Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Hazel was still thinking of the shawl when they reached the garden path.
It lay warm and reassuring around her shoulders, carrying with it the faint scent of lavender and old paper. The fact that he had noticed the cold at all unsettled her far more than the kiss had. Men noticed beauty, youth, and propriety. They noticed advantage. But they didn’t often notice comfort.
She walked beside him in silence, with her hand resting lightly on his arm.
The closeness made her breath feel oddly shallow, and her heart caught between two opposing instincts.
Part of her wanted to pull away, to reassert the careful distance she had promised herself she would keep.
Another part, utterly hopeful and traitorous, leaned subtly closer, as though she trusted him to hold the world steady.
Frightened and safe. She had no words for how it was possible to feel both at once.
Greyson guided her along a narrow path bordered by low hedges until the garden opened into a small clearing. At its center stood a white-painted gazebo. Its pillars were softened by climbing vines and shadow. He led her inside, where the wind was gentler and the night seemed to pause around them.
“Here,” he said quietly. “I thought you might like it.”
“It’s lovely,” she replied, and meant far more than the place itself.
They stood side by side, gazing out beyond the garden, where the sky stretched wide and dark, scattered with stars.
Hazel tilted her head back instinctively, relishing the sight.
She had spent so many evenings indoors, settling disputes, soothing tempers, accounting for everyone else’s comfort, that she could not recall the last time she had simply… looked.
Greyson lifted his hand, pointing upward. “Do you see those two stars there?” he asked. “Close together and brighter than the rest.”
“Yes,” she nodded. “I think so.”
“That is Gemini,” he told her. “The twins. Castor and Pollux.”
“The brothers,” Hazel murmured.
He nodded. “One mortal, one divine, but bound together regardless.”
Hazel listened without interrupting, sensing that this was not a tale meant to be hurried.
“When Castor was killed,” he continued, “Pollux refused to accept a world that did not contain him. He begged Zeus to let them share the same destiny, to live and die together. In the end, they were placed among the stars, bound eternally. Neither wholly alive nor wholly gone.”
His voice tightened on the last words.
Hazel’s gaze lingered on the constellation, but her attention was wholly on him now. “Because he could not bear to exist without his brother,” she said softly.
“Yes.” Greyson’s hand fell to his side. “Some call it devotion, others madness.”
She turned toward him then. “And what do you call it?”
He did not answer immediately. When he did, his voice was carefully controlled. “I used to think it was weakness.”
Hazel felt her heart ache.
“Damian was… different from me,” he went on.
“He was gentler and more hopeful. He believed fiercely in things I found impractical, like love, happiness, and the idea that life ought to be lived for more than duty.” He silenced a breath.
“When he lost the woman he loved, he lost himself. And when he chose to leave the world entirely, he left the rest of us to endure the consequences.”
Hazel’s fingers curled into the shawl at her shoulders. “I am so sorry.”
He inclined his head, though his eyes never left the sky. “For a long time, I told myself that Pollux was wrong, that clinging so desperately to another person could only end in ruin. That Damian proved it.”
“And now?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Now he looked at her.
“I am no longer certain,” he confessed. “Because I see what still remains when someone is gone. And because I see… what it means to be remembered, to be bound to someone, even in absence.”
Hazel swallowed. Being close to him like this and hearing him speak so openly felt like standing on the edge of something vast and fragile.
“Love does not make people weak,” she said after a moment’s thought. “It makes them brave enough to feel. And sometimes… that courage costs them dearly.”
The silence that followed was deep and resonant, filled with unspoken understanding. Above them, Castor and Pollux burned steadily, unchanged by centuries of human grief.
Then, Greyson exhaled slowly. “Thank you… for listening.”
Hazel reached out before she could reconsider, resting her hand lightly against his sleeve. “Thank you,” she replied, “for trusting me with him.”
He covered her hand with his own. And beneath the watchful stars, Hazel realized that she had fallen desperately and madly in love with her husband.
Greyson’s study had always been a place of order.
Dark wood, clean lines and ledgers aligned with military precision. Everything was exactly where it ought to be. It was where he conducted negotiations, signed contracts, and made decisions that affected tenants, trade, and title alike. Feelings had never belonged there.
And yet, as Jasper lounged far too comfortably in one of the leather chairs and Robert examined a set of shipping accounts with quiet diligence, Greyson found himself distracted in a way that had nothing to do with commerce.
“You’ve agreed rather quickly, old boy,” Jasper remarked, tapping a finger against the armrest. “There was no objection, no counterargument, no faintly threatening stare. I feel cheated.”
