Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hazel woke with an uncharacteristic lightness, as if her heart had woken before the rest of her. For a brief, drowsy moment, she lay still, staring at the soft drapery above her bed, with Greyson’s book resting warm against her head on the pillow.
She pressed her hand lightly to her chest, feeling a flutter there that she could no longer pretend was anything but what it was.
She needed to see him, to thank him, to tell him what he had shared was more precious than jewels or declarations could ever be.
Hazel practically flew from her bed, dressing with a haste that startled her lady’s maid, who was unaccustomed to the duchess wishing to be anywhere before breakfast. Hazel barely paused to pin her hair, leaving a few rebellious curls to arrange themselves, before hurrying down the corridor.
The dining hall doors stood open, and she stepped inside, but it was empty. Momentarily, her smile faltered. Only a footman was present, adjusting the silverware on the long table.
Hazel cleared her throat gently. “Good morning. Has His Grace breakfasted already?”
The footman bowed. “Good morning, Your Grace. The duke did not dine here this morning.”
“Oh.” Her heart dipped strangely. “Do you know where he is?”
Before the footman could answer, two maids entered carrying a tray of fresh bread and fruit. Hazel turned toward them.
“Excuse me,” she said, trying not to sound breathless, “have either of you seen His Grace this morning?”
The younger maid bobbed a curtsy. “Oh yes, Your Grace. The duke left quite early. Before any of us were downstairs.”
Hazel tried to hide her disappointment. “I see. Did he… mention where he was headed?”
The older maid smiled warmly. “He said he was visitin’ the Dowager first thing, Your Grace. Then somethin’ about affairs in town.”
Hazel’s heart softened at once. She pictured him in the Dowager’s sitting room, sitting quietly beside her, perhaps reading to her, or perhaps simply being present. That image alone sent warmth flowing through Hazel. Still, she had hoped to see him before he headed out.
The younger maid hesitated, then added shyly. “He seemed in very good spirits, Your Grace.”
Hazel blinked. “He did?”
“Oh yes,” the maid continued. “Walked out with a certain lightness, if you don’t mind my sayin’. Haven’t seen him look so… well, content, in quite some time.”
Hazel felt her cheeks warm. Was he content because of his mother, because of what happened there? Or perhaps, was it because of… her?
She pressed her hands together, steadying herself.
“Thank you,” she said gently. “That will be all.”
The maids curtsied again and moved on with their tasks. Hazel stood for another moment in the doorway, staring at the empty table as if Greyson might somehow materialize out of the sunlight. Of course, he did not.
The footman stepped forward, bowing politely. “Your Grace… shall I bring breakfast? There is fresh bread from the ovens this morning.”
Hazel let out a soft breath, smoothing her skirts. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I might as well have some.” She lifted a hand with a small, helpless gesture. “Seeing I am in no rush anywhere.”
The footman hid a smile, rather politely, but Hazel caught it.
I must be more obvious than I meant to be.
She took her place at the table, folding her napkin over her lap.
The footman set down a plate with warm bread, fruit, and a small pot of tea.
Hazel poured herself a cup and tried to focus on the quiet comfort of breakfast. The first bite of bread had barely reached her lips when the butler appeared at the doorway.
“Your Grace,” he announced with a touch of apology, “you have visitors.”
Hazel blinked. “Visitors?”
The butler stepped aside.
Patience and Chastity swept in like spring breezes, wearing bonnets and enthusiasm.
“Hazel!”
“There you are!”
Hazel nearly dropped her teacup. “Girls? Again?”
Chastity swept forward with dramatic purpose. “Yes, again. We require your assistance today.”
Patience nodded, curls bouncing. “Desperately.”
Hazel blinked. “With what, exactly?”
Chastity clasped her hands as though delivering tragic news. “I must have a new bonnet. My current one is simply unacceptable for the spring promenade.”
“And,” Patience added, “Chastity needs new fabric for a gown. Something elegant. Something breathtaking. Something that will make certain gentlemen faint.”
Chastity swatted her sister. “Not faint, just take notice.”
Hazel set her teacup down carefully. “Girls…”
Patience leaned in. “Will you come with us, Hazel? Please?”
“Yes,” Chastity added, “we value your advice very much. Why, without it, we’d end up dressed like a pair of confused tulips.”
Hazel couldn’t help but chuckle.
“That is not at all what we agreed to say,” Patience muttered.
Hazel opened her mouth to decline gently, but decline all the same.
She wanted to stay home today, to stay near the front hall, near the study, anywhere she might hear the door open.
Her fingers brushed unconsciously against the sleeve of her gown, the arm that had held his book all night next to her in bed. A warm ache rose in her chest.
She wanted to see him, because she had so much to tell him, but the maids said he’d gone into town as well as to his mother's. He had affairs to settle, duties and responsibilities to take care of. He could be gone for hours, maybe even more.
Chastity drew closer, tugging Hazel’s arm. “We promise it will be enjoyable.”
Patience clasped Hazel’s other hand. “Please? We’ll even let you choose the muffin flavors afterward.”
