Page 30 of A Duchess Worth Stealing (Saved by Scandal #2)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

C ordelia looked up from her book, the soft rustle of the pages barely audible above the morning song of birds. The garden was fragrant with roses and honeysuckle, and the sunlight caught the tips of her hair in gold.

She had been enjoying the rare quiet, a moment stolen from the bustle that had returned with the servants’ arrival.

It seemed the house could barely contain the flurry of activity with linen being pressed and polished, breakfast being served with elaborate care, and every whim anticipated before she even realized it.

“My dear Duchess,” Mason’s voice called across the garden, warm and teasing, carrying with it that familiar mischievous lilt, “I have a little surprise for you.”

Cordelia looked up, curiosity flickering in her pale blue eyes. “A surprise? Do tell—or must I allow myself to be led blindly?”

He smiled, a hint of mystery in the tilt of his lips, and extended his hand. “I think you must allow me to lead you. It will be far more enjoyable that way.”

She hesitated a moment then allowed him to take her hand.

There was a thrill in the small touch, a promise of something joyful just beyond her knowing.

Her heart beat a little faster as he guided her along the stone path, past the roses and the trimmed hedges, past the fountain that tinkled like laughter.

At the edge of the garden, the path opened onto the sands of the beach.

The sea stretched wide and sparkling under the morning sun, waves lapping in steady, rhythmic applause.

Cordelia blinked, overwhelmed, as Mason led her a little further along the shore.

Nestled in a quiet curve of sand, a small picnic was laid out: blanket spread, a wicker basket open to reveal fruits, cheeses, fresh bread, and a modest bottle of wine.

The sunlight gleamed off the surface of the bottle, and tiny seashells were scattered along the blanket as though placed by mischievous hands.

Her hand went instinctively to her mouth, stifling a gasp. “You… This is… Mason, you didn’t have to,” she murmured, her voice catching with a mixture of surprise and emotion.

He smiled, settling beside her on the blanket, and gestured to the food. “Do you remember that first day we arrived here? Just over a week ago now?”

She nodded, her mind instantly replaying the memory. “How could I forget? I ran straight into the water like a child, and you… well, you stood there, shaking your head in disbelief.”

He nodded softly. “And you said you loved being on the beach. I remember it, vividly. And now that we return to London tomorrow, I thought it only fitting to have a proper moment, one we can keep for ourselves before the world rushes back in.”

Cordelia’s chest tightened, and she blinked rapidly to hold back tears. She was touched beyond words, not just by the thoughtfulness but by the gentle care with which he had noticed her joy. Here he was, creating a perfect pause, a memory that would remain hers alone.

She looked at him, eyes shimmering, and for a moment she saw him not as a duke, not as a protector or a friend, but simply as the man who had remembered, who had seen her delight and made it a gift.

“Mason… it’s… it’s perfect,” she whispered, her voice soft but full of awe.

He leaned slightly closer, his amber eyes warm. “I thought you might like it. And I wanted to see that smile again, one more time before we have to return to the bustle of London.”

Before she could say anything to that, he dug into the picnic basket and produced a small, neatly wrapped package. “For you,” he said, his amber eyes catching the sunlight. “A little gift to remember this week by.”

She shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Mason, you needn’t. I shall remember these days perfectly well without a single gift.”

He gave a faint shrug, that ever-present smirk brushing across his features. “Then the gift is merely because.”

Cordelia chuckled, the sound soft and bright against the roar of the waves. “Ah, those are the best gifts, are they not? Given without reason, without expectation, simply because one wants to give.”

Mason inclined his head, pleased with her response, and gestured toward the package. “Then I am pleased you approve.”

With delicate fingers, she untied the ribbon and unfolded the paper. Inside lay a beautifully bound atlas, the leather cover worn just enough to promise adventures within. She ran her hand over it reverently, inhaling the faint scent of new pages mixed with the faint musk of the leather.

“It’s wonderful,” she murmured, eyes lighting up with genuine delight.

“I purchased it from a vendor during the festival,” he explained. “I spotted it at a stall while you were perusing the breads. I thought it might suit you, someone who dreams of wandering, even if only on paper for now.”

Cordelia pressed the atlas to her chest, a warmth spreading through her. “Mason, it’s perfect. Truly.”

She traced her fingers along the atlas’ pages, pausing on distant cities and tiny villages, marveling at the painted coastlines and annotated rivers.

