Page 32 of A Duchess Worth Stealing (Saved by Scandal #2)

Chapter Thirty

M ason was at his desk, a half-read letter in one hand and a pen poised in the other, when a sharp rap sounded on the door.

“Come in,” he called without looking up.

The door swung open with a flourish, and in stepped Jasper, all effortless charm and infuriating confidence. “Cousin,” Jasper drawled, closing the door behind him. “How splendid to see you alive and well. I was beginning to think married life had swallowed you whole.”

Mason leaned back in his chair, arching a brow. “You’ve not changed.”

“And why should I?” Jasper sauntered in, helping himself to the chair opposite the desk. “Change is overrated. You, however… what is it like, being a married man? Is your wife treating you well, or should I prepare to duel her in Hyde Park for dishonoring the family name?”

Mason smirked faintly, but the expression faded as he considered whether to answer truthfully. A moment’s pause passed then he set the letter down.

“The truth is… our marriage was only to help Cordelia with her troubles regarding her guardian.”

Jasper gave a low whistle, leaning back. “Ah. A noble sacrifice. And how’s that working out for you?”

Mason’s gaze drifted to the window, as if the answer might be written there. “Not as indifferently as I thought it would.”

A grin spread across Jasper’s face. “So, you’ve gone and fallen for her. And here I was, thinking I’d have to be the one to coax romance into this family. Well, if that’s the case, what’s the problem? Tell her. She looks quite smitten with you, too.”

Mason shook his head. “It’s not what she wants. She values her freedom above all else. I won’t chain her to me when she deserves to live as she wishes.”

Jasper let out a quiet laugh though not unkindly. “Ah, the self-sacrificing hero act. Very touching. Very tragic. And entirely foolish.”

Jasper lounged deeper into the chair, crossing one ankle over his knee as though he had all the time in the world to dismantle Mason’s resolve.

“You know,” he said, tapping a finger against the armrest, “I’ve seen you brood over many things—Parliament, estate business, the scandal when old Lady Marchmont mistook a foxhound for her maid—but never over a woman. This is new.”

Mason gave him a flat look. “You’re enjoying yourself far too much.”

“Of course, I am. It’s not every day I witness the mighty Duke of Galleon rendered speechless by a slip of a woman.”

“She is not a slip of a woman,” Mason said sharply, his tone cooling at once.

Jasper’s grin widened. “There it is. That protective edge. I suspect if I insulted her again, you’d toss me out of this very fine study window.”

“Quite possibly,” Mason said without hesitation.

Jasper chuckled, leaning forward, his tone softening just enough to hint at sincerity beneath the teasing.

“Then why, cousin, are you so determined to let her slip away? If she means something to you, you don’t wait for the perfect conditions.

You make the conditions. She’s clever enough to know her own mind; if she didn’t want you, she wouldn’t look at you the way she does. ”

Mason reached for a paper knife, turning it slowly between his fingers, buying time before speaking. “You mistake gratitude for affection. It’s easy to confuse the two when someone has just pulled you out of trouble.”

“And it’s easy to hide behind that excuse when you’re afraid she might not feel the same,” Jasper countered lightly though his eyes were sharp. “But do carry on pretending it’s for her benefit and not yours.”

Mason set down the paper knife with care. “We are not having this conversation.”

“Ah, so I’ve hit the truth,” Jasper said with infuriating satisfaction as he rose to his feet. “Very well, I’ll leave you to your letters and your noble martyrdom. But I’ll wager this—when she’s gone, you’ll regret holding your tongue far more than you’d ever regret speaking.”

Mason didn’t answer. He only watched his cousin saunter to the door, a hint of unease settling in his chest that he refused to name. He leaned back into his chair as his eyes narrowed at the stack of correspondence before him. Only one name crossed his mind.

Lord Vernon.

The name alone was enough to put a stone in his chest. The man had failed in his first, crude attempt to derail Cordelia’s life, but his persistence was a far more dangerous thing.

Mason knew what that sort of determination could lead to, and it made his hands curl into fists against the desk.

This had to be resolved and soon. He would speak to Greely, tighten whatever legal knots were necessary, and make certain there were no loose ends for Vernon to tug at.

But as he considered the matter, another thought intruded, a thought much quieter but no less pressing.

Cordelia’s eating.

At first he’d brushed it off, thinking perhaps she was simply dainty in her habits, but over the past several days, he’d noticed the same thing again and again: a polite smile, a token bite or two, then her plate pushed aside.

She claimed she wasn’t hungry, yet there was a shadow behind her eyes that told him otherwise.

He couldn’t help but wonder if Vernon was at the root of it, and whether his continued scheming weighed on her enough to sour her appetite.

He didn’t like it.

And so, he decided on something that might, if only for one evening, lift the heaviness from her shoulders. He would cook for her.

