Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Hazel’s eyes, bright with challenge, flicked up to meet his. “I know why I constantly look at the crowd,” she said. “But what, pray tell, is stealing your attention?”
Greyson felt a sharp, unwelcome jolt in his chest. He had hoped she would not notice. But Hazel Thorne noticed everything.
He lowered his voice, letting it thread between them like a soft challenge. “Tell me, Duchess… are you jealous of the idea that I might have been looking at another lady?”
Her reaction was immediate and deeply gratifying. She blinked. Her breath caught. And then, to his absolute delight, a flush bloomed across her cheeks so vividly that even the dim candlelight could not hide it.
“Jealous?” she repeated, scandalized. “Of you looking at…” She paused, visibly grappling with the concept. “At some other lady?”
His mouth curved. “Yes. Does the thought bother you?”
Her spine straightened. “Of course not.”
“Not even a little?”
She sniffed primly. “Certainly not.”
Greyson very nearly laughed. “Your face says otherwise.”
Hazel’s blush deepened. “It does no such thing.”
“It does exactly that.”
“It does not,” she insisted, though her voice had gained a rather telling tightness.
He raised a brow. “Your nose scrunches when you lie.”
Hazel gasped. “It does not scrunch.”
“It does,” he assured her, unable to stop the warmth creeping into his tone. “Adorably.”
Now she looked personally offended and mortified. And, he realized with a startling jolt, utterly enchanting.
“You are imagining things,” she declared, forcing her gaze away from him. “I am not jealous. I merely…” She faltered.
“Yes?” he prompted, far too pleased.
“I merely dislike being misled,” she finished triumphantly. “If you were looking at another lady, I would prefer you simply say so.”
He stared at her, and he couldn’t help but be utterly amused by her reaction. “So, you would prefer I tell you whom I admire besides you?”
Her eyes snapped back to his, blazing with flustered indignation. “That is not what I…” Hazel tore her gaze from him, cheeks still flushed and dignity held together by what he suspected was sheer willpower. “You are utterly impossible,” she muttered.
Greyson felt the corner of his mouth lift. “Good. I like it.”
Her head snapped back toward him. “You like being impossible?”
“Very much,” he said. “Particularly when it vexes you.”
Hazel looked as though she longed to stomp on his foot in retaliation, but the orchestra, alas, demanded decorum. She inhaled sharply, visibly gathering herself.
“Well,” she said, in a tone too prim to be anything but defensive, “if you wish to keep your secrets, you may. I was merely inquiring because…” She hesitated, her lips pressing together.
He waited, curious to find out the reason she was willing to reveal on her own.
“… because I was worried,” she finished softly.
Greyson blinked. The breath left his chest in a tight, unexpected jolt.
“Worried?” he repeated.
She nodded, and she looked away, just over his shoulder, as if admitting such a thing directly to his face might strike her dead on the spot.
“Yes. You seemed… distracted. And if something were troubling you, well…” She swallowed. “It is our wedding day. And it seemed appropriate that… that we should talk. Sort things out, if needed.”
Greyson went still. Not outwardly, of course. Outwardly, his expression remained composed, but something inside him palpitated with unnerving force.
She was worried about him… not because she feared scandal or impropriety, not because it fit her sense of duty. She was worried for him.
The realization hit him like a hand closing around his lungs.
He cleared his throat. “You… were concerned for my well-being.”
“Of course,” she said, frowning at him as though he were being deliberately obtuse. “You are my husband. If something troubles you, I would rather know. What else is the point of this partnership if not to carry difficulties together?”
He stared at her.
Hazel, sensing the weight of his silence, immediately backtracked.
“Not that I assume you have difficulties,” she added quickly.
“You are certainly capable of handling them alone. But if you did… I mean, if anything were amiss, I would prefer honesty over evasiveness. Even if you think it unimportant.”
Greyson swallowed. She had no idea, absolutely none at all, how deeply those simple words pierced him and how entirely unprepared he was for someone to offer him concern without expectation, without manipulation, without demand.
For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. He looked down at the earnest sincerity in her eyes, finding fierce care she offered so naturally it almost startled her when she herself recognized it. The instinct to protect others seemed woven into her very being.
Against every instinct honed over years of discipline, distance, and silence, Greyson heard himself speak words he had not intended.
“It is nothing of consequence,” he began, then hesitated. He should have stopped there. He should have redirected the conversation, teased her again, and built his wall back up.
But Hazel was still watching him with that soft, disarming attentiveness, and against his better judgment, the truth slipped free.
“I had… hoped,” he said quietly, “that my mother might be able to attend.”
