Page 34 of A Duchess Worth Stealing (Saved by Scandal #2)
Chapter Thirty-Two
T he following morning, Mason entered the breakfast room before Cordelia had stirred. The early light caught the gleam of polished silver and the steam rising from the tea, but it did nothing to ease the tight knot in his chest.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice measured, neutral, almost formal.
“Good morning,” she replied softly, eyes flicking to his hands, noticing the deliberate restraint in every motion.
They sat across from each other, the breakfast laid out between them, a quiet barrier as tangible as the polished wood of the table.
Mason kept his movements precise, avoiding glances that lingered too long, resisting the urge to reach for her hand or let his eyes trace the curve of her cheek as he so desperately wanted.
The room was calm, but Mason’s mind was anything but. Every memory of last night—the kiss, the warmth, the sudden fear of losing control—pressed against him. He sipped his tea slowly, reminding himself that this polite distance, this cold civility, was the only way to protect her… and himself.
She, on the other hand, buttered her toast with slow precision, her gaze occasionally lifting to meet his before dropping again.
Mason told himself he imagined the faint glimmer of amusement in her eyes.
Cordelia’s voice carried easily across the breakfast table, light and unhurried, the kind of tone one might use when speaking to a skittish animal.
“The roses in the east garden are thriving,” she said, buttering her toast with deliberate care. “The pink ones especially… they’ve nearly overtaken the white.”
Mason didn’t look up from his plate. “I see.”
“And the weather…” She took a sip of tea, her eyes flicking to him over the rim of the cup. “It’s quite unseasonable for this time of year. Warm enough that I almost expect to see the orchard in bloom again.”
When she reached for the sugar bowl, her fingers brushed his. A fleeting touch, accidental by all appearances, but Mason knew her well enough now to suspect it wasn’t. He withdrew his hand smoothly, pretending not to notice the spark that shot through him at the contact.
“You’re unusually quiet this morning,” she said at last, tearing a piece of toast and popping it into her mouth.
“I have work to attend to,” he replied evenly. “There are matters requiring my attention.”
“Matters more important than conversation?” she asked, arching a brow in mild challenge.
He set his teacup down and gave her the faintest smile. “Conversation with you is never unimportant. But…” He left the thought unfinished, letting the silence swallow it.
Her lips curved, but there was no real humor in it. She leaned back in her chair, studying him with an expression he couldn’t read. “I see. Well, then, I shall not keep you.”
“Very well then,” he agreed, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin.
Just as Mason pushed back his chair, intending to rise, the door to the breakfast room opened, and his mother swept in, all brisk elegance and purposeful steps.
“There you both are,” she said, her smile warm as she took the seat at the head of the table. “I’ve just had the most delightful letter from Lady Weatherly; there will be a ball.”
Mason reached for his used napkin, folding it with care. “I can’t attend.”
His mother’s brows drew together. “You don’t even know when it is.”
He looked at her evenly. “When is it?”
“On Thursday,” she said, with the faintest edge of triumph in her voice.
“I can’t attend,” he repeated.
His mother exhaled in that particular way mothers had perfected over centuries which was half frustration, half disbelief.
“Nonsense. You’ve yet to be presented to the ton as husband and wife, and this is the perfect opportunity.
People will expect to see you together. It would be a dreadful slight not to attend. ”
Mason’s jaw tightened. “I fail to see how?—”
“No,” she interrupted, leaning forward with a pointed look. “This is not for debate. You will go. Both of you. Cordelia will need a new gown of course. I shall arrange it.”
Cordelia smiled politely though Mason caught the faintest flicker of hesitation in her expression.
He inclined his head at last, the movement slow and reluctant. “Very well.”
His mother’s satisfaction was immediate. “Excellent. I knew you’d see sense.”
“If you will excuse me, I have work to do,” Mason said, heading toward the door.
As he passed Cordelia’s chair, he felt her gaze on him. When he glanced down, the amusement that had danced in her eyes earlier was gone, replaced by sadness.
Still, he kept his stride even, his expression unreadable, and walked out as if he hadn’t noticed at all.
The secret path to Isabelle’s cottage was dappled with shifting light, the tall trees swaying gently in the late afternoon breeze. Cordelia had always liked the quiet of these woods, the way the noise of London seemed to fade away the moment the canopy closed overhead.
Isabelle greeted her at the cottage door with a warm smile and an arm around her shoulders. “Cordelia, you’ve braved the forest again. Come in, come in.”
The inside smelled of baking bread and woodsmoke, the sort of homely scent that seemed to belong entirely to Isabelle.
Thalia and Henry darted into the room, the little girl clutching a rag doll and the boy with a stick he clearly imagined was a sword.
They chattered their greetings before scampering off to some imagined adventure.
Isabelle glanced up from setting a kettle on the hob. “Is Mason not here?”
“He… is busy,” Cordelia said, smoothing her skirt and avoiding her sister-in-law’s eyes.
A faint frown tugged at Isabelle’s mouth.
“Busy. Yes, that was him before. Always in his study or off handling estate business or pretending not to hear when Mother called.” She gave a soft, rueful laugh.
“But ever since you came into his life, he’s been different.
Happier. Lighter. Now…” Her eyes searched Cordelia’s face. “Now he seems like his old self again.”
Cordelia felt the words settle in her chest like stones.
She had thought it, too, that they had changed each other somehow, brought out something better in one another.
The memory of their recent evenings together, the teasing, the shared glances, lingered in her mind like a whisper she couldn’t quite grasp.
She forced a smile that felt thin even to her. “Perhaps he is only busy.”
“Perhaps,” Isabelle said gently though her voice carried the doubt she didn’t voice.
Before Cordelia could delve more deeply into her ache, Thalia appeared, holding her doll high. “Look, Cordelia! I’ve given her a new ribbon.” She held it out proudly, the bit of blue satin tied clumsily around the doll’s waist.
“It’s beautiful,” Cordelia said warmly, touching the ribbon as though it were fine silk. “I think she looks very grand indeed.”
Henry burst in a moment later, brandishing his stick. “I’m a knight, and I’m protecting Thalia from the bandits in the forest.”
Cordelia widened her eyes. “Bandits? How dreadful. I hope you’re a very brave knight, Sir Henry.”
“The bravest,” he declared, puffing out his small chest.
They began a lively reenactment in the small space, Thalia squealing with laughter as Henry circled her in mock combat with invisible foes. Cordelia laughed too, her voice light, but there was an ache behind it she could not banish.
Isabelle glanced at her quietly, as if she could sense the tension Cordelia tried so hard to conceal.
For a while, Cordelia allowed herself to be completely absorbed in the children’s world.
Thalia insisted that she was the captured princess, bound by invisible ropes that Henry, in his knightly valor, must break.
Cordelia played along dutifully, pressing a hand to her chest and letting out melodramatic gasps as the little knight galloped around the room, stick held high like a sword.
The way Henry’s eyes shone with excitement, the proud tilt of his chin, brought a lightness to her chest that she hadn’t realized she’d missed.
Thalia, meanwhile, took great delight in rearranging Cordelia’s hair into every imaginable style: a crown of braids, a tangle of ribbons, and each time she presented the results with a flourish.
“Goodness me! I look like a real princess!” Cordelia offered exaggerated admiration, the corners of her mouth turning upward in genuine amusement.
The children’s energy was infectious, their joy a kind of balm. And yet, beneath every smile, every gentle word, her mind returned to Isabelle’s earlier comment.
If Mason truly had gone back to his old self… what did that mean for her place in his life now?