Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
“Look at this one, Hazel!” Patience held up a bolt of soft rose-colored silk as though she had discovered treasure. “Isn’t it breathtaking?”
Hazel brushed her fingers over the fabric. “Very pretty, darling. Feminine and elegant. It would suit you perfectly.”
Chastity let out a dramatic sigh from where she was poring over lace. “Everything suits Patience perfectly. She’s sixteen and luminous.”
“I am seventeen,” Patience corrected smugly, “and luminous is an excellent word, thank you.”
Hazel laughed, guiding them toward a table covered in ribbons. “Now, remember to choose something that will last more than one season. You want quality, not just sparkle.”
Chastity groaned. “Hazel, my dear, sometimes a girl just wants sparkle.” Her comment made all three girls chuckle.
They spent several minutes comparing shades, debating trims, and discussing which modiste could be trusted with which fabric. Their chatter drew smiles from the shopkeeper and half the patrons nearby. Eventually, as often happened with sisters, the conversation drifted.
“So,” Patience began, leaning in close, “there is to be a musicale at Lady Kensworth’s next week.”
“And perhaps,” Chastity said lightly, “someone will look at me the way the Duke looks at Hazel.”
Hazel turned scarlet so fast she nearly dropped the ribbon in her hand. “Chastity!”
Patience clasped her hands to her chest. “Oh, it’s true! Hazel, he looks at you as though you hung the moon. It’s quite romantic.”
“Utterly romantic,” Chastity echoed.
“It is not romantic,” Hazel said firmly, trying to sound dignified instead of flustered. “I am simply content in my marriage. And I wish the same contentment for both of you.”
Chastity gave her a sly, knowing smile. “Contentment is lovely, but Hazel… surely you would wish us love?”
Hazel paused. The image of Greyson flashed before her eyes.
“Well… yes,” she conceded softly. “Of course. But only the right kind of love.”
Patience leaned closer curiously. “And how do we know when it is the right kind?”
Hazel opened her mouth and then stopped. She thought of the books she’d been reading aloud to the Dowager, of romances full of passion and devotion and grand declarations, of happily-ever-afters and noble sacrifices and promises spoken under moonlight.
She thought of Greyson’s gift, the book covered in the quiet, heartfelt marks of a boy who had loved deeply and lost deeply, offered to her as though she were someone deserving of trust. She thought of the way her heart had leapt this morning when she’d rushed downstairs, hoping to see him.
“I…” Hazel began, then swallowed. “I am not entirely sure.”
Chastity raised a brow. “Not sure?”
Hazel forced a small smile. “Books make it seem very obvious. Love conquers all, hearts beat faster, and so on. But life is… different.”
Patience frowned. “Different how?”
Hazel hesitated, turning a length of velvet over in her hands. “Because sometimes love doesn’t last. Sometimes it hurts people. Sometimes it unravels families instead of joining them.”
Her sisters quieted.
Hazel’s voice softened. “And sometimes… sometimes one feels safer not believing in it.”
Patience studied her with wide, thoughtful eyes. “But if we do fall in love… how will we know it is safe?”
“I suppose,” she said gently, “you look for kindness, patience, respect. Someone who listens. Someone who stays.” Then, she remembered the most important thing of all. “Someone who shares their truest self with you.”
Chastity’s gaze sharpened. “Hazel…”
Hazel quickly turned to inspect a stack of muslin. “Yes, well. Those are merely my thoughts.”
Patience smiled softly. “They sound like lovely thoughts.”
Chastity nudged Hazel’s arm. “They sound like feelings.”
Hazel almost fled the aisle.
Greyson stepped out of his mother’s townhouse with a quiet inhale. The crisp morning air settled around him like a fresh beginning. She had grown tired, but not withdrawn. Then, she squeezed his hand before retiring, whispered a soft goodbye and left him with a feeling he could barely name.
Hope.
He descended the steps with more energy than he’d had in years. He wanted to go home. More urgently than he wished to admit, even to himself, he wanted to speak to Hazel.
He reached for the carriage door, already rehearsing what he might say to her, when a too-loud voice called out behind him.
“Greyson! Perfect timing!”
He turned, with his jaw taut but polite enough, and found Jasper striding toward him with a grin that suggested he had no intention of allowing Greyson to leave quickly.
“Jasper,” Greyson said, with one hand still gripping the carriage door. “I am in some haste.”
“Excellent,” Jasper declared cheerfully. “I shall talk quickly.”
Greyson stiffened. “I just said I am in a hurry. That usually means no time to talk.”
Jasper waved a dismissive hand. “No one wishes to talk until they desperately do. Now, why are you leaving so quickly?” He leaned in, squinting at Greyson’s face. “You look… lighter. Dare I say it, happy?”
Greyson shot him a flat look. “Do not say it.”