Greyson did not look up from the papers in his hand. “If you have finished posturing, Jasper, I would like to conclude this meeting before nightfall.”
“Oh, I am finished,” Jasper replied cheerfully. “I am merely observing.”
Robert glanced up then, with the corner of his mouth lifting. “Observing what, precisely?”
Jasper grinned. “Our illustrious duke.”
Greyson’s quill pen paused. Then, slowly, he set it aside. “If you have something to say, say it.”
“Oh, I intend to.” Jasper leaned forward. His eyes were bright with mischief. “You are… happy.”
The word landed in the room like an accusation. Robert’s brows rose slightly. Greyson felt irritation stir in that old, familiar manner, but it did not take hold as it once would have. That, too, unsettled him.
“That is a ridiculous assessment,” he said calmly.
“Is it?” Jasper countered, more amused with each passing moment. “You did not snap when I arrived unannounced. You agreed to Robert’s proposal without argument. And you have been smiling at your ledger for the past quarter hour as though it whispered sweet nothings.”
“I was not smiling.”
“You were,” Robert confirmed, curious to see where this was going. “I noticed it as well.”
Greyson exhaled through his nose. “You are both imagining things.”
Jasper hummed. “Then explain this: what has altered your disposition so drastically?”
Greyson leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. For a moment, he considered deflecting, dismissing, ending the conversation entirely. That had always been his way. But the truth pressed against him, insistent and undeniable.
“I kissed my wife,” he admitted.
Jasper’s eyes widened. “You—”
Robert’s smirk deepened. “Ah.”
Greyson scowled. “Do not look so smug.”
“I am married,” Robert replied serenely. “Smugness is a professional hazard.”
Jasper, meanwhile, looked delighted. “You kissed her… voluntarily.”
“Yes.”
“Repeatedly?” Jasper pressed.
“No.”
“… yet.”
Greyson shot him a warning glare, but it lacked its usual bite.
Jasper sat back, clasping his hands. “Well, well, well… this explains quite a great deal.”
“It explains nothing,” Greyson said. “It was… a moment, and I seized it.”
“A moment,” Jasper echoed, still unconvinced. “Extraordinary how many lives are altered by such insignificant things.”
Greyson did not rise to the bait at once. He leaned back in his chair instead, with his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the shelves of neatly ordered volumes. The truth pressed at him with an unfamiliar clarity.
“For years,” he revealed slowly, “everything has felt… muffled, as though I were looking at the world through thick glass.” He shook his head once. “Anger, grief, or whatever name one gives it, has been there since my brother’s death, coloring my every thought. I mistook it for discipline.”
“And now?” Robert inquired.
“And now,” Greyson continued, realizing that this was a safe space to be vulnerable, although he knew Jasper would never let go of it.
Still, he spoke. “It has lifted. Not entirely, but enough that I can see what I have been refusing to acknowledge.” He met their gazes in turn.
“I do not want a marriage of convenience.”
Jasper straightened. “Well, that is a development.”
“I want more than order and obligation,” Greyson divulged. “I want a household that is alive. I want children running through it. I want…” He paused, then finished simply, “Hazel.”
Robert’s smirk deepened. “I wondered how long it would take you to arrive there.”
Greyson frowned. “You did?”
“Of course,” Robert replied. “You do not look at a woman as you look at your duchess and remain unaffected forever. You merely required… encouragement.”
Jasper laughed outright. “Encouragement! He required nothing less than a kiss to rattle his entire philosophy.” He leaned forward. “Tell me, was it tender? Awkward? Utterly devastating?”
Greyson reached for his glass. “It was… enough.”
Jasper grinned. “That is not a denial of any of those things.”
Greyson shot him a warning look, but there was no real heat behind it. “If you insist on mocking me, do it quietly.”
“Oh, but I insist on celebrating,” Jasper corrected. “This is the first time since I have known you that you have spoken of the future as something you desire, rather than something you intend to survive.”
Robert inclined his head. “You will be a good husband and father,” he said calmly. “If you allow yourself to be.”
At the same time, the words settled heavily and gently over Greyson. He had not known how much he needed to hear them until they were spoken.
“I intend to,” he said.
Jasper’s smile softened, just a fraction. “Heaven help us all,” he announced, lifting his glass, “the Duke of Callbury is in love. It would seem that I am a very good influence on you, old boy.”
Greyson did not correct him. For once, he found he did not wish to.