“I wasn’t very hungry.”
He gave her a sidelong look, one brow arched. “Which is exactly why we’re buying something substantial today. I need to make up for that sorry spread we called supper.”
Her lips curved in quiet amusement, but she didn’t argue further.
As they crested a small rise, the village below came into view, its narrow streets winding toward a lively square. The sound of distant fiddles and laughter floated up toward them, mingling with the tang of salt air. Mason gestured toward the bustle ahead.
“The festivities last two days,” he explained. “Yesterday was only the first. The square is full of events even now, games, stalls, music, all of it. Tonight will be livelier still.”
Her eyes lit with interest. “How wonderful. Then we must attend this evening.”
“We shall,” he assured her. “But first, provisions.”
“I thought you said the celebrations last all day,” she teased.
“They do,” he replied, lips twitching. “And that includes the part where we find something edible.”
They continued down the lane toward the growing sounds of merriment, the bright flutter of bunting and the warm chatter of villagers drawing them closer with every step. And though Mason’s thoughts lingered on food, a quieter part of him noted the way her face shone in the morning light, in that content, curious, and entirely unburdened manner, and decided he’d do anything to keep her looking that way.
The moment they stepped into the village square, the hum of life seemed to wrap around them. Fiddles and flutes struck upa lively tune from a small stage near the green, and ribbons of bright fabric fluttered from poles strung across the square. The air was rich with scents, fresh bread from a baker’s cart, roasted chestnuts, sugared almonds, and the sharp tang of the sea carried in on the breeze.
Mason slowed his stride, letting Cordelia take it all in. Her eyes darted from one sight to the next. There were children racing with painted wooden hoops, a man balancing three mugs of cider while a crowd cheered, and a circle of women in patterned shawls weaving ribbons around a maypole.
“That’s the rope climb,” he told her, nodding toward a tall post smeared with grease. A pair of determined boys were already halfway up, scrambling for the little purse of coins tied at the top. “Winner keeps the prize. Though, truth be told, the fun is watching them slide back down.”
She laughed softly, and he found himself smiling simply because she did.
“And over there,” he continued, pointing toward a booth draped in wildflowers, “is the fortune-teller. Mrs. Priddy’s been reading palms longer than I’ve been alive. She’ll tell you whether you’re destined for riches, misery, or something in between.”
Cordelia tilted her head, a faint crease forming between her brows. “Do people truly believe her?”
He smirked. “When she predicts good things, they do.”
Every few steps she stopped, her gaze was caught by some new curiosity, whether it was a pair of fiddlers trading tunes, a table of carved trinkets or the shimmer of ribbons in the afternoon sun. Mason found himself watching her more than the festivities, relishing the unguarded delight in her expression. There was no trace of London’s careful composure here, no shadow of her guarded smiles. She looked as though the world were entirely new to her, and he would have gladly spent the whole day just walking at her side, showing her every last corner of it.
That was when Mason spotted two women weaving through the crowd toward them. They were familiar faces, both rosy-cheeked and wide-eyed with their simple gowns brightened with the token ribbons of the festival.
“Your Grace!” one of them exclaimed as they drew near, their surprise more than evident.
“We didn’t expect to see you here until after the festivities!”
The other nodded quickly. “Aye, Sir, we thought you were to arrive tomorrow?—”
“There was apparently some… miscommunication,” Mason said with an easy smile, not wishing to make more of it than it was.
Both young women looked instantly stricken, exchanging anxious glances before launching into overlapping apologies. “We’re so sorry, Sir—truly, we didn’t know—if we’d been told?—”
“It’s quite all right,” he cut in gently, holding up a hand. “No one is to blame.”
Still, they looked as though they might dissolve into mortified tears right there in the middle of the square. “We should come at once, Sir, right away,” one began, already glancing toward the road. “The house will be put to rights before?—”
Before Mason could speak again, Cordelia stepped forward, her voice kind but firm. “No, you mustn’t. That wouldn’t be fair to miss the celebrations. Please, stay and enjoy the day.”
The girls blinked at her in surprise then smiled genuine, relieved smiles that warmed Mason’s chest. He wasn’t surprised at all. It sounded precisely like something Cordelia would say, her instinct toward kindness as natural as breathing.
“Well,” he said, his voice carrying a faint note of pride, “allow me to introduce my wife, Her Grace, the Duchess of Galleon.”
The two servants curtsied deeply, their eyes bright with admiration. “Your Grace,” they chimed together, the sincerity in their voices making the moment feel unexpectedly sweet.