“Have you… been to all these places?” she asked softly, her eyes bright with curiosity.

Mason leaned back on his elbows, the sunlight glinting off his hair as he considered her question. “Not all but many. Perhaps one day, you and I shall see them together,” he said as if they were talking about seeing the sunrise together the following morning.

She closed the atlas a little too quickly, as if afraid to admit how thrilled the thought made her.

“Together…” she repeated, tasting the word in her mind. Yet it felt hollow, almost impossible.

One did not plan on exploring the world with a man to whom one was bound only in name. After the honeymoon, they would return to London, and soon enough, her life would be hers again. That knowledge made the promise feel like an empty echo, a beautiful lie she could not allow herself to believe.

She pushed the thought down, forcing a smile as Mason placed a small plate of bread, cheese, and fruit before her. The gesture, so simple and thoughtful, made her chest tighten. She took a bite, savoring the sweetness, the salt, the crust, but found she could not eat more.

Her mother’s voice, long buried beneath years of her own reasoning, whispered sharper than ever: A woman must be beautiful. If she has no beauty to offer, she does not matter.

Cordelia swallowed, feeling it press against her chest. She tried to focus on the atlas, on Mason’s presence, on the smell of the sea carried by the wind, but the shadow of that old lesson lingered, unrelenting in its imperative.

A part of her wondered if she were more beautiful, would Mason want her as a real wife then? If she were more interesting, more witty, more… everything that a proper lady ought to be?

She forced herself to take another small bite, determined to enjoy this fleeting moment, even if the weight in her mind threatened to spoil it.

Mason stepped first from the carriage into the familiar bustle of his London home. His mother was already there at the door with her eyes bright and her arms wide.

“Oh, my dears! You’ve returned safely!” she exclaimed, embracing both of them with an enthusiasm that made Mason smile. Then, she turned to Cordelia. “Come with me, my dear. I must hear about everything,” she said, taking Cordelia’s hand and leading her inside.

Cordelia threw Mason a helpless glance over her shoulder as they moved toward the parlor. Mason returned it with a small, teasing smile. “Go on,” he murmured softly. “I imagine I have a stack of correspondence in my study waiting for me.”

She inclined her head, allowing herself to be led away by his mother, who chattered happily all the while. Mason lingered in the hall for a moment, watching the two women disappear through the doorway, and then turned toward his study, quietly closing the door behind him.

Alone at last, he exhaled, the familiar comfort of the study settling around him. The letters and papers waited, orderly and unassuming, yet his mind still lingered on Cordelia’s laugh, her bright eyes, and the way she had thrown that glance back at him, equal parts mischief and dependence.

Focus, he told himself.

And so, he did. He opened the first letter. The scent of fresh ink and folded paper filled the room, but the contents were quickly forgettable: a note about a shipment of fine cloth delayed, an inquiry regarding the estate’s tenant farmers, a request for a minor donation to a distant parish.

He moved on to the next, then the next, each one duller than the last. None demanded immediate attention, none stirred any sense of urgency.

As he read, he kept his thoughts half on the letters and half on Cordelia.

The letters piled up unopened, stacked neatly to one side, as he allowed his mind to wander further.

Even the mundane words of the correspondence could not capture his focus.

He found himself imagining her descriptions of the village festivities, how she would chatter about the games and the music, the ribbons twisting in the hands of delighted children.

Mason picked up the next letter, noticing the familiar seal of his solicitor, Mr. Greely. Breaking it open, he read the neat, precise handwriting.

To the Most Honorable Duke of Galleon,

I write with some urgency regarding the matter of your wife’s inheritance.

It appears that Lord Vernon continues to pursue every avenue to gain control of her dowry.

His latest course of action is both bold and vexing: he has submitted claims disputing Her Grace’s legitimacy, asserting that she is not the lawful daughter of the late Viscount of Forth.

While these allegations are without merit and would likely fail in court, the claim itself necessitates immediate attention.

Should he be permitted any foothold in the matter, it could delay access to her funds or complicate matters further.

I recommend that no delay occurs in preparing the appropriate legal responses.

I remain, as ever, your faithful servant,

Mr. Andrew Greely

Mason’s brow tightened as he folded the letter.

The thought of Vernon, ever scheming, threatened to spoil the quiet comfort of the morning.

Cordelia’s safety, both from Vernon and the threat to her fortune, was now an even more pressing concern.

He knew he couldn’t tell Cordelia about any of this. No. He would take care of it himself.