Hazel looked between their hopeful faces, and her resolve softened.
Greyson was unlikely to return any time soon.
And even if he did, she would come home eventually.
And perhaps it would be easier to bear her own impatience if she filled the hours with cheerful company rather than pacing hallways like a lovesick heroine in a gothic novel.
“Very well,” she smiled. “I suppose an outing could do no harm.”
Patience squealed, and Chastity clapped in triumph. Hazel rolled her eyes affectionately, hiding her private, fluttering hope.
When I return, she thought, perhaps he will be back.
She rose from the table, with her sisters bouncing beside her, already planning colors and ribbons and fabrics. And as Hazel followed them out, she felt a strange, sweet anticipation settle deep within her.
Greyson knocked gently on the door to his mother’s sitting room. After two breaths, the latch clicked. The door eased open from within, revealing his mother.
She stood wrapped in her favorite shawl, and her silver hair was pinned neatly. Greyson’s breath left him in a quiet rush.
“Mother,” he whispered, scarcely trusting the sight.
Her lips curved faintly, and her eyes were warm on him. “Greyson.”
The whisper was thin as parchment, but it existed. He stepped inside at once, overwhelmed, offering his arm instinctively. She took it. Her cold fingers wrapped around his sleeve with a willingness that unknotted something tight in his chest.
“You are walking,” he said softly, as though afraid to disturb the fragile miracle. “And speaking.”
She nodded, her smile deepening with shy pride. “Try… ing.”
Greyson closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself against the emotion that threatened to overtake him. He guided her gently toward the sitting room, but she lightly tugged him in the opposite direction.
“To… gar-den,” she whispered.
He opened his eyes. She wanted the garden.
He swallowed hard. “Of course. Let us go to the garden.”
Her hand tightened on his arm. It was the closest she had come to eagerness in years. Greyson glanced toward Mrs. Atherton, who stood at the end of the hall with a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. She nodded her silent blessing, gesturing them on.
Mother and son moved slowly down the stairs, with Greyson matching her tentative steps.
Each stair conquered felt like witnessing a resurrection in miniature.
The back doors opened to the small private garden behind the townhouse, alive with soft spring blooms and birdsong.
His mother inhaled deeply, as if scent and air and sunlight were tools she was relearning how to use.
Greyson guided her to a bench beneath a budding pear tree.
She sat with a soft exhale, her hand still hooked lightly through his arm until the last possible moment.
He lowered himself beside her. The sunlight touched her face, warming the faint color returning to her cheeks.
Greyson could hardly tear his gaze away.
“Mother,” he said quietly, “it is… indescribably good to see you like this.”
She turned her head slightly, regarding him with eyes that were clearer than they had been in years.
“Hazel… helped,” she murmured.
Greyson’s breath caught.
“Yes,” he said softly. “She did.”
His mother reached for a blossom that had fallen onto the bench beside her.
Her fingers were shaky, but she lifted it with intention.
She offered it to him. Greyson took the delicate bloom between his fingers, swallowing against the tight ache in his throat.
She touched his cheek gently, brushing away nothing at all, and everything at the same time.
“You… remind me… of him,” she said, then paused. “So… much.”
A shard of old grief slid beneath his ribs. “I am sorry.”
Her brows lifted faintly. “Why… would you… be sorry?”
He swallowed. “Because I remind you of pain.”
The Dowager shook her head, and as she did so, her silver hair stirred in the garden breeze. “Both… my sons… are my loves.” Her voice caught slightly. “Even… if it hurts… to love.”
Greyson looked away. “I do not wish to speak of him if it wounds you.”
Her hand slipped from his cheek only so she could take his hand instead.
“Not talking…” she whispered, searching for the words, “about pain… pushed us… away.”
Greyson turned back to her. “Truly?”
She nodded. “We did not… talk about hurt. So hurt… ruled our hearts… and minds.” Her eyes glistened, but she did not look away. “We both… loved Damian. And if we speak… of him… we keep… loving him. We honor… him.”
Greyson’s throat worked, thick with emotion. “Are you truly all right with that?”
Her answer came without hesitation.
“Yes.”
It was such a small word, but it contained tremendous release.
She lifted her other hand and cupped his cheek again, her touch light as a memory.
“I want… to remember,” she whispered. “With you.”
For years he had believed silence was the only way to protect her from sorrow, from memory, from the terrible weight of what had happened.
He had never allowed himself to speak Damian’s name in her presence unless absolutely necessary.
He thought he was shielding her, and in doing so, he almost lost her.
He met her gaze again. “Then we will remember him… together.”
A tear slipped down her cheek, but she smiled through it.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Together.”
Greyson drew her hand up and kissed it gently.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes as the pear blossoms drifted above them in the morning breeze.
And for the first time in years, he felt her truly beside him.
Greyson rested his cheek lightly atop her head, letting the moment settle around them like sunlight.
Together, they would carry the pain, the love and the memory of the son and brother they had both lost. Because of Hazel.