Jasper’s grin widened. “Ah. So, more has happened. And I know nothing of it!”
Greyson suppressed the urge to simply step into the carriage and close the door in Jasper’s face. “I visited my mother. She had a good morning. That is all.”
Jasper’s expression softened with sincere warmth. “That is wonderful.”
Greyson inclined his head once, accepting the genuine kindness beneath Jasper’s usual irreverence.
“And now,” Jasper continued, eyes narrowing shrewdly, “you are hurrying… home? Why the rush? A meeting with your steward? A matter requiring your ducal attention?”
“No.”
Jasper’s smile sharpened. “Hazel?”
Greyson’s jaw clenched, betraying infinitesimal movement.
Jasper nearly glowed with triumph. “It is Hazel! By God, Greyson, you practically sprinted down those steps. Does she know you are coming to her like a lovesick—”
“Finish that sentence,” Greyson said darkly, “and I will see to it your next pair of boots is filled with gravel.”
Jasper clutched his heart. “Threats! How emotional of you. Hazel has changed you entirely.”
“She has not.”
“Oh, she absolutely has—”
“Jasper,” Greyson bit out, growing dangerously close to exasperation, “I would like to go home.”
“Greyson,” Jasper said gently, “Hazel is becoming home for you, isn’t she?”
A muscle in Greyson’s jaw jumped. He was in no mood for confessions right now, not before he had spoken with Hazel.
“I am returning to my residence,” he corrected himself.
“Of course,” Jasper said cheerfully, “where the duchess resides, and where you cannot wait another minute to be.”
Greyson exhaled sharply through his nose. “Jasper, if you do not step aside, I will—”
“Yes, yes, unspeakable violence, you threaten it beautifully.” Jasper patted his shoulder with infuriating affection. “Go on, then. Run home to her.”
“I am not running.”
“You are practically galloping.”
Greyson gave him a look so icy it could have frozen the Thames, then stepped into the carriage and pulled the door shut.
Jasper stuck his head through the window before the driver could move. “Send Hazel my love!”
Greyson shoved the window shutter closed with a snap. But as the carriage rolled away, with Jasper’s grin still lingering in the air behind him, Greyson could not deny that he was eager to reach home.
The carriage ride was hasty, and it had barely rolled to a stop before Greyson pushed the door open himself, descending with more haste than any duke ought to display in front of his servants. He didn’t care.
The footman straightened at once. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”
Greyson nodded curtly, already surveying the entry hall behind the servant.
“Is the duchess at home?” The question came out sharper than intended, almost demanding.
The footman blinked, then brightened, almost as if he understood. “Yes, Your Grace. Her Grace has returned. She is in the garden, having tea.”
“Thank you,” Greyson said, already striding past him.
He moved through the house with long, impatient steps, ignoring the startled looks of a few maids who were certainly unused to seeing the Duke of Callbury look quite so purposeful. The closer he came to the back of the house, the faster he walked.
Hazel had found his gift by now. What had she thought of it? Had she read every note? Had she understood what it meant, that he had shared something he had never shared with another soul?
He reached the final hallway and pushed open the door leading onto the garden terrace.
Hazel was there. She was sitting at the small wrought-iron table beneath the climbing roses.
She was with her back to the house, and the afternoon light kissed the curve of her cheek.
A teapot steamed gently beside her, but it looked untouched.
And in her hands, resting open on her lap, was the book.
Hazel wasn’t simply holding it. She was bent over it, absorbed, with her fingertips brushing the margin as though tracing the very path his pen had taken.
Hazel turned a page delicately as if the paper were something precious.
She paused, her gaze softening in that way she had when something touched her deeply.
Her thumb brushed the corner, and he noticed her shoulders rise and fall on a quiet breath.
Greyson stood motionless in the doorway, unable to step forward, unwilling to disturb her. He knew that he should announce himself. He should clear his throat, take a step, call her name, anything but stand there like a man unsure whether to flee or fall to his knees.
But he couldn’t look away.
Hazel lifted a hand and pressed it briefly to her heart. Greyson’s hand tightened reflexively around the doorframe. He had not meant for her to look at the book that way. He had not meant for himself to feel this much.
Before he could lose the courage he’d only just found, he stepped forward. The gravel crunched beneath his boot, and she looked up sharply. When she saw it was him, she rose at once, holding the book to her chest.
“Greyson,” she breathed.
His name on her lips felt like warmth spreading through chilled air.
Hazel held the book closer. “You… came home early.”
He swallowed. “Yes.”
Her gaze flicked to the book, then back to him, and suddenly, there was a flush rising in her cheeks. “I… I found your gift.”
Greyson’s heart pounded with such force he wondered if she could hear it.
“Hazel…”
And for the first time since placing that book in her room, he feared what she would say next as much as he desperately needed to hear it.