Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
They returned to Callbury House separately. Hazel had fully expected Greyson to remain behind with his mother, to have the moment she’d given him, but he had insisted on coming home as well.
And now, standing in the marble corridor, she wanted nothing more than to flee to her rooms, lock the door, and breathe again. She knew she had disobeyed him. She had done everything he told her not to. Even if the outcome had been miraculous, it was still done against his wishes.
She didn’t want to talk about it now, to have his scolding ruin the moment they had. So, she tried to run toward the staircase, but his voice caught her.
“Hazel.”
She closed her eyes briefly, gripping at the railing of the staircase.
No. No, no, no.
She was not ready to be scolded. She was not ready for disappointment or anger, or worse, a quiet, polite reminder of boundaries she had already shattered.
Drawing a breath, she turned. He was already close, much closer than she expected him to be.
“Before you tell me anything,” she rushed out, her hands lifting as if to ward off his words, “please allow me to expla—”
“Thank you.”
Hazel blinked.
“What?” she breathed.
He held her gaze for a moment, and she could see that same emotion she had witnessed in that sunlit sitting room.
“Thank you,” he repeated, and this was the first time that his voice sounded as if it were on the verge of breaking, “for giving me a moment with my mother I thought I would never have again.”
Hazel stared at him, utterly stunned. Her breath caught somewhere between her throat and her heart.
“I…” She swallowed. “You are thanking me?”
“Yes,” he said softly. “I am.”
She had imagined anger, resentment, and then, lastly, a lecture on boundaries or propriety or trust. She had not imagined this: him standing before her, vulnerable and grateful.
Hazel found her voice, though it felt barely steady. “I know I was wrong to disobey you. Truly, I do. I never meant to… to hurt you or go against your wishes. I only wanted to help her.”
“I know.” His tone was gentle, the softness of it sending something warm spiraling through her. “You always know what to do to help.”
He took a small step closer. His cologne nestled her senses into a deeper warmth. Then, he said something that rooted her to the floor.
“But… who helps you?”
Her lips parted. “I… I don’t need help.”
Greyson’s gaze lowered to her mouth for the briefest moment before rising again to her eyes. “Everyone needs help sometimes,” he murmured. “And you have proven that to me today.”
Her heart fluttered violently. He stepped closer again. The marble floor, the gilded sconces, the portraits lining the walls, they all blurred softly at the edges. All Hazel could see was him.
Their bodies were only inches apart now, close enough that she felt the heat of him, his breath against her cheek.
His voice dropped to a whisper meant only for her. “You gave my mother a piece of her life back.”
“You deserved that moment,” Hazel whispered back.
His hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed a stray curl from her cheek. Hazel’s breath shuddered. They stared at each other, suspended in a silence that felt like the air before a lightning strike.
Their faces drew closer. They were not touching, but they were achingly near. Hazel could feel the warmth of his breath ghost across her lips. Her own lips parted, instinctively. Her heart pounded so fiercely she wondered if he could hear it.
Just then, a sharp voice cut through the silence. “Your Grace?”
Hazel flinched backward. Greyson straightened so quickly it was as if someone had doused him in cold water.
A footman stood at the end of the corridor, holding a silver tray and wearing an expression of pure, innocent terror, because he knew exactly what he had interrupted.
“I… I beg your pardon, Your Graces,” the footman stammered, as his eyes darted everywhere except toward them. “I did not mean to intrude.”
Greyson cleared his throat, and every trace of vulnerability shattered behind his composed ducal exterior. “What is it?”
“The, ah, the carriage from Lymington House has arrived with the documents you requested, Your Grace.” The man dipped his head toward Greyson. “I was told to fetch you at once.”
“Very well,” Greyson said, though his voice held a faint roughness. “I will attend shortly.”
The footman bowed again and practically fled down the corridor, leaving an echoing silence in his wake. Hazel pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks, mortified and breathless. Her heart still raced violently, as though unaware that the moment had been broken.
Greyson stood a few paces away now, breathing unsteadily.
He was looking at the floor, but then dared to look at her again.
When he did, her heart almost stopped. There was longing in his gaze, unmistakable and real.
But there was fear, too. Fear for himself, herself, and the line they had nearly crossed.
Hazel swallowed, trying to gather the tatters of her composure.
“I… suppose I should go… upstairs,” she murmured.
“Yes,” Greyson said softly. “Perhaps.”
Neither moved at first. But then, Hazel forced herself to turn.
She took a step toward the staircase, then another, feeling the weight of his gaze on her back with each one.
When she reached the first stair, she dared a final glance over her shoulder.
Greyson was still standing exactly where she had left him, unable to look away.
She dipped her head and ascended the steps. Only when she reached the landing did she allow her hand to clutch the banister, steadying herself. Her heart still raced, and her lips still tingled with the ghost of what almost happened.
But worst of all, she wasn’t entirely certain that she would have stopped him, even if she should have.
Greyson walked toward the study with the long, measured strides of a man who wanted to appear in control.
He was failing.
He knew. The servants probably knew it. And most of all, Hazel had surely seen the shattering in him.
The corridor felt unbearably warm. His cravat felt too tight, as though someone had tied it with the intention to strangle him. His pulse thundered in his ears.
He reached the study door, paused, then forced himself inside.
The footman stood waiting, and behind him rested a stack of documents neatly arranged on a silver tray.
Greyson attempted to compose his features into something ducal, but the moment the footman bowed, Greyson realized he hadn’t even fully caught his breath.
“Your Grace,” the footman said, presenting the papers.
Greyson took them. He stared at them, but he saw none of the words, not a single line. His mind betrayed him, rushing back to the corridor, to Hazel’s wide eyes, to the trembling breath that left her lips when he leaned in, to the way she looked at him with such deep, raw wanting.
Fool.
He dragged a hand over his jaw, trying to steady the chaos inside him.
“Shall I… remain for a response, Your Grace?” the footman asked tentatively, clearly sensing something amiss.
Greyson blinked down at the man, as though seeing him for the first time. “No. That will be all.”
The footman left in a hurry, closing the door behind him with a soft click that still seemed too loud. Greyson let out a long, ragged breath. He set the documents on his writing table. Then, he immediately pushed them away. How could he read when he could not even think?
What had he done? What had he almost done?
He pressed his fists against the edge of the writing table, bowing his head.
Hazel’s scent lingered in his memory, lavender and sun-warmed linen.
Her breath had brushed his lips. Her eyes had softened, widened, opened for him.
And he had stepped toward her, so willingly, so instinctively, and so hungrily.
Greyson shut his eyes in torment. He had sworn to never give a woman the power to affect him this way, to never repeat the mistakes of his brother, who had loved so deeply it destroyed him.
And yet… Hazel was unraveling him thread by thread.
It was her kindness, her stubborn courage, her ability to walk into the darkest corners of his past and bring light without ever meaning to.
He had told her to leave the past buried. She ignored him. And somehow healed the part of him he kept buried with it.
He should be furious. He should be distant.
He should reestablish boundaries with the wife he had married for convenience, not affection, not longing that threatened to consume him entirely.
But all he could think about was that moment in the hallway, and the crushing certainty that if the servant had called out even one moment later, he would have kissed her.
And nothing between them would ever be the same again.
He surged to his feet, pacing the room like a caged animal. This could not continue. He could not let it continue. He was losing control of his emotions, of his restraint, of the very boundaries he had built to protect himself from the pain of love and loss.
And Hazel was the one person he could not afford to lose control with.