Page 38 of A Duchess Worth Stealing (Saved by Scandal #2)

Chapter Thirty-Six

C ordelia sank even deeper into the settee, her hands twisting the fabric of her skirts. “I never thought… never thought my mother could stoop so low,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “What if it’s true? What if I really… I’m not my father’s daughter?”

Mason knelt beside her, placing a steadying hand over hers. “Cordelia,” he said firmly, locking his gaze on hers, “everything Vernon says is a lie. He thrives on fear and chaos. We only need to prove it, and we will.”

She swallowed hard, eyes wide. “But… how? How can we prove anything? He’s so… persistent, and my mother, if she’s really backing him?—”

Mason shook his head, refusing to let her spiral.

“Your mother may have her faults, but she cannot change the truth of your birth. We will gather the facts, the papers, anything that verifies your father’s wishes.

The law will be on our side. Vernon has no power here, only his words, and they are empty. ”

Cordelia let out a shaky sigh, pressing her hands against her face. “It’s just… overwhelming. I can’t think straight.”

Mason watched her closely, the weight of the evening pressing on his shoulders.

His jaw tightened. Vernon will never let her go willingly.

Every scheme, every whispered threat, every feigned claim, it was all calculated. Vernon would never slip up, never reveal the truth voluntarily. Mason would have to dismantle him completely, and that would require cunning, patience, and ruthlessness.

And yet, even as his mind ran through the strategies, the contingency plans, Mason could not ignore the ache in his chest.

This is a marriage of convenience , he repeated to himself, almost like a mantra, pressing down the warmth he felt whenever she looked at him or smiled, the moments when her presence made the world feel lighter. He had to bury those feelings or risk endangering her even further.

He leaned closer, his voice low and steady though a subtle firmness underscored his words.

“Cordelia,” he said, placing his hand lightly over hers, “do not trouble yourself with Vernon. I will handle him. You have no reason to fear. He will not touch you again, nor will he lay a single finger on your inheritance.”

Her brow furrowed, and her gaze searched his as if trying to divine some hidden truth. “Thank you; I… I don’t know what I would do without you…” she confessed in a voice that was soft, almost hesitant.

He exhaled slowly, forcing his own emotions into icy control.

“Yes, about us… we need to decide how we live from this point forward,” he said, choosing each word carefully.

“This… this marriage, it was always an arrangement. Now the world knows, and we can… we can lead separate lives if that is what we choose.”

Her lips parted, as if to speak, then closed again.

For a long moment, she seemed suspended between disbelief and reluctant acceptance.

Finally, with a small, tentative nod, she acknowledged what he had said.

There was a flicker of confusion, hurt, maybe even fear in her eyes, but she remained composed, holding herself with the grace that had always both humbled and bewitched him.

“I understand,” she whispered more to herself than to him.

Mason watched her closely, noting the subtle tremor in her hands, the way her gaze occasionally flickered to the floor, hesitant to meet his eyes.

Every instinct in him urged him to tell her the truth, that all of this, his coldness, his insistence on distance, it was not because he wished to harm her, but because he could not risk either of them being wounded.

This is because of you, he thought, a bitter ache in his chest.

She was the reason he contained himself, restrained the fierce pull he felt whenever she was near.

Yet he also understood, painfully, that he had to guard his own heart.

To admit fully what he felt would risk everything: her freedom, her trust, her future.

And he could see, in her soft expressions and the way her words lingered on him, that she cared as deeply as he did. That made it all the more dangerous.

Right place, right people… wrong time.

Mason repeated the thought like a quiet mantra, trying to rationalize the ache of desire he could not indulge. Perhaps they were meant to cross paths, meant to protect and cherish one another, but not meant to surrender completely. Circumstances and duty would not allow it.

He shifted in his seat, deliberately keeping a composed distance, yet his eyes never left her. Each heartbeat reminded him of the peril in proximity and the impossible truth that their bond—so genuine, so potent—could not yet be fully embraced.

Mason ran a hand over his face, a tension in his jaw that he could not shake. “I will speak with my solicitor tomorrow,” he said, keeping his tone measured. “We need to put this matter to rest once and for all. And I need to know, where can I find your mother?”

Cordelia’s gaze flickered up, eyes wide with an emotion he could barely read. “You… you will speak with her?” she asked softly, a thread of hope or perhaps dread in her voice.

“Yes,” he replied firmly though he did not meet her eyes. “I have to. It cannot continue like this.”

She hesitated, biting her lip, and then asked, almost whispering,. “And what will you offer her? What will you say?”