Hazel’s breath caught, though she did not interrupt.
“She was not well enough for the ceremony,” he continued, the words feeling strangely heavy as they left him, “and I doubted she would attend a ball. But still, I…” He looked away for the smallest moment. “I hoped.”
The admission hung between them, fragile as glass. And the instant it escaped him, regret struck like a blow.
Fool. Idiot! Why would you tell her that?
Her eyes beamed at him still, and there was no horror of confusion in them. Instead, he found something worse: a soft, aching sadness.
Greyson’s chest tightened with a sting of pure panic. He had not wanted pity, least of all from her. He could endure indifference, irritation, even her sharp tongue, but not that quiet ache in her eyes, not sympathy and certainly not the threat of questions he could not bear to answer.
He braced himself for them: for the inevitable inquiries, the gentle prodding, the unraveling he would not allow. If she asked more, if she pressed, it would end badly. They would argue. He would retreat. She would be hurt. Their delicate balance would crack before their marriage had even begun.
But Hazel did not ask. She shocked him instead.
“Well,” she murmured, “I am certain that if your mother were well enough, she would be here.”
Greyson stared at her. The words were so simple, so unstated in their kindness. They did not pry or pity. They only offered a truth that felt strangely like comfort instead of intrusion.
Hazel’s fingers shifted slightly in his hand, just enough to create the sense of contact, not pressure.
“She would not miss this day,” she added gently. “Not if she had any choice in the matter.”
Something in Greyson locked and loosened all at once.
He swallowed, unable to reply for a moment.
Unwelcome and unfamiliar emotion tightened his throat.
Her words were too careful, too considerate, too…
right. She did not tell him she was sorry.
She did not console him. She simply honored his mother’s absence with dignity.
Hazel Thorne was becoming dangerous: more dangerous than flirtation, than temptation, than desire, because without meaning to, without even trying, she was being kind. And kindness was far greater to him than beauty or wit.
He cleared his throat, forcing his composure back into place. “Thank you,” he told her.
Hazel nodded once, as though she understood precisely what that cost him.
That was when the final chords of the dance floated through the ballroom, lingering like a sigh.
Greyson felt Hazel begin to withdraw from the hold they had shared.
He hoped it was reluctantly, but propriety demanded it, and he released her hand with a composure he did not entirely feel.
Hazel dropped into a graceful curtsey. “Thank you for the dance, Your Grace.”
He bowed in return. “It was my pleasure.”
She straightened, and her expression softened. Just a little. “And… thank you,” she added quietly, “for your earlier compliments.” Her gaze flicked briefly to his. “I appreciate them, even if I… did not accept them as graciously as I might have.”
He felt a sudden loss of breath. “You need never thank me for telling you the truth.”
Her freckles brightened, betraying another blush, but she rallied quickly, grasping for composure as though she feared she might do something outrageous like smile tenderly at her new husband.
“Well,” she said briskly, clearing her throat, “I really must leave you for a moment.”
He blinked. “You must?”
She nodded, already surveying the room again with the focus of a hawk. “Chastity and Patience have been unsupervised for far too long.”
He exhaled slowly. “It has been, what? Thirty minutes of them being unsupervised?”
“Thirty-eight,” she corrected, and her lips tightened in alarm. “By now they could have… oh heavens, they could have painted the estate geese pink again.”
Greyson choked. “Again?”
Hazel waved this off as though goose defacement were a common seasonal ritual.
“Or set up an impromptu fortune-telling booth using the Viscount’s old playing cards.
Or…” She paused, and her eyes widened in shock.
“Or they might have discovered the musicians’ resting chamber. They do love instruments.”
Greyson was almost afraid to ask, but he did. “Love them how?”
She grimaced. “Poorly.”
A short, surprised laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
Hazel blinked at him. “What?”
Greyson brought a hand to his mouth, regaining composure with difficulty. “Nothing. Only, your sisters possess an admirable commitment to chaos.”
Hazel groaned. “Do not encourage them. Or they will adopt your praise as justification.” She gathered her skirts. “I am off to prevent calamity.”
She turned to go, but paused after two steps and glanced back at him, just long enough and just soft enough.
“Thank you… again… for the dance.”
Greyson inclined his head. “You are welcome, my Duchess.”
He smiled as he watched her go, not because he wanted to see where she was headed or to supervise her in any manner, but simply because he could not look away.
His wife was worried about him.
His wife was blushing at his compliments.
His wife was running off to prevent her sisters from painting livestock.
He should not smile. And yet, that was all he could do.