we can go back home.”
He studied her for a moment, the sunlight catching the edges of her hair, her eyes sparkling with the innocent joy of someone utterly caught up in the moment.
“I like that idea,” he said, nodding. “There’s no rush. We have the day to ourselves.”
Her smile widened at his words, and he felt a familiar warmth coil in his chest. As they stepped back toward the square together, his hand brushed against hers, not by plan yet perfectly natural. He realized, once again, how impossible it was to look at her and not feel utterly captivated.
As hours passed by, Mason followed Cordelia from stall to stall, her laughter weaving through the crowd like music. She insisted on trying everything: the sweet, sticky candied nuts, the sharp tang of fresh cheeses, even a small, rickety game where she tried to toss rings onto wooden pegs.
He watched her closely, catching the light in her eyes, the way her fingers curled around a prize she’d won, which was a small carved wooden bird.
Despite himself, he found himself laughing more than he had in years, stepping up to join her in a few games—clumsily at first yet unable to resist when she clapped at his efforts.
“Not bad, Your Grace,” she teased with a twinkling gleam in her beautiful eyes.
“I assure you, it is all for your amusement,” he replied, smiling, though he knew the truth. His enjoyment was tied entirely to her, to the way she moved, the way she spoke, the simple way her happiness seemed to demand his attention.
When the time had come for them to head back home, they did so walking side by side with Mason carrying the basket easily, the weight nothing compared to the pleasure of seeing Cordelia so utterly alive.
“Do you remember when we tried that silly ring-toss game?” Cordelia bubbled, skipping slightly as she recounted the event. “And I nearly tipped over the entire stand! And then we laughed so hard the vendor scolded us!”
Mason nodded, smiling quietly, letting her words flow over him like the tide.
“And the pie contest! Oh, the pies smelled divine, and you, oh, you tried one of each type, didn’t you?” Her excitement never dulled, her voice carrying the joy of a child discovering a new world.
“I did,” he said simply, and that was enough. She didn’t need commentary or critique; she wanted the undivided attention of someone who cared to see her delight. Mason found himself content to offer exactly that.
“And the ribbon dance!” she continued, her cheeks flushed with memory. “I can’t believe you actually joined me, even though you said you were horrible at it. I think you secretly enjoyed it!”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Perhaps a little,” he admitted though his gaze never left her face.
Her words tumbled on, a flood of small, sparkling memories, and Mason found that he didn’t need to speak.
Each story, each laugh, each delighted squeal filled him with a warmth that made the evening air feel gentle against his skin.
Listening to her, watching her, was more than enough.
He realized that at this moment, he wanted nothing else but to follow her home, carry the basket, and remain by her side, fully present and fully captivated.