For that brief, fleeting time, the worries of London, the shadows of guardians, and the complexities of their “marriage of convenience” fell away. All that remained was the warmth of her hand in his, the soft music of the fiddles, and the laughter that floated between them. And in that, Mason felt, perhaps for the first time in a long while, entirely, recklessly alive.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Oh, Mason, look at these apples! They’re almost too perfect to eat!” Cordelia’s voice trilled with excitement, and she held one up to the sunlight, turning it this way and that.
Mason laughed, following her from stall to stall, his amber eyes catching hers in quiet amusement. “If you say so. Then I suppose we must take the lot,” he said, gesturing to the whole crate with a playful bow.
She clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, do, please! I simply cannot choose; everything looks so lovely!”
He indulged her, picking up a wedge of cheese here, a basket of berries there, adding a carefully corked bottle of wine last, and placing it all in a small basket. Cordelia’s gaze never left him, a mixture of gratitude and wide-eyed wonder painting her expression.
“You are far too generous, Mason,” she said softly, but her eyes twinkled like a child discovering a secret garden.
“Nonsense,” he replied, brushing off her words with a grin. “You shall have whatever pleases you. This is no time for restraint.”
She twirled slightly, her skirts brushing the cobblestones, her laughter ringing in his ears, and he felt an unbidden warmth in his chest. She paused to peer at a stall selling delicate pastries then turned toward him, eyes shining. “And you,” she said, her voice half-teasing, half-serious, “you must try some too. You cannot simply provide without partaking.”
He raised a brow, but there was no real objection in him. “Very well, then. I suppose I must endure the pleasures of the market as well.”
Her delighted squeal of agreement made him chuckle, and he followed her further, the basket growing heavier but his step lighter.
Finding a stall with fresh bread, Cordelia’s fingers hovered over the loaves of bread as she inhaled their warm, yeasty scent.
“Oh, these smell divine,” she murmured, turning one carefully in her hands.
A voice behind her caught her attention. “Cordelia, you may select whatever pleases you today,” Mason said, nodding to the vendor. “Wrap them all up for the lady if she wishes.”
The vendor, a cheerful man with flour-dusted sleeves, bowed slightly. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said, smiling.
Cordelia heard his words but did not lift her eyes from the bread. Mason stepped back, lowering his voice. “I’ll be right back,” he told her, and he disappeared toward the next stall, leaving her to her fragrant task.
“First time at the festival, Your Grace?” the vendor asked, leaning slightly closer, as if confiding a secret.
“Oh, yes!” Cordelia exclaimed, her cheeks coloring with excitement. “It’s all so splendid! I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The man chuckled, gesturing toward the colorful stalls and the ribbons fluttering overhead. “Ah, you’re in for a treat then. Tonight, the dancers perform under lanterns, and there’s music that lasts till midnight. The children race through the square with torches, and there’s a pie contest that draws folks from all the villages around.”
Cordelia’s eyes widened, and she nodded eagerly. “I cannot wait! It all sounds so delightful. Thank you for telling me.”
She chose a few loaves, the crusts golden and warm, and the vendor wrapped them carefully.
She held one of the wrapped loaves close, enjoying the warmth that seeped through the paper. “And the pie contest… does someone actually win?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.
The vendor chuckled, nodding. “Oh, indeed, Madam. Every year, the baker from Eastwood claims the prize though the judges change; the crust must be perfect, the filling generous and sweet. Folks come from miles to see if anyone can beat him.”
She leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “And has anyone ever beaten him?”
“Once,” he admitted with a grin. “A young girl, only seventeen, made a raspberry tart that stunned the judges. They say she still bakes in the village though she keeps her secret ingredients close to her heart.”
Cordelia clutched the bread a little tighter, her eyes shining. “How marvelous! I wish I could see it or taste it!”
“You might, Your Grace,” he said kindly, “if you wander the square this evening. There’s room for everyone to watch, and a proper crowd always gathers near the judges’ table.”
She smiled, her excitement bubbling over. “I shall! I want to see everything, hear everything, and try everything if I can. It all seems so… alive!”
The vendor laughed, a warm, easy sound. “Aye, Your Grace, that’s the spirit! Enjoy it while it lasts, for these celebrations bring the village together like nothing else. You’ll remember it for years.”
Cordelia nodded, eyes still wide. “I already know I will. Thank you for sharing all of this with me.”
