Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
“Where is it?” Hazel muttered, rifling through a rather alarming stack of papers on Greyson’s writing table.
She had not meant to make a mess. Truly, she hadn’t.
But after nearly slipping on an impressively detailed map of parliamentary districts and after discovering no fewer than three sealed envelopes labeled confidential, she began to suspect that the Duke of Callbury’s study was organized in a manner entirely contrary to common sense.
Not that she had come here to audit his paperwork.
She had come here with determination, with resolve, with a plan.
And that was mostly because she found herself thinking unbearably about his fingers.
The gentleness of Greyson’s attention followed her even after he had tended to her.
What unsettled her the most was how he showed her that even the smallest hurt mattered.
To be touched was nothing. To be tended to, however, and to be regarded with such concern, threatened a breach in all the careful walls she had raised. His touch made her feel secure. It made her feel precious.
And she couldn’t allow that.
That was why she was looking for the blasted estate inventory.
She lifted another sheet. That was not it. Another. Still not it. Then she stumbled onto a sketch, which appeared to be Jasper’s handwriting and looked suspiciously like a caricature of Greyson with devil horns.
“Honestly,” she whispered, staring at it. “Why are men like this?”
Hazel pressed her lips together, shoved Jasper’s artistic contribution aside, and resumed digging with renewed vigor.
If she were to execute her grand, heart-saving scheme, she needed information; specifically, which of the duke’s rural properties was farthest from London, had reliable household staff, and was an acceptable distance for her to pretend this marriage remained perfectly pleasant while simultaneously safe from… him.
Hazel shoved another stack aside. This was his fault, or at least partially his fault.
The memory from the afternoon before kept returning without her permission: his hands steady around her waist as he caught her, his breath brushing her cheek, his thumb grazing her wrist as he removed the splinter, the warmth of his lips against her skin.
A shiver interrupted her rummaging.
Absolutely unacceptable.
Hazel straightened, drawing herself up as though facing a row of misbehaving school children. “This is a marriage of convenience,” she reminded the empty study sternly. “Convenience. Practicality. Order.”
But Greyson Thornhill had no respect for order, at least not when it came to her and certainly not when he decided without warning or reason to flirt with her, or tease her, or look at her as though she were something precious.
Hazel’s pulse fluttered unpleasantly. No, not unpleasantly… dangerously.
“Well,” she murmured, leaning back over the writing table, “I shall simply remove myself from the… the trajectory of whatever it is he believes he is doing.”
Yes. That was sensible.
She could stay at one of the smaller estates. He had several; far too many for one man, in her opinion. One of them surely had comfortable rooms, a manageable household, and enough distractions to keep her from dwelling on kisses that did not quite happen.
She lifted another stack of documents. All she found were receipts, more correspondence, and a report on tenant repairs. But then, a sheet of parchment fell forward, sliding across the writing table like a whispered secret.
Hazel frowned. The document was neatly folded, sealed with a simple wax stamp. It didn’t look like anything official or bearing the duchy crest. This was something… personal.
She hesitated for a moment before unfolding it. What she saw made her breath catch. It revealed payments, which were regular and substantial, for a townhouse in London. It wasn’t in the duchy’s name, nor a political property.
Her stomach twisted as she realized it was a private lease, completely separate from the household accounts she had reviewed earlier. This was a rented London townhouse. For what purpose could he possibly—
Her heart gave a small, painful lurch.
A mistress.
Of course. What else would a duke maintain a private residence for? Convenient, discreet, close enough to visit without notice.
Ice trickled down Hazel’s spine. She sank slowly into his chair, with the paper trembling in her hands. For a marriage of convenience, he had been… attentive, and also affectionate in ways that confused her. Worse, tempted her.
But this made sense. This explained everything. It was not that he wanted her. It was not that he was flirting out of genuine feeling. It was guilt. It was kindness from a man who already received affection elsewhere.
Her throat tightened painfully.
“Well,” she whispered, almost laughing, “That settles it, doesn’t it?”
The jealousy that rushed through her was hot, sharp and utterly unexpected. It mortified her. She had no right. She had no claim on him. She had no expectation of loyalty or tenderness or anything beyond polite companionship.
But oh, how her heart clenched.
She looked at the lease again. The address was neatly written. If she needed a reason to leave… she had just found one. But she needed more than a reason. She needed certainty, closure, an end to whatever foolish, fragile hope had been stirring in her since the wedding.
Hazel reached for an ink pot and a scrap of paper. Her hand was surprisingly steady as she copied down the address.
She did not know what she intended to say to the woman. She had never confronted a mistress. She had no idea how one ought to address such a person, or what sort of conversation was appropriate, or whether she was more likely to faint or throw up.
But she had to speak to her. She had to know.
With trembling fingers, she folded the copied address and slipped it into her pocket.
If this was truly a marriage of convenience, if Greyson had other, private attachments, then Hazel would leave London as soon as possible.
She would reclaim her peace and not let him play with her heart any longer.
“I will face her,” she whispered. “And then I will go.”
The path she faced was painful, but at least it was clear. She would go at once, before she lost her courage, before her heart betrayed her further, before her husband could do any more damage without even knowing he was doing it.
The townhouse door had opened before she even finished knocking.
Hazel had prepared herself for a hostile butler, grim-faced and tight-lipped, sworn to secrecy regarding the duke’s mistress.
Instead, the door was filled by a cheerful woman of about fifty, round-faced and bright-eyed, who clasped her hands together in delight.
