Page 41 of A Duchess Worth Stealing (Saved by Scandal #2)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

T he candles upon Matilda’s polished mahogany table burned low, their wax pooling into delicate dishes of silver.

Outside, a soft drizzle tapped against the tall windows while the scent of roasted pheasant lingered warmly between the two friends.

Cordelia lifted her glass, allowing herself a sense of calm after weeks of restless thought.

Suddenly, the dining room door burst open without ceremony and Cordelia realized, much to her shock, that it was Mason.

She stared at him, as startled as if he had stepped out of a dream.

His coat was damp from the rain, the lapels askew, and a lock of dark hair had fallen over his brow.

He looked entirely unlike the composed gentleman she was accustomed to presenting to the world.

“What on earth are you doing?” she demanded, her voice sharp with shock.

“I… I know this is sudden and rude, and I apologize to both of you,” he said, his breath still uneven. “I had no intention of disturbing your evening, but I must speak to you… at once.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the slow tick of the ormolu clock upon the mantel. Cordelia was aware of Matilda’s eyes darting between them, of the way her friend’s posture stiffened, almost knowingly.

Matilda rose with a quiet dignity, smoothing the folds of her gown. “I think,” she said gently, “that I shall give you some privacy.”

Cordelia watched her friend depart, the swish of silk rustling away into the hall, leaving her alone with the man who had just shattered her evening with urgency and perhaps, she hoped, with some truth she had not been meant to hear.

Cordelia folded her hands in her lap, spine stiff as she regarded him. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded again. “Could you not have called upon me at a normal hour like a normal person?”

“I could have,” he said, stepping further into the room, the door shutting behind him with a quiet thud. “But it is urgent.”

He stopped abruptly, his gaze falling upon the untouched pheasant upon her plate. It sat as it had been served, the meat scarcely disturbed, the sauce hardly touched. Matilda’s plate had been entirely bare.

His brow furrowed. “Cordelia… you have not eaten.”

She blinked at him, taken aback. “Do not be absurd. I am eating perfectly well.”

“No,” he said, his voice low but unyielding. “I have been watching you. These past weeks, you have barely eaten at all.”

“That is nonsense,” she replied, heat rising to her cheeks. “You have imagined it.”

“I have not,” he countered. “I know you, Cordelia. I know when something is amiss. And this… this is not you.”

She turned away, fingers tightening in her lap, but he pressed on, his tone neither scolding nor pitying.

At last, her voice broke, softer than she intended. “I did not wish to change.”

He stilled. “Change?”

Her eyes flicked to his then away again.

“I told you how my mother always said that after a woman weds and after she bears children, she grows… fat and tiresome, and her husband ceases to look at her. She told me it was inevitable. I thought…” Her throat tightened, the words catching painfully.

“I thought if I were careful, if I remained as I am… you would not stop loving me. If you ever—” She faltered, a tear threatening.

He crossed the space between them, the rain still glistening on his shoulders. “Cordelia,” he said firmly, “look at me.”

She did, reluctantly, and found his gaze steady, almost fierce.

“Every bit of you that I cherish, every reason I am drawn to you, it has nothing to do with your body. I adore your wit when you cut me down in conversation. I admire the way you remember every servant’s name.

The way your eyes flash when you disagree with me.

The way you read poetry as though the words were yours.

I could name a hundred more reasons, and not one has to do with the shape of your figure. ”

Her lips trembled, her carefully built composure cracking.

“You are not loved for your waist, Cordelia,” he said quietly. “You are loved for you.”

Only then did the word sink into her, that single, unguarded syllable he had let fall so naturally.

Loved.

Her breath caught almost imperceptibly. “You… love me?” she asked, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.

His expression softened, a slow, almost hesitant smile touching his lips. “Yes,” he said simply, as though it were the most certain truth in the world. “I love you.”

Something in her chest swelled, aching and sweet, as if every fear she had harbored these past years had been quietly overturned.

He went on, his tone gentler now. “I know you wanted freedom, to live life on your own terms. And now… I have taken care of everything regarding Lord Vernon and your inheritance. You may live exactly the life you desire. And you have a choice.” He paused, his eyes searching hers.

“You may do it alone… or you may do it with me.”

Cordelia’s lips parted, but no words came. Her heart seemed to have eclipsed her voice entirely. She sat there, silent, the force of her feeling for him so sudden, so complete, that it seemed to suspend her in place.

