Suddenly, the dining room door burst open without ceremony and Cordelia realized, much to her shock, that it was Mason. She stared at him, as startled as if he had stepped out of a dream. His coat was damp from the rain, the lapels askew, and a lock of dark hair had fallen over his brow. He looked entirely unlike the composed gentleman she was accustomed to presenting to the world.
“What on earth are you doing?” she demanded, her voice sharp with shock.
“I… I know this is sudden and rude, and I apologize to both of you,” he said, his breath still uneven. “I had no intention of disturbing your evening, but I must speak to you… at once.”
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the slow tick of the ormolu clock upon the mantel. Cordelia was aware of Matilda’s eyes darting between them, of the way her friend’s posture stiffened, almost knowingly.
Matilda rose with a quiet dignity, smoothing the folds of her gown. “I think,” she said gently, “that I shall give you some privacy.”
Cordelia watched her friend depart, the swish of silk rustling away into the hall, leaving her alone with the man who had just shattered her evening with urgency and perhaps, she hoped, with some truth she had not been meant to hear.
Cordelia folded her hands in her lap, spine stiff as she regarded him. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded again. “Could you not have called upon me at a normal hour like a normal person?”
“I could have,” he said, stepping further into the room, the door shutting behind him with a quiet thud. “But it is urgent.”
He stopped abruptly, his gaze falling upon the untouched pheasant upon her plate. It sat as it had been served, the meat scarcely disturbed, the sauce hardly touched. Matilda’s plate had been entirely bare.
His brow furrowed. “Cordelia… you have not eaten.”
She blinked at him, taken aback. “Do not be absurd. I am eating perfectly well.”
“No,” he said, his voice low but unyielding. “I have been watching you. These past weeks, you have barely eaten at all.”
“That is nonsense,” she replied, heat rising to her cheeks. “You have imagined it.”
“I have not,” he countered. “I know you, Cordelia. I know when something is amiss. And this… this is not you.”
She turned away, fingers tightening in her lap, but he pressed on, his tone neither scolding nor pitying.
At last, her voice broke, softer than she intended. “I did not wish to change.”
He stilled. “Change?”
Her eyes flicked to his then away again. “I told you how my mother always said that after a woman weds and after she bears children, she grows… fat and tiresome, and her husband ceases to look at her. She told me it was inevitable. I thought…” Her throat tightened, the words catching painfully. “I thought if I were careful, if I remained as I am… you would not stop loving me. If you ever—” She faltered, a tear threatening.
He crossed the space between them, the rain still glistening on his shoulders. “Cordelia,” he said firmly, “look at me.”
She did, reluctantly, and found his gaze steady, almost fierce.
“Every bit of you that I cherish, every reason I am drawn to you, it has nothing to do with your body. I adore your wit when you cut me down in conversation. I admire the way you remember every servant’s name. The way your eyes flash when you disagree with me. The way you read poetry as though the words were yours. I could name a hundred more reasons, and not one has to do with the shape of your figure.”
Her lips trembled, her carefully built composure cracking.
“You are not loved for your waist, Cordelia,” he said quietly. “You are loved for you.”
Only then did the word sink into her, that single, unguarded syllable he had let fall so naturally.
Loved.
Her breath caught almost imperceptibly. “You… love me?” she asked, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.
His expression softened, a slow, almost hesitant smile touching his lips. “Yes,” he said simply, as though it were the most certain truth in the world. “I love you.”
Something in her chest swelled, aching and sweet, as if every fear she had harbored these past years had been quietly overturned.
He went on, his tone gentler now. “I know you wanted freedom, to live life on your own terms. And now… I have taken care of everything regarding Lord Vernon and your inheritance. You may live exactly the life you desire. And you have a choice.” He paused, his eyes searching hers. “You may do it alone… or you may do it with me.”
Cordelia’s lips parted, but no words came. Her heart seemed to have eclipsed her voice entirely. She sat there, silent, the force of her feeling for him so sudden, so complete, that it seemed to suspend her in place.