“Your Grace? My goodness! Welcome, welcome!”
Hazel blinked. That was certainly not the greeting she had expected.
“Oh, what a lovely surprise to have you here!” the woman exclaimed.
Hazel’s jaw went slack. “I… what?”
“Oh, but you must think me so silly,” the woman continued, bustling forward as though greeting a long-lost niece rather than her employer’s new wife, who should not, by any reasonable measure, be here. “I am Mrs. Atherton. Forgive me, I ought to have introduced myself immediately.”
Hazel stared at the woman, still speechless. Mrs. Atherton was either the most audacious woman Hazel had ever encountered or something utterly shocking was taking place. But before Hazel could gather a single coherent question, Mrs. Atherton ushered her inside with gentle but brisk efficiency.
“There we are, come in, come in, Your Grace. Oh, what a wonderful surprise! How kind of you to have come!”
“I… I beg your pardon?” Hazel managed, still at a loss.
Mrs. Atherton beamed. “Now, now, don’t you fret. She is having a very good day. And your arrival will brighten it further.”
She would brighten the day of her husband’s mistress? It was all utterly ridiculous. Hazel tried to speak, but nothing emerged.
The hallway was warm, tastefully furnished, with vases of fresh flowers and several paintings, none of which gave Hazel any clues as to whose house this truly was. This was certainly not the lair of a secret mistress.
Mrs. Atherton led her down the corridor. “This way, Your Grace. She is in the morning room.”
Hazel followed, dazed and hollow with confusion. Who waited?
Mrs. Atherton pushed open a bright, sunny door, revealing a large chamber lined with windows that let in the soft afternoon light. A vase of yellow roses brightened the corner. And near the window, in a high-backed chair, sat an older woman with her back turned, gazing out at the garden.
Hazel froze.
Mrs. Atherton lowered her voice, though excitement still bubbled beneath her words. “Go on, Your Grace. It’s quite all right. She would love to see you.”
Hazel’s feet felt impossibly heavy as she approached the chair.
The older woman was slender, and her hair was silvered with age and gathered neatly at the nape.
She seemed unaware of Hazel’s presence at first, and remained lostquiet, contemplative and fragile in a way that twisted something in Hazel’s chest.
She stepped closer, then she reached the woman’s side and finally saw her face. The sight made Hazel stop breathing, because the woman’s profile with its delicate cheekbones, familiar jawline and striking silver eyes dulled only by slight fatigue, was unmistakable.
It was Greyson’s face. It was older, gentler and lined with sorrow and time, but it was still absolutely and undeniably his.
Mrs. Atherton stepped behind Hazel and whispered warmly. “Your mother-in-law has been looking forward to meeting you.”
Hazel felt the world tilt. There was no mistress, no scandal, no betrayal. This was his mother, hidden away, unwell and protected from the world.
And Hazel had come to confront a woman who did not exist. Her throat tightened painfully.
“Oh,” Hazel whispered. “Oh dear.”
Her heart dropped to her feet. How terribly she had misjudged everything…
The older woman blinked slowly, her silver eyes shifting between Hazel and the window.
There was a softness there, but also a distant sorrow, which spread heavy and aching, the kind born of years rather than days.
It was the kind that had hollowed out Greyson’s voice when he’d spoken of her absence at the wedding.
Hazel swallowed hard, her throat tight with shame.
“I… I am so very sorry,” she whispered, unsure even what she apologized for: for doubting him, for assuming scandal where there was none, for not imagining that grief might take this shape. “I should not have… I did not know.”
Mrs. Atherton, bustling cheer incarnate, clasped her hands together. “Well! I shall fetch the scones. She loves the currant ones, you know. And a pot of tea. I shall bring it at once.”
“Oh, no, please, truly, that is not necessary,” Hazel protested, horrified by the thought of disturbing them further.
“Nonsense, Your Grace.” Mrs. Atherton beamed. “You could never be a bother, not to her, and certainly not to me. Now sit, sit! I shall return immediately.”
With surprising swiftness for a woman of her age, Mrs. Atherton hurried out, leaving Hazel alone with the Dowager Duchess.
Hazel clasped her hands together tightly. “It is a lovely home,” she said softly. It felt inadequate, but she needed to say something. “It is very warm and peaceful.”
The older woman did not respond, though her eyes flickered faintly, as if acknowledging Hazel’s words.
Hazel took a small breath. “And your son… he is a good man.”
There was still no spoken reply, only that quiet, lingering sorrow. Hazel winced inwardly. Everything she said felt shallow, like polite chatter at a tea table rather than something worthy of the moment or the woman before her.
She looked around the sunny room, seeking something to ground the conversation, to find a thread that might matter.
Her gaze landed on the bookshelf. This was not a grand library like the one in Callbury House.
This was a single shelf, modest, well-kept, filled with leather-bound volumes arranged meticulously.
Hazel felt her breath catch. The spines were worn from handling. Some had bookmarks resting halfway. Two had folded corners where someone had forgotten to smooth them.
Hazel turned back to the Dowager Duchess. The woman’s eyes, though still faraway, rested longingly on that shelf. Understanding bloomed in Hazel’s chest. She stepped closer to the older woman, lowering her voice to something earnest and real.
“You like stories,” Hazel said gently. “Don’t you?”
This time, the Dowager Duchess blinked, and for a fleeting instant, Hazel thought she saw something warming in those pale silver eyes. Recognition? Memory? Gratitude? Hazel didn’t know.
But it was something important.