It was not an act he performed often. If he were completely honest with himself, there was only one dish in his culinary repertoire worth attempting which was a simple but rich meal both he and Jasper learned during their university years when they got hungry outside of regular kitchen hours and were in the mood for trying something different.

It was not much, but it was hearty and comforting.

But most importantly, that food, made with his own hands, substituted for all he truly wished to give her.

He would tell the cook to stand aside for the evening, and he would inform his mother that dinner would be a private matter, just the two of them.

The blossoming terrace of the east wing would serve as their dining room.

The air there was scented with fresh blooms, and the view of the garden at dusk was something Cordelia seemed to love.

If he could coax her into a genuine meal, and perhaps a smile, then maybe he could also find a way to broach the subject of Vernon without making her feel cornered.

Yes. That would be the plan.

“You keep surprising me all the time,” Cordelia said, leaning against the doorframe of the east wing’s small kitchen which was conveniently located right next to the terrace. “And now you are even cooking for me?”

Mason glanced over his shoulder from where he stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, knife in hand. “Careful, or you’ll make me sound far more domestic than I truly am.” He smirked. “I only know one dish, so you may want to savor the novelty while it lasts.”

“Oh, I plan to,” she said, eyes dancing with amusement as she stepped inside. “Although I suspect this is just an elaborate ploy to impress me.”

“Impress you? I think the proper term would be ‘rescue’ you,” he replied, sliding the chopped vegetables into a pan with a satisfying hiss. “You’ve eaten next to nothing for days, and I can’t have you fainting in my presence. It would tarnish my reputation.”

“That would be dreadful,” she said dryly, perching on the stool at the edge of the counter. “A duke with a fainting wife. Society would never recover.”

“Exactly,” he said, lips twitching. “So, eat. That’s an order.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “Do you order all your guests about when you cook for them?”

“Only the special ones,” he said without thinking, and then he realized the truth of it.

Cordelia busied herself with the sprig of herbs he had set aside, fingers tracing the leaves. “And what, pray, brought this sudden… culinary heroism upon me?”

Mason kept his tone light as he stirred the pan. “Let’s call it a farewell gesture. We’re returning to proper London life tomorrow which means you’ll be too busy dazzling people to sit down for a proper meal.”

“Ah,” she said softly, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “And is that all?”

He hesitated then decided against dodging. “No. I wanted to talk to you about Vernon.”

She stilled, hands folding in her lap. “I thought as much.”

“You think about him too much, and that is exactly what I wanted to tell you to stop doing.”

She inhaled deeply. “Does he have a new strategy to ruin my life?”

He was on the verge of admitting the truth, but instead, he shook his head. She didn’t need to know this.

“No,” he said simply. “That is exactly why you shouldn’t be bothered by him any longer.”

“But that man will never tire.”

“Maybe not.” That much, Mason was willing to admit. “But neither will I. I’ll see to it that he fails… every single time.”

For a moment, she looked at him as though weighing whether to believe him entirely. Then she sat, murmuring, “You do keep surprising me.”

“Then I’ll keep at it,” he promised.

She walked over to him, moving toward the sideboard. “You’re doing all the cooking. The least I can do is help set the table.”

“You don’t have to?—”

“I want to,” she said, already gathering plates.

He watched her move, and she was quick, sure, light on her feet, and handed over cutlery without protest. Together, they set the terrace table beneath the soft wash of evening light, the garden beyond blooming in pale shades. She placed the wine glasses with a precision that made him smile.

When everything was arranged, they sat opposite each other. She looked at the steaming plates between them and said warmly, “It looks delicious.”

“It is,” he said with a confident tilt of his mouth. “And you should eat it. Now.”

Her eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “You sound like a man with an ulterior motive.”

“Only to see you clear your plate,” he said, leaning back, one arm over the chair. “And perhaps to gloat when you admit it’s the best thing you’ve tasted in weeks.”

She gave a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You’re insufferable.”

“So, I’ve been told.”

As always, it was easy to talk to her, but he didn’t miss the way she hesitated before taking the first bite, as if some part of her still resisted the simple act of eating. He kept his tone playful, but his gaze on her was steady, unwilling to look away until she tried it.

At last, she lifted her fork, tasted, and her lips curved faintly. “It is… rather good.”

“Rather good?” he repeated, feigning outrage. “That is hardly the glowing praise I was expecting.”

She laughed again, a genuine sound this time, and took another bite. “All right. It’s excellent.”

“Better,” he murmured, watching her eat with quiet satisfaction.

There was still a shadow in her eyes, something that had nothing to do with Vernon and everything to do with the distance she kept between them. But for now, he let it rest. He would rather fill the evening with her laughter than weigh it down with questions she wasn’t ready to answer.