She appeared.
Cordelia stood framed in the open light, the early summer breeze teasing the fabric of her gown, her hair gleaming like sunlight through honey. Slowly, she stepped onto the garden path, each movement measured, unhurried, as though she walked through a dream. Blossoms swayed on either side of her, their colors paling against the glow she carried.
Mason forgot to breathe. The restless shifting of the guests faded to nothing. All he saw was her, coming toward him, the space between them shrinking with every graceful step. And in that moment, he was utterly, helplessly, irrevocably lost.
She came to a stop before him, the sunlight spilling across her veil like a halo. The murmur of the guests softened to a hush.
“You look,” he murmured, bending just enough so only she could hear, “like a fairy from a childhood story my mother used to tell me.”
It was not the grandest compliment he had ever given, but in that instant, it felt the truest, the only one worthy of her. And he saw, clear as the summer sky, that the words struck her heart. Her eyes softened, shining in a way that made something tighten in his chest.
“Well,” she replied, her lips curving, “you do not look bad yourself… just?—”
She leaned in slightly, her hand rising to the edge of his coat. Her fingers brushed his collar, deft and unhurried, straightening it with a tenderness that stole the air from his lungs.
The faintest trace of her scent, something that was warm, fresh, and wholly her, wrapped around him like the warmest embrace. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, and for one dangerous heartbeat he imagined this was real. Not an arrangement, not a convenience, but a true beginning.
When he opened his eyes again, she was still there, looking at him with that small, knowing smile. And in that moment, Mason knew, with all the clarity of a man teetering on the edge of something irreversible, that he was utterly and helplessly lost before this woman.
The officiant’s voice rose above the soft rustle of leaves, his words weaving the ceremony into something gentle and steady. Mason barely heard them. His gaze stayed on Cordelia, on her serene expression, on the delicate way her hands folded around her bouquet and on the faint curve of her lips when their eyes met.
“…and do you, Mason Abernathy, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do,” he said, the words leaving him with startling ease.
“…and do you, Lady Cordelia Brookes, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Her eyes held his for a long moment before she spoke. “I do.”
A flicker of something fierce and unguarded passed through him at her answer. The officiant smiled, lifting his hands slightly. “Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce?—”
“I have an objection!”
The words rang out, sharp and cutting through the garden’s stillness like a struck bell. Gasps rippled through the guests. All heads turned toward the back of the garden, where a lone figure stood, his voice still echoing in the stunned quiet.
Mason’s jaw tightened, his hand instinctively finding Cordelia’s. The officiant froze mid-sentence. Cordelia’s breath caught in her throat. And the summer air, so bright and peaceful a moment before, now felt heavy with the weight of what would come next.
Chapter Twenty-Three
No. No. No. This can’t be happening.
The words pounded in Cordelia’s mind as though they might somehow undo what she was seeing. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and the edges of the world blurred.
Lord Vernon.
Her guardian, no… hergaolerstood there at the far end of the garden, his face flushed a mottled crimson and his voice loud enough to carry to the farthest row of guests.
“This is an outrage!” he declared, striding forward with the confidence of a man who believed himself wronged. “This was to be my own wedding, my own bride, stolen from me by the Duke of Galleon!”
Cordelia’s breath caught. Her foot shifted back instinctively, but Mason’s hand tightened around hers, warm and unyielding,keeping her steady. His presence was like a steel anchor in a tempest.
Vernon’s voice rose further as he pointed an accusatory finger at Mason, the gesture sharp enough to cut the air. “You have interfered in my affairs, Your Grace. She is mine by right and by prior understanding!”
Cordelia’s stomach twisted with dread. She wanted to speak, to deny every venomous word, but her throat seemed locked.
Then Mason moved not away from her but forward. In one smooth step he placed himself between her and Vernon, his broad shoulders a shield, his body blocking her entirely from view.
The murmurs among the guests grew louder, yet Mason’s voice, when it came, was calm and measured but carried the unmistakable edge of command.
