Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
“Iread it all,” she said softly.
She gazed deeply into his eyes and saw it all: hope, dread, disbelief. She looked down at the book again, smoothing her palm over the cover as though calming her own trembling. When she lifted her gaze, her voice came out quieter but more determined.
“And there are no words…” She drew a tight breath. “Greyson, there are no words to describe what this means to me.”
She thought she might be able to thank him calmly and gracefully, like a proper duchess expressing polite gratitude.
But she couldn’t. Her behavior could not have been further from it.
No words could ever be adequate for the symbol she was holding in her hand: his own heart, laid bare in ink and memory.
She stepped closer, holding the book between them. “These notes… these moments… they’re pieces of you I never thought you would share with anyone.” Her voice trembled. “And you trusted me with them.”
His silence didn’t frighten her. It only made her more aware of his own emotions. He searched her face with a kind of stunned intensity, as though trying to read her soul the way she had read the margins of that book.
“You wrote about your mother’s laughter,” Hazel whispered. “About Damian’s jokes, about how she read to you at night.” Tears pricked her eyes again. “Greyson… this book holds some of the happiest moments of your life. I felt them. I saw you in every line.”
His breath faltered. And suddenly, Hazel realized that he was just as overwhelmed as she was. They were mirrors of each other’s fear, each other’s hope.
Hazel clutched the book tighter. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
Greyson’s lips parted, but no sound came. His throat worked once, painfully, and he looked away as though afraid the full force of emotion might show in his eyes.
Hazel recognized the fear, for it was her own; fear of feeling too much, fear of naming what was happening, fear that once named, none of this would be real any longer. But beneath the fear was something warm and alive and terrifyingly precious.
Hazel took a small step closer. “I will cherish this gift all my life,” she whispered.
Greyson’s gaze snapped back to hers. Their breaths mingled. Their hearts matched in fierce, trembling rhythm. Hazel had the sudden, unmistakable sense that if either of them reached out, the entire world would shift beneath their feet.
They both stood still, both wanting, both afraid.
Greyson stared at her as though seeing her for the first time, as though she were something luminous and fragile and beyond his grasp. Hazel felt rooted in place, with her breath caught somewhere between terror and longing.
“Greyson…” she whispered.
That was all it took.
He stepped closer cautiously, as if giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t. Her pulse thudded in her ears, while her heart pulled her forward as surely as the sun pulled at the tide. His hand lifted, hesitating in the air beside her cheek.
“Hazel,” he breathed, and then very gently, his palm cupped her cheek.
Hazel’s breath broke. Her eyes fluttered shut at the warmth of his touch, the tenderness of it, the question in it. She leaned into his hand before she even realized she’d moved.
Greyson drew a soft, aching breath, and then, he kissed her in a single, fragile moment where the walls she’d built her entire life simply fell.
His lips brushed hers with the gentlest pressure, unbearably tender. Hazel felt the world tilt. She felt her knees weaken, while her fingers grasped instinctively at his coat to steady herself. Greyson’s thumb stroked her cheek, feather-light, as though he feared she might break.
Hazel melted into his embrace.
The kiss deepened only by a breath, still soft and still careful, as though he wanted to memorize the shape of her lips, the warmth of her mouth, the way she trembled beneath his touch. She felt his exhale against her skin, disbelieving that this was taking place.
Hazel’s heart was no longer beating. It was soaring, spinning, unraveling. The world narrowed to the feel of his mouth on hers and the quiet sound she made when he drew back just an inch.
When Hazel opened her eyes, she found him watching her with an expression that stole the breath from her lungs. He was watching her as though he could scarcely believe he had allowed himself to want her so openly.
Hazel’s hand drifted to her lips, still tingling. She could not speak. She could barely breathe.
Greyson swallowed. “Hazel…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. The meaning hung between them, terrifyingly beautiful. Hazel felt her heart expand painfully, impossibly, as though her ribcage could no longer contain it.
She had never been kissed like this. She had never been held so gently. She had never been looked at with such quiet reverence.
She was utterly breathless, utterly shaken and utterly his.
And it was terrifying to feel this way.
The moment Greyson drew back, Hazel’s face held him fast, as though the world had narrowed to the soft flush blooming over her cheeks and to the way her eyes shone, so startled and bright, as if she herself were astonished by what had just passed between them.
He did not immediately step away. He found that he could not make himself do so.
Her lips parted, then pressed together again, as though she were collecting herself. Greyson noted, entirely against his will, that she did so with the same practical determination she brought to everything else, even to being kissed.
“I did not know,” she said carefully, “that gratitude might be expressed so… thoroughly.”
He huffed a quiet breath. “Nor did I.”
A pause followed. It was delicate, but perilous at the same time.
Greyson cleared his throat. “The air is fine this afternoon. If you are inclined, perhaps we might walk for a few moments.”
Her brows lifted, just slightly. “Are you asking me to take a stroll, Your Grace?”
He smiled. “If we are to be alone.”
Her smile softened into something entirely too warm.
“In that case,” she said, “yes. I should like that.”
He offered his arm. She accepted it. They had taken no more than three steps toward the terrace doors when a discreet cough sounded behind them. Greyson closed his eyes.
“Your Grace,” came the composed voice of Mrs. Walsh. “I beg your pardon, but might I have a moment?”
Hazel immediately withdrew her hand, smoothing her skirts. “I shall wait,” she said, already stepping aside with admirable composure.
Greyson turned, feeling resignation warring with irritation. “What is it, Mrs. Walsh?”
