Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Greyson descended the grand stairwell with the crisp precision of a man who had every minute of his day accounted for. His steward awaited him in the west corridor with a stack of reports regarding tenant leases.
He was halfway down the stairs when the front doors burst open.
It did not drift open. It was not eased open by a footman either. It burst.
Hazel swept inside like a gust of sunlight, and her eyes were dancing with a brightness that struck him as almost dangerous. She looked incandescent.
Greyson stilled mid-step. He had seen her calm, composed, anxious and determined. He had never seen this storm of joy, whirling through his entrance hall.
Before he could think to greet her, Hazel spotted him, and her face lit even further. “Your Grace!”
Greyson straightened automatically, preparing to give his customary, perfectly measured bow. “Hazel…”
Hazel flew up the last of the stairs and, without hesitation, without warning, without any regard for his carefully constructed emotional architecture, leaned up and pressed a quick, warm peck to his cheek.
Greyson froze. So did time.
The steward, waiting in the corridor, dropped an entire sheaf of papers.
Hazel stepped back with a bright, breathless smile. “Good afternoon.”
Greyson could not speak. For the first time in his very controlled adult life, he did not know how.
He felt the imprint of her lips burning against his cheek and spent every ounce of willpower he possessed not to lift his hand to the spot like some besotted fool.
“I…” he began, then stopped. Started again. Failed again.
Hazel’s smile only widened. “Yes?”
Greyson cleared his throat with unnecessary force. “You appear… in unusually fine spirits today.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Do I?”
“Yes.” His tone was too dry and stiff, but he could not help it. He was still recalibrating his existence. “You are… evidently… very uplifted.”
“That is one way to put it,” Hazel said lightly.
Greyson narrowed his gaze just slightly. “Is there a reason?”
Hazel hesitated. It was only a fraction of a pause, but he noticed it. “I am simply feeling happier. Lighter, I suppose.”
She did not elaborate. This bothered him more than it should have. And yet, there was something about her glow that kept him from pressing further.
“I see,” he said, though he did not. Not at all.
Hazel tilted her head, and her voice lulled into a conspiratorial softness. “I am going for a ride with my friends in Hyde Park… a spontaneous one.”
Greyson blinked. “Spontaneous,” he echoed, as if tasting a foreign concept.
“Yes,” Hazel laughed. “I was just going to change.”
She placed her foot on the first stair, then paused, turning back toward him with a sudden, curious brightness.
“Are you very busy, Your Grace?”
Greyson stiffened. Yes, he meant to say. He had a steward waiting. He had estate matters to review. He had an entire life calibrated around avoiding precisely these sorts of spontaneous, unpredictable invitations.
But before he could answer, Hazel’s gaze flicked to the steward standing down the corridor.
Greyson followed her glance. The steward, who had spent the last minute trying to blend into the wallpaper, began shaking his head with frantic urgency, mouthing silently: No, Your Grace. Not at all. Absolutely not. Later. Much later.
Hazel raised an expectant brow.
“I might not be,” Greyson said carefully.
Hazel chuckled, soft and incredulous. “You either are, or you are not, Greyson. Which one is it?”
He loved it when she wove his name into the conversation so effortlessly that she probably thought he didn’t even notice it.
He did.
He opened his mouth, closed it. He opened it again, the words forming of their own accord, words that shocked him as much as they would the entire household.
“I am not busy.”
Hazel’s smile bloomed, warm enough to melt the marble beneath their feet. “Excellent.”
Greyson’s heart executed some manner of discreet but alarming misbehavior.
She descended a step toward him, as her hands curled lightly along the banister. “Why don’t you join us on our spontaneous ride? It seems you could use one as well.”
Greyson almost choked.
Join them? Join a group of duchesses? In the park? Socially? Spontaneously?
Absolutely not. He had a thousand reasons. Good reasons. Practical reasons. He was a duke, he was busy, he was not fond of large gatherings, he was not fond of horse rides that were not meticulously scheduled, he was certainly not fond of anything described as spontaneous…
But then Hazel looked at him. Her eyes sparkled with delight, and that fresh freedom she had claimed earlier glowed through her like fire through glass. There was no expectation in her gaze, only a warm invitation to be by her side.
“I…” His voice failed him once, then twice. He tried again. “I could join you.”
Hazel brightened, completely unaware of the storm she had unearthed. “Wonderful! I shall be down shortly.”
She hurried up the stairs, leaving Greyson rooted to the marble. Only when she disappeared around the landing did he finally exhale.
Behind him, the steward murmured in a daze. “Your Grace… did you just agree to… unplanned leisure?”
Greyson shot him a murderous glare. “Prepare our horses.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the steward said at once, nearly tripping over himself in his hurry to obey.
Greyson looked back up the stairs Hazel had taken. He had no business agreeing to this. Yet he could not deny her, not when she looked at him the way she just had, as if he were capable of joining her in that strange, exhilarating lightness she carried within her.
Greyson Thornhill, the Duke of Callbury, master of restraint and order, whispered to the empty hall: “What am I doing?”
And for the first time in his life, he had absolutely no idea.
