“But that was only the beginning,” Matilda went on, her voice brimming with relish. “The hat landed directly upon the head of a milk cow, who, whether startled by its new adornment or merely offended by the color, bolted across the road in a state of high indignation. Lady Hensworth, determined to reclaim her property, gave chase, shrieking all the while that her ostrich feathers cost more than the cow itself!”
By now, Cordelia’s laughter had spilled free, bright and unrestrained. Her fork remained poised halfway to her lips, forgotten in the sheer absurdity of the image. Mason’s deep, warm chuckle joined hers, rich enough to send a pleasant shiver through her.
For a moment, the room seemed to expand, its walls holding nothing but their laughter, as though all heaviness had been banished. Cordelia caught her breath, eyes dancing with amusement, and glanced toward Mason only to find his gaze already fixed on her, the corner of his mouth still curved in that smile she was quickly learning to treasure.
And in that instant, it felt as though the world were no larger than the table they shared, and nothing beyond it could trouble them ever again.
Epilogue
“Aball!” Mason’s mother exclaimed with a joyful clap of her bejeweled hands. “I never thought I would see the day! Why I thought the day would come when Parliament dissolved itself before you agreed to such a thing. How on earth did this happen?”
From beside him, Cordelia’s lips curved innocently… far too innocently.
Mason sighed. “Ask your daughter-in-law. She appears to possess the singular ability to make me forget every reasonable objection I might have.”
The Dowager turned her bright, triumphant gaze to Cordelia. “My dear, I am utterly shocked and utterly delighted. We have not had a true ball at Galleon Hall in… oh, ten years at least! You must tell me everything, decorations, music, guest list…”
“I suppose,” Mason said dryly, “that my opinion on the matter of guest numbers will be entirely ignored?”
His mother waved a dismissive hand. “Naturally. One cannot hold a proper ball with a meagre list.”
Cordelia tilted her head, feigning solemnity. “We shall keep it modest. Perhaps no more than two hundred?”
Mason let out a short laugh. “Modest, is it? Remind me never to ask what you would call extravagant.”
The Duchess leaned toward Cordelia as if her son were no longer in the room. “I think the north gallery would do splendidly for the musicians. The light is lovely there, and we might hang fresh garlands along the banisters.”
“Yes,” Cordelia agreed, eyes bright. “And the terrace doors can be opened, so guests may step into the garden between dances. Lanterns along the path, perhaps.”
Mason raised a brow. “Shall I assume I will also be told what I am to wear in my own house?”
His mother gave him a sweet, falsely innocent smile. “Something dark, naturally, so that Cordelia may shine.”
He shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. They were already deep into decisions on flowers, musicians, andmenus, and he had the distinct feeling this “family discussion” would end with him simply nodding along.
“I daresay,” Mason began, leaning back with exaggerated patience, “that the decorations alone will bankrupt me.”
Cordelia’s eyes sparkled. “Nonsense. I shall limit myself to merely ensuring that the house looks magnificent enough to make every guest gasp.”
“Every guest andeveryrelative,” his mother added, waggling a finger at him. “Including your aunt Gertrude, who will inevitably find fault with the linens, the napkins, and perhaps even your waistcoat.”
Mason groaned theatrically. “Why must my every action be a subject for critique? Can one not host a ball without a tribunal present?”
Cordelia leaned closer, her smile mischievous. “You could, if you allowed me to manage it entirely. But then, of course, you might feel excluded.”
“I see,” he said, mock-stern. “So, my only role is to smile politely and hand out compliments at precisely the right intervals?”
“You may do more than that,” his mother said sweetly, “if you are capable.”
“I am capable ofdancing,” he replied, giving Cordelia a pointed glance. “And judging by the way you speak of waltzes, I suspect you have other intentions.”
Cordelia laughed, her fingers brushing his as she reached for a note of music. “Intentions? Only that you enjoy yourself.”
“Enjoy myself, yes,” he said with a faint smirk, “and perhaps survive the scrutiny of my mother and your relentless cheerfulness.”
“And I,” the Duchess said, “shall ensure that both of you are suitably mortified at the proper times.”
Mason shook his head again though the corners of his mouth twitched with reluctant amusement. The room hummed with Cordelia’s laughter and his mother’s further enthusiastic chatter about flowers, music, and seating arrangements.
