Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
“This is a remarkable opportunity for us, Hazel. Truly remarkable.”
Her father’s voice echoed off the marble floors of the Belvington townhouse foyer, drifting into the corridor where Hazel stood waiting, her hand resting lightly on her father’s arm.
Beyond the tall double doors, she could hear the murmur of guests gathering in the grand hall. The ceremony would begin in moments.
Hazel forced herself to swallow, but her throat was tight in her lace collar. “Yes, Papa.”
Lord Belvington adjusted his cuffs with brisk satisfaction. “You are about to become a duchess, Hazel. Think of the weight that title carries, the influence, the respect.”
Hazel nodded. The respect and the influence didn’t feel even remotely as if they would belong to her.
“This is the sort of union people dream of, you know. A union that elevates everyone.”
Hazel tightened her grip on his arm to keep herself steady.
He did not notice. Her heart thudded painfully under the bodice of her wedding gown.
It was simple, elegant, and of course, chosen by her mother with no regard for Hazel’s opinion.
Her veil hung light as air behind her, though it felt like a net trapping her in place.
She tried to draw breath, but her lungs seemed to resist.
“Papa,” she murmured, not even knowing what she wanted to say.
He turned to her with a warm, paternal smile she was not accustomed to. “You will do splendidly, Hazel. You always do.”
Hazel stared at him, at his pride, his certainty, his utter lack of hesitation and felt a hollowness open inside her.
Was anyone going to ask her if she wanted this? If she was ready? If she was afraid?
No. No one ever did.
Lord Belvington patted her hand, mistaking her silence for nerves. “Do not fret. Greyson Thornhill is an excellent man, well respected. He runs one of the finest estates in the country.”
Hazel let out a soft, brittle sound. “Yes, Papa.”
Then her father leaned closer, lowering his voice. “This marriage will secure you for life. You should be grateful.”
Grateful.
The word landed like a stone in her stomach.
Another murmur rose beyond the doors, and a soft trill of violins began. It was the signal.
Her father straightened proudly. “It is time.”
Hazel’s pulse quickened, fluttering like a terrified bird against her ribs. She dug her nails gently into the satin of her gloves, steadying herself. In a few steps, everything would be sealed: her freedom, her future, he fate.
Hazel drew in a slow breath, and together, she and her father walked toward the grand hall to meet the man she was about to marry.
A moment later, the double doors swept open, and a collective gasp rippled through the grand hall, lifting the fine veil at Hazel’s temples.
Her father stepped forward with polished confidence, guiding her into the light.
Hazel, however, felt as though she were moving underwater. Her family’s hall never looked so vast. There were cascades of flowers and rows upon rows of familiar and unfamiliar faces turning toward her in awe. But all of it blurred, because at the far end of the aisle, the duke stood waiting.
Her breath caught. He stood with the rigid dignity of a soldier, with his hands clasped behind his back and his expression carved from marble. His black coat was cut perfectly to his tall, athletic frame, while the deep silver of his cravat echoed the chilling color of his eyes.
He was breathtaking. He was devastating. As much as she hated to admit it, he was utterly magnificent.
Hazel’s heart gave one violent, traitorous pang. Her legs wobbled slightly beneath her gown. He looked so imposing, so assured in his stillness, that she almost forgot how to breathe. There was no warmth in his gaze, none at all, but there was strength, presence and a sense of unwavering control.
She had known he was handsome. Everyone did. Gossip spoke of his face and form with the same reverence used for Greek statues and myths. But seeing him here, waiting for her… it unsettled her more deeply than she cared to admit.
He turned his head slightly as she approached, and for the briefest flicker of a second, so quick she might have imagined it, something almost like awe or surprise flickered through his eyes. Then, it was gone, replaced once again by the impeccable composure she knew too well.
Hazel forced her feet forward. One step, then another. Her father’s arm remained steady beneath her hand, anchoring her even as her heart skittered dangerously inside her chest.
Everyone was watching. Everyone was whispering. Everyone was marveling.
But Hazel saw only him.
Greyson Thornhill.
Her future, her fate, her impossible, irresistibly handsome duke.
For a man who prided himself on composure, Greyson Thornhill found himself… unsettled.
Hazel Thorne stepped into the grand hall on her father’s arm, with sunlight falling over her like a soft blessing, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
It was not because she was beautiful in the conventional sense, though she was. It was not because her gown floated around her like mist, or because the guests audibly gasped.
It was her eyes; those wide, steady, resilient eyes, the color of warm hazel wood in late autumn, the same eyes that held a thousand quiet burdens and still faced the world without flinching.
While everyone else stared at her gown or her figure or the elegance of her veil, Greyson saw her resolve, the way she lifted her chin ever so slightly, even as nerves tightened her shoulders.