He misunderstood.

“I know I frightened you,” he said, his voice low, earnest. “When I struck Vernon. I know I have my father’s temper, his rage, but I am not my father, Cordelia. I would never harm you in any way.”

She cut across his words before he could say more. “I know that.”

He stilled, his eyes fixed on her.

“I know that,” she repeated, her voice breaking, “and I love you, too.”

Cordelia rose from her chair, the skirts of her gown whispering against the carpet. She crossed the small space between them until she could see the fine droplets of rain still clinging to his hair.

“I have wanted to hear those words for so long,” she said, her voice trembling with the force of it. “And yet I was so afraid that all you ever wished for was a marriage of convenience.”

A slow smile curved his mouth, not mocking but warm. “I was only giving you what I thought you wanted,” he replied. “And besides, there was the matter of Lord Vernon to resolve.”

At that name, her brow furrowed. “Did you… sort it out?”

“I did.” His voice carried a quiet satisfaction. “Greely has gathered proof of your rightful claim to your inheritance. And more than that, he has evidence of Vernon’s wrongdoings, serious enough to cost him his freedom, if the magistrates see fit.”

Cordelia’s breath left her in a sharp, unsteady exhale. “You cannot mean it.”

“I do mean it,” he said.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes stinging with sudden relief. She could scarcely remember a time in recent years when Lord Vernon’s shadow had not loomed over her: his threats, his insinuations, his poisonous presence. Now, with a few quiet words, that shadow was gone.

“I am free,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Truly free from him… and all because of you.”

“That may be so,” he replied, his gaze steady on hers. “But you are not free of me.”

A quiet laugh escaped her, part disbelief, part joy. “Good. I never wish to be free of you.”

Gently, he bent his head and kissed her. It was not the careful, dutiful kiss of a husband fulfilling an obligation but something warmer, deeper, as if all the unspoken words between them had found their way into the touch of his lips.

When they drew apart, she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. “You might have told me sooner,” she said though her eyes danced with joy.

“And risk frightening you away before you had the chance to fall in love with me?” he murmured.

She arched a brow. “Fall in love with you? Such presumption.”

His mouth curved. “Such certainty.”

That was when a gentle knock sounded at the doorway. Matilda’s voice followed, light with amusement. “May I join you now? I didn’t want to interrupt the kiss.”

Cordelia felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Yes,” she replied, smoothing her skirts. “It would be very nice to sit back down at the table and finish my dinner.”

Matilda stepped inside, her eyes flicking between them with a look that was polite enough to conceal, though not entirely banish, her curiosity.

“Your Grace,” she said to Mason, “would you care to join us?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he replied with a small bow.

They returned to the dining table, the silverware glinting in the candlelight.

Cordelia took her seat once more, and this time, she did not hesitate.

She cut into the pheasant, the savory scent rising warmly, and she ate with a quiet, unselfconscious delight, savoring every bite, as though each mouthful was an unspoken declaration that she was not only free but content.

And across the table, Mason watched her with a look that told her he understood.

Matilda, ever the consummate hostess, leaned forward with an impish glint in her eyes.

“You cannot imagine the scene. There was Lady Hensworth, sweeping grandly across the green as though she were the queen herself, when a gust of wind, an unkind, most ill-bred gust, snatched her hat clean from her head and sent it tumbling into the lane.”

Cordelia smiled, already picturing it.

“But that was only the beginning,” Matilda went on, her voice brimming with relish.

“The hat landed directly upon the head of a milk cow, who, whether startled by its new adornment or merely offended by the color, bolted across the road in a state of high indignation. Lady Hensworth, determined to reclaim her property, gave chase, shrieking all the while that her ostrich feathers cost more than the cow itself!”

By now, Cordelia’s laughter had spilled free, bright and unrestrained. Her fork remained poised halfway to her lips, forgotten in the sheer absurdity of the image. Mason’s deep, warm chuckle joined hers, rich enough to send a pleasant shiver through her.

For a moment, the room seemed to expand, its walls holding nothing but their laughter, as though all heaviness had been banished.

Cordelia caught her breath, eyes dancing with amusement, and glanced toward Mason only to find his gaze already fixed on her, the corner of his mouth still curved in that smile she was quickly learning to treasure.

And in that instant, it felt as though the world were no larger than the table they shared, and nothing beyond it could trouble them ever again.