“Hazel!” Cordelia called over her shoulder the moment Hazel and Greyson caught up with their friends at the park. “We were beginning to think you had abandoned us! But I see that you’ve come armed with a husband!”
Hazel laughed, gathering her reins. “I assure you, I would never abandon any of you. Though I did half-expect His Grace to change his mind before we reached the park.”
“I heard that,” Greyson said, perfectly dry. He gave them all a polite bow. “Ladies.”
Evelyn turned in her saddle with a grin. “It is always a pleasure, Your Grace. We are merely astonished you joined us on this spontaneous outing. I’ve heard they are not your usual territory.”
Greyson inclined his head a fraction. “One must attempt new things… occasionally.”
Cordelia gasped. “Matilda, did he just attempt humor? Did anyone else hear it?”
Matilda gave her an indulgent look. “Cordelia, behave.”
“I am behaving! I am admiring the growth of character!”
Greyson cleared his throat, adjusting his posture to become even more correct. “I assure you, I am no more humorous than usual.”
“You are serious,” Cordelia declared with delight. “Remarkably so.”
Hazel bit back a smile. “Cordelia, you are going to frighten him off.”
“I do not frighten dukes,” Cordelia insisted. “I merely… startle them.”
Hazel guided her mare closer to Greyson’s, lowering her voice. “You may relax, you know.”
Greyson’s silver gaze flicked to her. “I am relaxed.”
He absolutely was not relaxed. His back was straight as an iron rod, and his gloved hands rested immaculately on the reins, as if he feared someone might judge him for holding them incorrectly.
Hazel softened. “They are not judging you.”
“I did not assume they were,” Greyson said at once.
Hazel arched a brow.
Greyson looked forward again. “I simply wish to show proper respect.”
“You are respectful,” Hazel murmured. “All I’m saying is that here, you don’t have to be a duke.”
Cordelia, overhearing, threw her arm out dramatically. “Yes, Your Grace, you may pretend we are not duchesses if it makes you more comfortable!”
Greyson gave her a look of muted horror.
Evelyn chimed in amusedly. “Truly, Your Grace, we have known Jasper too long. Nothing startles us now.”
“Exactly,” Matilda said serenely. “If we survived Cordelia’s wedding planning, we can survive anything.”
“I am right here, you know,” Cordelia reminded them, but all she managed to do was cause an explosion of giggles.
Greyson exhaled through his nose. Hazel couldn’t quite tell if he was annoyed or amused. But the stiffness in his shoulders eased by a fraction.
Hazel moved her mare even closer. “They see you, Greyson, not just the title you wear.” She smiled at him.
He almost smiled back. “Very well. I shall… attempt to appear less like a marble statue.”
Cordelia cheered as though he had announced a national holiday. “Progress!”
Evelyn added, laughing. “Next, we make him smile.”
Greyson narrowed his eyes. “Do not be absurd.”
Hazel laughed, feeling genuinely delighted. They were teasing him in a kind manner, but not dismissing him. They were not shrinking beneath his rank, nor using titles as shields. That was exactly what Hazel had wanted him to see.
About fifteen minutes later, they stopped by the Serpentine, where the sunlight flashed like scattered coins across the water. Cordelia was the first to hop down from her mare, nearly tripping over her own enthusiasm.
“Let us stretch our legs before I wither away entirely,” she declared.
Matilda laughed. “You rode for fifteen minutes.”
“That is quite long enough,” Cordelia insisted.
Hazel dismounted more carefully, smoothing her skirts.
Greyson dismounted as well, handing his reins to a waiting groom and stepping toward the water’s edge.
The others chatted behind them, but Greyson stood slightly apart, with his gaze fixed on the rippling surface.
His silver eyes seemed distant and pulled inward, as if the quiet stirred old thoughts he could not quite shake.
Hazel watched him. He appeared as though the world existed at a polite distance from him. Hazel felt an impulse, light and mischievous, and entirely unlike her usual self.
Perhaps he could do with a very small disruption.
She stepped lightly behind him.
“Your Grace,” she said sweetly.
He turned a little, though not fully. Her fingers darted up, and she stole his hat.
“Hazel?” he blinked at her.
She backed away with a grin, clutching the highly improper trophy. “If you stare any harder at the water, you shall summon it to speak.”
“Hazel…” he repeated with the faintest quiver of disbelief.
Cordelia gasped delightedly behind them. “Hazel! Did you just steal a duke’s hat in public?”
Matilda snorted. “I approve.”
Evelyn murmured. “Oh dear.”
Greyson stepped toward her. “Hazel, please… return the hat.”
“Come claim it,” Hazel teased, holding it just out of reach.
His eyes narrowed, and just as he took a step, a sudden gust of wind whipped across the water. Hazel felt the hat jerk from her grasp.
“No!” she yelped, lunging for it.
But the hat sailed on, ever so tragically and gracefully at the same time, falling directly into the shallows with a soft ploosh.
No one spoke. Cordelia clapped a hand over her mouth, while her eyes were enormous with delight. Evelyn looked stunned. Matilda’s lips twitched upward, fighting laughter with decorous dignity.
Hazel stared at the water in horror. “Oh… oh, dear. Greyson, I… that was not part of the plan.”
It most certainly was not.