He shook his head slowly. “I… I do not know yet. I will have to see. But money,” he added with a bitter edge, “money speaks every language in the world. It seems that is all she understands, all she ever cared about.”

“I would be fooling myself if I said that was not true,” Cordelia admitted.

“Do you know where I can find her?” Mason asked again.

Cordelia seemed to think about it for a moment. “She rented out a small flat on Newbury Street. A big, blue building, almost crumbling down,” she remembered.

Cordelia flinched, pressing her hand to her chest as if the words themselves had struck her. Her shoulders slumped slightly, and the hurt in her expression made Mason’s chest tighten.

He wanted, more than anything, to reach for her, to pull her into his arms and shield her from this pain, to reassure her with his presence. But he did not. He forced himself to remain still, to respect the fragile barrier he had built between them.

Instead, he lowered his voice, careful and controlled. “You do not need to bear this alone. I will handle it. Whatever comes, I will see that you are safe.”

Even as he said the words, Mason felt the ache of restraint, the gnawing certainty that his desire to comfort her, to close that distance, was an indulgence he could not afford, not while the world still threatened her.

Two shocks in one afternoon… Cordelia could scarcely comprehend them.

First, Vernon’s vile claim, made all the more cutting by her mother’s willingness to give it credence. And now… Mason, standing before her, already pulling away as if the space between them were a matter of principle, not choice.

Her throat felt tight, but she fought to keep her composure. She would not cry. She folded her hands in her lap, her knuckles white, and forced her voice into calm, even tones.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, “for everything you have done… and for everything you will do.”

His eyes lingered on her only briefly before he replied, “It is my duty.”

She managed a small, brittle smile. “No,” she said softly, shaking her head, “it is not. But I still appreciate it.”

It was the truth though it felt like the words had been scraped from somewhere deep inside her. If this was the wall he wished to build between them, she would not beg him to take it down. She could be as composed, as untouchable, as he was.

So, she straightened her spine, schooled her expression into polite neutrality, and mirrored his reserve. The ache in her chest did not lessen, but she locked it away behind a practiced smile, as though this were any other conversation between distant acquaintances.

If her heart had broken, then he would not see the pieces.

Cordelia rose from the sofa with slow, deliberate movements, smoothing her skirts as though the simple act could steady her trembling hands.

“I think…” she began, her gaze fixed on a point just beyond him, “I will go to Matilda’s for a few days.”

Mason’s brow furrowed. “Is that a good idea?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation though her pulse raced. “Matilda has invited me several times already.”

The lie slipped from her lips so smoothly she almost startled herself. Matilda had not extended any such invitation, but Cordelia knew that her friend’s door would be open to her, nonetheless.

She could not stay here, not with the silence pressing between them and certainly not with the knowledge that somewhere along the way, she had begun to want more than an arrangement…

she had begun to want him . The hope of a real marriage threaded through her every interaction with Mason, even though she was not consciously aware of it until now.

She wanted to share her life with him, and now… she understood he did not.

Her eyes flitted briefly to his, but whatever she had hoped to see there was buried beneath his carefully composed mask.

“I will send word to her,” she added, her voice steady though inside it felt as though something fragile had cracked in two. “And I will leave in the morning.”

She didn’t wait for him to answer. If she lingered, she feared the truth of her feelings might betray her. So, she inclined her head in a polite, almost distant manner, and moved toward the door. She almost reached it when his voice reached her.

“Cordelia… are you sure?”

She turned, surprised to find him watching her with that same unreadable expression, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

“Yes,” she said after a pause, summoning a calm she did not feel. “I think I need a bit of time away from… everything. I hope you understand.”

“Of course,” he replied at once, his tone gentle, measured. “But you can count on me for whatever you need.”

That kindness was so effortless, so maddening that it cut deeper than any coldness could have. She wanted to seize him by the shoulders, shake him until his composure shattered, and demand to know why he was doing this to her.

Why he could be this man—steadfast, protective, good—and yet keep her at such a distance? Why didn’t he love her or wouldn’t he let himself love her?

But she only nodded, once more, as though they were discussing nothing more consequential than the weather.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Then she turned and left the room, her steps slow and deliberate until she reached the corridor. Only then did she let herself move quickly, almost urgently, toward her chamber.

There, she closed the door behind her, leaned against it for a moment, and drew in a long breath. She would pack tonight. She would leave in the morning. And she would pretend that her heart wasn’t breaking with each folded gown she placed in her trunk.