The freckles dusted over her nose stood out faintly beneath her veil, like stars scattered across pale skin.
And then he noticed something no one else ever bothered to see: her hands. Her fingers trembled, curling against her father’s arm. She held her bouquet too tightly, not out of vanity or ceremony, but because she was anchoring herself.
He admired that. He respected it.
By the time she reached him, Greyson’s pulse had steadied again. His face had regained its usual cold mask, but there was an uncomfortable warmth in his chest.
Hazel stopped at his side. For a moment, she did not look at him. He saw the rise and fall of her breath. Her posture was straight, but strained. And then, before he had formed a conscious thought, his hand moved.
It was instinct, a betrayal of all the control he cherished. His fingers brushed the back of her gloved hand. It was not a hold, much less a caress, but there was enough pressure to tell her that she was not alone.
Hazel startled. A tiny, almost imperceptible breath left her lips. She blinked up at him, and somehow, her entire body steadied. Her shoulders loosened. Her trembling eased.
He almost smiled to himself, for he had done that. Perhaps no one else noticed, but he did. He felt the faint but unmistakable ripple of relief that moved through her.
He kept her hand in his. “Breathe, Hazel,” he whispered.
Her eyes were vulnerable and grateful. He had meant only to help her through the moment. Nothing more. But as the ceremony began and Hazel lifted her gaze toward him again, more of that warm tidal wave washed over him, settling somewhere beneath his ribs.
The officiant cleared his throat, and the murmurs in the hall fell into reverent silence.
“Dearly beloved…”
Greyson’s jaw tightened not from nerves, but from the weight of responsibility settling formally, publicly, on his shoulders.
Duty, he understood. Duty he excelled at.
But marriage? He would handle it with the same iron discipline.
If Hazel sensed his internal resolve, she gave no sign. She stared straight ahead as though she were reminding herself to stand tall, to breathe, to survive this.
The officiant’s voice rose again.
“We are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony…”
Hazel inhaled sharply as the ceremony began, but she did not falter. She was strong. Steady in ways people overlooked. Trembling fingers or not, she met the moment with quiet fortitude. He respected that more than he had expected.
The officiant turned slightly. “If anyone here knows a reason these two should not be joined in matrimony, speak now…”
Greyson nearly snorted. No one would dare to. No one dared to even breathe louder than necessary.
“Very well,” the officiant said. “Let us proceed.”
He spoke to Greyson first. “Your Grace, will you have this woman to your wedded wife?”
Greyson looked directly at Hazel. Her lashes fluttered. Her throat bobbed with a swallow.
He answered firmly. “I will.”
Hazel’s breath hitched, but only Greyson caught the sound. Then the officiant turned to her.
“And do you, Hazel Thorne, take this man to be your wedded husband?”
Hazel’s lips parted. For one terrifying second, Greyson wondered if she would speak at all, or if her nerves and her uncertainty would weigh more. Then she looked up at him, and her voice filled the space between them.
“I do.”
The officiant nodded, smiling now.
“Then I hereby pronounce you husband and wife.”
A murmur swept through the hall, an amalgamation of excitement, admiration and curiosity.
“You may seal your union with a kiss.”
Greyson felt Hazel stiffen. Her breath caught. And he remembered his promise.
So, he lowered his head slowly, giving her time and watching her eyes widen behind the veil. She looked fragile in that breath of silence, fragile in the way of someone bracing for impact, someone expecting to endure rather than to be cherished, which was what someone like her deserved.
He swallowed heavily. He would not be the man she feared or the man who would repeat the sins of others. He would not harm her, not even by accident.
Ever so slowly, he lifted a hand and brushed the edge of her veil aside, clearing a path to her cheek. His fingers did not touch her skin. They hovered just near it, careful and asking permission without words.
Hazel’s breath trembled out in a tiny exhalation. She didn’t step back. So he bent toward her, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin through the veil. He could see her entire body still like a deer poised to flee.
Then, his lips met her cheek with a care he didn’t even know he possessed. It was just a whisper of a kiss, barely a touch. It was a kiss with no claim, no demand and no passion. It was only a promise.
I will not take more from you than you wish to give. You are safe with me, even from me.
He lingered for the smallest heartbeat, just long enough that she felt the sincerity behind the gesture, and then he withdrew.
When he pulled back, Hazel’s eyes were wide, stunned…
but not frightened. Her cheeks glowed faintly beneath her veil, and her lips parted as though she meant to speak, but applause drowned out whatever words she might have found.
Greyson straightened, and a mask of composure returned to his face, but his heart felt strangely unbalanced. Because in giving her safety, he felt he was taking something away from himself, something he didn’t even own and didn’t even know if he needed.