“I’m afraid there has been a problem in the south wing,” she replied. “One of the servants discovered water seeping through the ceiling of the morning room. It appears a pipe near the upper gallery has split. Mr. Harrow says it cannot be ignored until morning.”
Of course, it could not.
Greyson nodded stiffly. “I will see to it.”
Mrs. Walsh inclined her head and withdrew with the quiet efficiency of a woman who had no patience for ducal distractions.
Greyson lingered a moment longer. “I am sorry,” he said, turning back to Hazel. “I would rather—”
“I know,” she assured him more gently than he deserved. “It is quite all right.”
“It is not,” he replied before he could stop himself. “But it is unavoidable.”
Her eyes softened again, and that was somehow worse. “Go,” she repeated. “Be the responsible duke you so clearly are. I shall not vanish in your absence.”
A corner of his mouth lifted despite himself. “I should hope not.”
He hesitated, then added, quietly, “When I return… the walk?”
She nodded. “I shall be here.”
Greyson forced himself to turn away. He kept telling himself that a burst pipe was an entirely reasonable thing to occupy his attention.
It did not succeed.
His thoughts refused to leave the terrace, and the lovely woman with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. He had faced crises of estate, Parliament, and family with steadier focus than he now brought to a leaking pipe.
The south wing was already alive with subdued urgency. A servant hovered with a lantern, another with a bucket, while Mr. Harrow stood beneath the stained ceiling with a grim expression.
“It is fortunate it was discovered quickly,” Harrow informed him. “The pipe has split clean through. Another hour and the plaster would have come down.”
Greyson nodded, forcing his attention to the task. “Shut off the water supply to this section. Have the carpenter secure the ceiling before morning. I will speak to the plumber myself.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He issued instructions swiftly and decisively. This, at least, was familiar ground. Order restored itself around him, as servants moved with renewed confidence. Within minutes, the immediate danger was contained.
Mrs. Walsh reappeared, clearly relieved. “Thank you, Your Grace. I knew you would wish to see it yourself.”
“Of course,” he answered, glancing at the window.
She seemed to watch him for a moment. “Shall I inform the Duchess that the matter is resolved?”
The word struck him: the Duchess. And with it came a vivid image of Hazel standing beneath the fading light, with his book still in her hands.
“No, thank you,” he said, more quickly than necessary. “I shall go find her myself.”
He did not linger once his presence was no longer required.
His stride lengthened as he retraced his steps.
He had told her he would return. He had meant it.
The terrace was quieter when he emerged, as twilight was settling into evening.
For a brief, uncharitable moment, he feared she had gone. Then he saw her.
Hazel was standing near the balustrade, with the book still resting against her chest. She had her gaze lifted toward the darkening sky. She turned at the sound of his approach.
“You returned,” she whispered through a smile.
“I promised I would.” He had no idea why he felt this sudden onslaught of warmth. Or maybe he did, and that knowledge only made the warmth more powerful. “The crisis has been resolved. The house will survive the night.”
“I am glad to hear it,” she replied, then hesitated. “And I am glad you came back.”
He inclined his head, unable to look away from her face. “As am I.”
For a moment, neither spoke. He wondered if it was too late for a walk, if perhaps he ought to suggest going back inside, but then her words took him by surprise.
“At the risk of sounding unromantic,” Hazel told him, “I believe you were about to suggest a walk?”
He almost laughed. “Yes… if you are still inclined.”
She slipped the book beneath her arm and offered him a small, resolute smile. “I am.”
Greyson was about to answer when a sharp breeze cut across the terrace, tugging at her skirts and brushing cold fingers along the back of his neck. He stilled, and all of his attention snapped to the faint shiver that ran through her shoulders.
“Wait,” he said, lifting his index finger at her.
Her brows drew together at once. “Are you going to leave me again?”
The question struck him harder than it ought to have. He turned fully toward her. “No. Only for a minute. This time, I swear it.”
She studied his face as though weighing the truth of it, then gave a reluctant nod. “Very well. But I shall hold you to it.”
“As you should,” he replied, already turning.
He did not walk back into the house. He nearly ran.
The corridors blurred as he moved, for his purpose was singular.
He went straight to the small sitting room his mother sometimes used on warmer days of the bygone era.
The chair beside the window still held one of her shawls.
It was soft, thick wool in a muted blue-grey, forgotten there years ago when she had grown tired and been persuaded indoors. He took it without hesitation.
He returned to the terrace breathless, faintly irritated with himself, and immediately relieved when he saw Hazel still where he had left her, gazing out over the garden with quiet patience.
“See? I am a man of my word,” he told her, though his attention was already on the way the wind teased loose curls around her face. Without ceremony, he held out the shawl. “It will be cold,” he said. “The night is turning.”
She looked down at it, then back up at him. He loved it when her eyes sparkled like that, and it was all because of something he did.
“This is… your mother’s?”
“Yes.” He paused, then added, more quietly. “She did not take it with her. And it seemed a shame for you to be uncomfortable when there is no need.”
Hazel accepted it carefully, as though it were something fragile. “Thank you. That is very thoughtful.”
He stepped closer, lifting the shawl to settle it around her shoulders before she could do it herself. His fingers brushed her collarbone entirely by accident, and she drew in a quiet breath.
“There,” he said, retreating a half-step. “Better.”
She wrapped it more securely around herself, her cheeks once again touched with color. “Much,” she agreed. “And… thank you… truly.”
The way she looked at him made him want to take her into his arms again and taste her lips. But instead, he offered his arm once more.
“Shall we?”
She took it. As they turned toward the garden path, Greyson became acutely aware that this small, simple act of care felt far more dangerous than any kiss.