“Are you all right?” he asked at last, low-voiced.
Her fingers tightened around the brush’s handle. She lifted her eyes to his for a heartbeat then away.
“I will be,” she said, and the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.
Mason’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer then he moved away, crossing the room with an easy stride. At the window, he paused, one hand resting against the frame as though the night air beyond could provide the right words. His shoulders were set, yet there was a restlessness in him, as if his thoughts would not be stilled.
When he spoke again, it was not the question she expected. “Why did you choose never to marry?”
Her brush faltered in mid-air. “How do you know I chose it?” she asked, keeping her tone light though her pulse gave a sudden leap.
He glanced over his shoulder, his mouth curving faintly though not in mockery. “Because, Miss Brookes, it is plain you could have done so a dozen times over. You are beautiful,” he said this with the air of one stating a fact, not offering flattery, “but more than that, you are… bewitching. Clever. Amusing. Even an idiot would know you are a prize worth winning, and that is before one considers the fortune your guardian clutches so tightly.”
Cordelia laughed softly though the sound held little mirth. “You are very certain, Your Grace. Yet I assure you, there are those who would disagree with your assessment.”
“I should like to meet them,” he replied, turning fully toward her now, “for they would either be liars or fools.”
She shook her head, focusing her gaze on the dark strands spilling over her shoulder. “My mother,” she began slowly, “built her world upon the attention of men and the status she secured by marrying one. She placed her value there and there alone. I saw what it made of her, how little of herself remained when that attention waned. I decided I would not follow the same course.”
His expression softened though he said nothing, and so she went on. “I thought… if I could prove I was enough on my own, it would matter. That I could be more than what others saw. But…” She drew a breath, setting down the brush. “It hardly seems to matter now. All my efforts have brought me here, still bound to another’s will.”
She kept her gaze fixed upon the edge of the dressing table, tracing the grain of the wood as though it held some answer.The silence stretched, not uncomfortable exactly but perilous, as if one wrong word might send the fragile balance between them tilting into some unknown.
At last, he moved from the window. She felt, rather than saw, his presence draw nearer. He did not come close enough to touch her, yet the nearness was a kind of touch in itself, an awareness that prickled along her skin.
“Cordelia,” he said, her name low, almost hesitant. It startled her, for he so rarely spoke it without the formality ofMiss Brookes. “You are enough. More than enough. That you must even wonder at it…” He broke off, a muscle shifting in his jaw, as though the words had carried him further than he meant to go.
Her throat tightened. “It is easy for you to say such things, Your Grace. You have not spent years being told, directly and otherwise, that your worth hangs upon something as fickle as another’s regard.”
His eyes met hers then, and for one treacherous moment, she felt herself drawn toward him, as if his certainty might be borrowed, just for a breath. But she looked away quickly, unwilling to let him see the small fracture in her resolve.
“You are right,” he said quietly. “I have not.” His voice had lost its usual rakish lilt; it was something warmer now though edged with a weight she could not name. “But I have known what it is to be told one is not enough, to be measured against a standard no soul could ever meet.”
She glanced at him despite herself. There was no smirk now, no guarded amusement. Only a seriousness that seemed almost unfamiliar upon his face, and something else, something that unsettled her more than all his teasing ever had.
It was too much, and he was too near. She reached for her brush again, pretending absorption in the mundane task. “I thank you for your concern, truly. But I will manage. I always have.”
His hand lingered on the back of the chair, his gaze fixed upon her with a deliberation that made her pulse quicken. “What if,” he began slowly, “you were only married in name?”
Her head turned sharply. “I beg your pardon?”
“A marriage of convenience,” he clarified though the words seemed oddly unsuited to the warmth in his tone. “It would be a far better fate than squandering yourself upon a man like Vernon.”
Cordelia stared at him, certain she had misheard. Marriage… tohim? The very notion sent her thoughts scattering in all directions at once.
“That… would not be fair to you.”
“I fail to see the injustice,” he replied, stepping closer until the lamplight caught in the amber of his eyes. “You would be safe, your fortune beyond Vernon’s reach,and…” His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “… in a way, you would be helping me as well.”
She blinked. “Helping you?”
“Indeed. A duke must, sooner or later, marry. It saves me the trouble of enduring an endless parade of simpering debutantes and their scheming mamas.”
Despite herself, she laughed, and she couldn’t believe that she was laughing at a moment like this. “You are very sure of yourself, Your Grace.”
“It is one of my more tolerable faults,” he returned, the smirk becoming genuine. “And besides, you are far too sensible to make unreasonable demands of me. Imagine the bliss: no petty quarrels over who placed the silverware incorrectly, no arguments about whether I may ride out before breakfast. A model marriage.”
She shook her head though a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “You make it sound almost… tolerable.”
