Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“… a
nd of course, Your Grace, we must have at least four footmen at the entrance. Anything less would simply look cheap.”
Hazel nearly dropped her teacup.
Her mother had been talking for the past twenty minutes without taking a breath.
Lady Belvington sat forward on the edge of her chair, with her hands fluttering with excitement, while Greyson Thornhill, the Duke of Callbury, sat rigidly opposite her.
The porcelain cup in his hand was held with the precision of a man handling a loaded pistol.
“Mama,” Hazel ventured, “perhaps—”
“No, Hazel, let me finish,” her mother insisted, waving her hand as though swatting away a gnat. “Now, Your Grace, I do think the gardens would suit a twilight ceremony. The lanterns will glow beautifully against the hedges.”
Greyson blinked once. “Lanterns.”
“Oh yes,” her mother breathed. “Hundreds of them. Perhaps thousands.”
Hazel nearly choked on her tea. “Mama, that sounds—”
“Glorious, I know,” her mother said, cutting her off again.
Patience and Chastity sat on a settee near the window, trying and failing to appear composed. Patience’s shoulders quivered with suppressed laughter. Chastity elbowed her sharply every time her giggles grew audible.
Hazel wanted to throttle them both.
Her mother obliviously continued. “And as for the orchestra, well, naturally, we must have a large ensemble. At least thirty musicians.”
Greyson’s brow crept upward a fraction. “Thirty.”
“Or forty,” her mother said airily. “Depending on the size of the chamber.”
Hazel set her cup down before she broke it. “Mama, please. This is my wedding—”
“Yes, and because it is your wedding, I must take charge,” her mother declared matter-of-factly.
Hazel stared. “That is not how that works.”
“Nonsense, dear. You’ve never planned a wedding. You would be lost.” She turned back to Greyson with a beam. “Don’t worry, Your Grace. Leave everything to me.”
Hazel shot Greyson a horrified look out of the corner of her eye. He was wearing that calm, unreadable composure. Hazel’s cheeks heated.
Then, Patience whispered loudly. “Mama, what about the swans?”
“No swans!” Hazel gasped.
Her mother clapped her hands. “Oh! Swans. Yes, Hazel, that is a wonderful idea.”
“I did not say—”
“Two should suffice,” her mother mused. “Four, if we need symmetry.”
Greyson’s head snapped toward Hazel. “Swans?”
Hazel groaned quietly. “Please ignore everything you’ve heard.”
Her mother was already rifling through a stack of papers. “Now, Your Grace, I took the liberty of drafting a list of color themes. We have blush gold, rose marble, midnight pearl…”
Hazel stared down at her folded hands, letting her mother’s voice wash over her like crashing waves.
Lanterns. Orchestras. Swans. Fireworks.
She no longer had the energy to argue. Every time she tried, her mother swatted her objections away with cheerful determination. Hazel felt herself slipping into that old, familiar numbness, the one she wore whenever her family became a force of nature she simply could not stop.
She inhaled, then exhaled. Her spine sagged. Perhaps she could endure it. Perhaps she could endure anything.
It was in that quiet moment of surrender that she felt Greyson’s attention shift. And then, just as her mother launched into a speech about imported Italian marble pillars for the ceremony arch, he spoke.
“Lady Belvington, I must express my concern.”
Her mother looked startled. “Concern, Your Grace?”
“Yes,” he said with polite firmness. “Your ideas are… ambitious. Admirable, certainly. But they would not work.”
Hazel’s head snapped up.
Greyson continued in a tone that was calm and absolutely reasonable. “Lanterns in such volume would pose a fire hazard. A thirty-piece orchestra may overwhelm guests in an enclosed space. Fireworks could disturb the neighboring residences. And I fear the swans—”
“Ah, yes, the swans,” Lady Belvington said delicately.
“They might become aggressive,” Greyson finished, completely serious. “Especially if startled by music or excited crowds.”
Chastity snorted. Patience choked on her tea.
Hazel’s mother blinked rapidly. “Aggressive?”
“Very,” Greyson said, nodding once as though this were an established fact. “I should not like our guests fighting off enraged waterfowl.”
Hazel pressed her lips together tightly, trying not to smile. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
Greyson leaned slightly forward and continued in a respectful but unyielding manner. “However… a ball held after the ceremony would allow for many of your excellent ideas, on a scale better suited to safety and decorum.”
Lady Belvington brightened instantly. “A ball?”
“Yes,” Greyson said smoothly. “A small celebratory gathering after a modest ceremony. It would allow your vision to shine in the appropriate setting.”
Hazel stared at him. He had not dismissed her mother.
He had redirected her logically and effectively, without her feeling as if her opinion did not matter.
On the contrary, he showed her how important her input was, and he simply molded her vision into something that suited him.
It was astonishing how easily he accomplished what she struggled to obtain with stubbornness.
Her mother clapped her hands. “A ball! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?”
Hazel gave a tiny cough.
Lady Belvington continued. “Oh, that is perfect, Your Grace. A ceremony for family and close acquaintances, and then a ball with all the lanterns and music and… well, perhaps not all the lanterns.”
Greyson inclined his head. “A wise compromise.”
Hazel could breathe again, for the first time since the moment the duke had stepped into their home.
“Well, then,” her mother stood up, “I’d best alert Cook to begin creating delicacies and… well, to rearrange the entire household!”
A moment later, she was gone, and the parlor felt blessedly quiet. Patience and Chastity perched attentively on the settee, pretending to be proper chaperones, though their eyes sparkled with poorly concealed fascination.
Hazel turned to Greyson.
“How on earth did you do that?” she demanded in a whisper. “I have never been able to handle Mama like that, not once in my entire life.”
