A sharp, restless heat rose in his chest. Before he could think better of it, his fist came down hard against the edge of the table. The jolt sent two plates clattering to the ground, shattering into jagged white shards at his feet.
The sound snapped him out of it.
He stared at the broken pieces, his breathing ragged, a flicker of shame curling through him. He had promised himself… no, he hadswornthat he would never let the shadow of his father’s temper touch him, that he would never give in to the same reckless anger that had made his childhood house so cold and unpredictable.
Yet here he was, standing over the ruins of a table setting because he couldn’t bear not understanding her.
If Cordelia had seen that… if she had looked at him with even a flicker of fear…
His jaw tightened. No. This couldn’t happen again. That kiss, whatever it had meant, would not be repeated. They would keep to their arrangement: polite, civil, a marriage in name only. It was the only way to be certain he would never frighten her.
Even if it meant closing the door on the warmth he’d almost let himself believe could be theirs.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The following morning, Mason entered the breakfast room before Cordelia had stirred. The early light caught the gleam of polished silver and the steam rising from the tea, but it did nothing to ease the tight knot in his chest.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice measured, neutral, almost formal.
“Good morning,” she replied softly, eyes flicking to his hands, noticing the deliberate restraint in every motion.
They sat across from each other, the breakfast laid out between them, a quiet barrier as tangible as the polished wood of the table. Mason kept his movements precise, avoiding glances that lingered too long, resisting the urge to reach for her hand or let his eyes trace the curve of her cheek as he so desperately wanted.
The room was calm, but Mason’s mind was anything but. Every memory of last night—the kiss, the warmth, the sudden fear oflosing control—pressed against him. He sipped his tea slowly, reminding himself that this polite distance, this cold civility, was the only way to protect her… and himself.
She, on the other hand, buttered her toast with slow precision, her gaze occasionally lifting to meet his before dropping again. Mason told himself he imagined the faint glimmer of amusement in her eyes. Cordelia’s voice carried easily across the breakfast table, light and unhurried, the kind of tone one might use when speaking to a skittish animal.
“The roses in the east garden are thriving,” she said, buttering her toast with deliberate care. “The pink ones especially… they’ve nearly overtaken the white.”
Mason didn’t look up from his plate. “I see.”
“And the weather…” She took a sip of tea, her eyes flicking to him over the rim of the cup. “It’s quite unseasonable for this time of year. Warm enough that I almost expect to see the orchard in bloom again.”
When she reached for the sugar bowl, her fingers brushed his. A fleeting touch, accidental by all appearances, but Mason knew her well enough now to suspect it wasn’t. He withdrew his hand smoothly, pretending not to notice the spark that shot through him at the contact.
“You’re unusually quiet this morning,” she said at last, tearing a piece of toast and popping it into her mouth.
“I have work to attend to,” he replied evenly. “There are matters requiring my attention.”
“Matters more important than conversation?” she asked, arching a brow in mild challenge.
He set his teacup down and gave her the faintest smile. “Conversation with you is never unimportant. But…” He left the thought unfinished, letting the silence swallow it.
Her lips curved, but there was no real humor in it. She leaned back in her chair, studying him with an expression he couldn’t read. “I see. Well, then, I shall not keep you.”
“Very well then,” he agreed, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin.
Just as Mason pushed back his chair, intending to rise, the door to the breakfast room opened, and his mother swept in, all brisk elegance and purposeful steps.
“There you both are,” she said, her smile warm as she took the seat at the head of the table. “I’ve just had the most delightful letter from Lady Weatherly; there will be a ball.”
Mason reached for his used napkin, folding it with care. “I can’t attend.”
His mother’s brows drew together. “You don’t even know when it is.”
He looked at her evenly. “When is it?”
“On Thursday,” she said, with the faintest edge of triumph in her voice.
