That kindness was so effortless, so maddening that it cut deeper than any coldness could have. She wanted to seize him by the shoulders, shake him until his composure shattered, and demand to know why he was doing this to her.
Why he could be this man—steadfast, protective, good—and yet keep her at such a distance? Why didn’t he love her or wouldn’t he let himself love her?
But she only nodded, once more, as though they were discussing nothing more consequential than the weather.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Then she turned and left the room, her steps slow and deliberate until she reached the corridor. Only then did she let herself move quickly, almost urgently, toward her chamber.
There, she closed the door behind her, leaned against it for a moment, and drew in a long breath. She would pack tonight. She would leave in the morning. And she would pretend that her heart wasn’t breaking with each folded gown she placed in her trunk.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Mason stood at the tall windows of his study, one hand braced against the wooden frame, the other curled loosely at his side. The morning mist clung to the gardens, softening the edges of the world, but his gaze was fixed on the drive below.
Cordelia stepped into the carriage, her figure small yet impossibly poised, her chin lifted as though daring the world to see her falter. He could tell by the stiffness in her shoulders that she was holding herself together through sheer force of will.
He wanted to go to her. Every instinct in his body screamed for him to stride down the steps, stop the carriage door from closing, and tell her the truth: that Vernon could be beaten, that together they could weather any scandal or threat… that he needed her.
But he didn’t move.
The carriage door shut with a dull thud, and a moment later, the wheels began to turn. He watched it roll down the gravel drive, its dark shape growing smaller until it vanished through the gates and into the gray beyond.
She was better off without him. He told himself that again and again until the thought felt like truth instead of agony. He would see to it that she was safe, that she had everything she needed, that Vernon was kept far from her reach.
But he would not be the man she leaned on. His father’s blood flowed through his veins, volatile and dangerous. He had spent years mastering his temper, burying it deep. And yet, that night on the terrace, when he’d seen Vernon’s hands on her, the control he’d fought for had shattered in an instant. His rage had been absolute.
The last thing he wanted was for her to ever fear him.
He closed his eyes, his hand curling tighter against the window frame. Protecting her meant keeping her away from the darkness that lived inside him. Even if it meant she would never understand and even if it meant she might never forgive him.
He banished those thoughts aside, reminding himself that he had business to take care of. He put on his coat and jumped into his carriage which took him to the address Cordelia had given him. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone, refuse, and smoke from the row of chimney stacks overhead. He barely noticed.
The neighborhood stirred as he passed. Women leaning out of doorways paused their conversations to watch him, eyes narrowing in curiosity. A pair of ragged boys, bare footed despite the chill, whispered to each other before darting away, disappearing into an alley. His tailored coat and polished boots did not belong here, and he knew it, but he paid no heed to their stares.
He stopped before a splintered door with peeling paint, raising his hand to knock. The sound echoed dully through the cramped hallway beyond.
After a moment, the latch scraped, and the door swung inward.
The woman standing there bore little resemblance to Cordelia, and yet, in her eyes, which were utterly cold and appraising, he saw the faintest shadow of the daughter she had cast aside. Her hair was untidy, threaded with gray, and her gown, though once fine, was faded and fraying at the hems. She looked him up and down with the languid air of someone who had long ago learned to measure a person’s worth by the cut of his coat.
“What do you want?” she asked flatly, her voice edged with suspicion.
“I am Cordelia’s husband,” Mason said evenly. “There is something I wish to discuss with you.”
Her gaze sharpened then slid over him once more, as though tallying the cost of his boots, the quality of the wool in his coat,the weight of the signet ring on his hand. Slowly, a smirk tugged at her lips.
“Is that so?” she drawled, her tone shifting into something almost amused. She stepped back, pushing the door open wider. “Well, then… come in.”
The air inside was close and faintly sour, a mixture of stale perfume and the lingering smell of cooking fat. The narrow hallway led to a small parlor where mismatched furniture sagged beneath the weight of age. A single coal smoldered in the grate, giving off more smoke than warmth.
Mason stepped inside, his jaw tightening with nerves as her eyes lingered on him not with maternal warmth but with the same calculating interest she might give to a purse of coins.
She shut the door behind him with a soft click then crossed her arms and fixed him with a level stare.
“Well?” she said, her voice sharper now. “What is it you want from me? Did you marry my daughter for the money she stole from her father?” Her lips curled into a sneer. “Because let me be very clear, that money belongs to me.”
Mason’s frown deepened. “That money,” he said, his tone low and deliberate, “is Cordelia’s. It was left to her by her father.”