Greyson lifted one shoulder in a quiet shrug. “I noticed you were uncomfortable. So, I offered a solution that would satisfy everyone.”
Hazel blinked at him. “That was not a solution. That was… sorcery.”
Chastity giggled behind her hand.
Greyson’s mouth twitched. It was almost, but not quite, a smile. “Hardly sorcery, Miss Thorne.”
Hazel shook her head incredulously. “No, truly. Mama has never listened to me. Ever. She listened to you as if you were an oracle arising from Delphi.”
Patience added, “She even stopped talking.”
Chastity nodded solemnly. “That never happens.”
Hazel ignored her sisters’ commentary and focused on the duke. “How did you manage it?”
Greyson folded his hands calmly. “It is merely a matter of practice.”
“Practice?” Hazel repeated. “Practice handling overly enthusiastic women?”
Chastity choked on her tea.
Greyson’s silver gaze flicked to Hazel. “Practice handling disputes and strong opinions. My tenants are fond of disagreements. My household staff even more so. And in the House of Lords…” He paused, choosing his words with care.
“Let us simply say that clarity and reason are the only weapons worth carrying.”
Hazel studied him with her brow raised. “So, you merely… reasoned with her?”
“Yes.”
“She never listens to reason,” Hazel muttered. “Not mine, at least.”
Greyson tilted his head slightly. “Then perhaps she needed to hear it from someone she considers impartial.”
Hazel blinked. “Impartial?”
“You and she are too close in the matter,” he said simply. “Emotion interferes. But I am… outside the equation.”
Hazel considered that. It made sense. It was actually unsettling how much sense it made. And yet, there was something reassuring in his tone, revealing that he followed the path of fairness.
“You handled it well.” She surprised herself with those words.
Greyson inclined his head. “It was the logical thing to do.”
“Logical isn’t always easy,” Hazel replied. “Or… kind.”
He didn’t say anything to that. He merely held her gaze.
She couldn’t get the word fairness out of her mind.
She liked fairness. She respected it. It was one of the few qualities she valued above all else, because she had spent her life surrounded by chaos, impulse, and emotion.
Fairness was calm and safe, and for the first time since this entire disaster began, she comprehended that Grayson Thornhill’s coldness wasn’t cruelty.
It was discipline, reason and control. And somehow, it didn’t repel her.
“Logic can be very helpful,” he suddenly added.
“It can?” she asked curiously.
“Well, during the ball, if the crowd becomes difficult or if the attention proves too much, you will be allowed to retire at any point, without attracting comment. It will be our wedding night, after all. No one will question where the bride has disappeared to. It is expected even.”
Hazel felt her breath catch. He was offering a perfect, simple escape from the overwhelming spectacle her mother was already constructing. It was a small mercy. One she hadn’t even dared to hope for.
Hazel’s heart thudded painfully in her chest.
Oh no, she thought miserably. Absolutely not. Do not react. Do not feel anything, you fool of a heart…
But her traitorous heart fluttered anyway.
She managed to speak, though it came out softer than she intended. “Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me.”
Greyson inclined his head. “I suspected as much.”
She couldn’t look away from him. Her heart would not allow it.
Patience leaned toward Chastity and whispered loudly. “They’re staring at each other.”
Chastity whispered back. “Do you think this is what courting looks like?”
Hazel groaned. Greyson blinked. The spell broke.
That was when the duke rose with his usual composed grace, offering a polite bow to Hazel and then another to her sisters, who very nearly curtsied themselves straight onto the floor.
“I should be going slowly. Ladies,” he said.
Chastity squeaked. Patience forgot how to breathe.
“Your Grace,” Hazel replied.
He inclined his head once more and departed the parlor, with the butler closing the door behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo through Hazel’s bones. The moment he was out of earshot, her sisters exploded.
Chastity clasped her hands dramatically beneath her chin. “Hazel, that was so romantic!”
“Utterly romantic,” Patience agreed. “Did you see the way he looked at you? Like you were the only person in the room!”
Hazel groaned and sank back into her chair. “I saw the way he looked at Mama’s swan plans. He was terrified.”
Chastity flopped onto the settee. “Still romantic.”
Patience nodded as if this were indisputable. “Very.”
Hazel glared at them. “None of this would be happening if the two of you hadn’t been in the duke’s room to begin with.”
Both girls froze, then wilted.
Patience twisted her fingers. “We’re… sorry?”
Chastity nudged her. “We are sorry. We didn’t mean to cause all this. But…” Her eyes brightened with unmistakable excitement. “You are going to marry a duke! Hazel, a duke!”
Patience clasped Hazel’s arm. “A duchess! You’ll be a duchess!”
Hazel stared at them. They stared back at her as though this were the culmination of some spectacular fairy tale instead of a social disaster wrapped in lace and panic.
Hazel sighed and reached for her tea. There was no point contradicting her sisters.
There was no point contradicting her mother.
There was absolutely no point in contradicting her father.
Not one member of her family would ever take her side in this matter.
They were too busy floating on clouds of excitement and noble titles.
So Hazel drank her tea and listened to her sisters drone on about color schemes, bridal flowers, wedding breakfasts, duchess lessons, and what her new signature might look like.
“Hazel Thornhill, Duchess of Callbury,” Chastity tested aloud. “Oh! It sounds so important.”
Patience clasped her hands to her heart. “You’ll have ladies curtsying to you! That must feel extraordinary.”
Hazel pressed her lips together to avoid saying something she would regret. Extraordinary was not the word she would use.
Inescapable, perhaps. Overwhelming. Inevitable.
But as her sisters continued to gush and spin dreams in the air, Hazel simply nodded when expected, hummed in vague agreement, and sipped her tea like a woman bracing herself for an unstoppable storm.