Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Greyson extricated himself from Jasper and Robert with practiced ease.
He murmured something suitably vague about air and overcrowded rooms, endured Jasper’s knowing look with a patience he would not have possessed an hour earlier, and stepped away before either man could object.
The ballroom pressed upon him suddenly. It was too warm, too loud, and too full of eyes that seemed intent on measuring what ought not be measured.
More to the point, Hazel was no longer at his side. A flicker of unease stirred. It was not alarm, for he was not so foolish, but it was still a quiet awareness of absence. He had grown accustomed, with unsettling speed, to knowing precisely where she stood.
The terrace doors lay open, curtains stirring faintly with the night air. Greyson hesitated only a moment before making his way toward them.
Outside, the air was cool and clean, which was a welcome contrast to the crush within. He drew a steady breath, letting the night settle him, and stepped fully onto the terrace. Stone gleamed pale beneath the moonlight, while the gardens beyond lay hushed and restrained in their beauty.
That was the exact moment a woman barged in through the terrace door, without even checking to see whether someone was there.
She was young, perhaps newly out, and her gown was pale and delicate…
and torn. The silk had caught somewhere along the side seam, leaving a narrow but unmistakable rip that would become mortifyingly visible the moment she returned indoors.
She startled when she noticed him.
“Oh… Your Grace,” she said quickly, freezing, with one gloved hand instinctively moving to conceal the damage. “I… I beg your pardon. I did not realize anyone else was here.”
Greyson halted at once. His instincts were already shifting into problem-solving rather than retreat.
“There is no need to apologize,” he said evenly. “Are you injured?”
“No, no, nothing of the sort,” she replied, her cheeks flushing as she glanced down at her gown.
“I caught the fabric on the balustrade when I stepped outside. I did not feel it tear at first, but when I turned…” She broke off, clearly mortified.
“I cannot possibly return to the ballroom like this.”
Greyson followed her gaze. The tear was not extensive, but it was unmistakable. It was enough to draw attention and cause embarrassment that would linger far longer than the evening itself.
“Do you have anything with you?” he asked. “A brooch, perhaps? Or a pin in your reticule?”
She looked up, startled, then searched quickly through the small bag hanging from her wrist. “Yes,” she replied with relief. “I do. But…” She hesitated. “In order to fasten it properly, I would need to lift the fabric. Even slightly. I cannot… if anyone were to see—”
Greyson did not hesitate.
“If you permit it,” he said, already unbuttoning his coat, “I will shield you.”
She stared at him for a moment. “Your Grace?”
He slipped the coat from his shoulders and held it open. “I will wrap it around you. Should anyone step onto the terrace, they will see nothing improper. But you must be quick.”
Her eyes widened, then softened with gratitude. “That is… a splendid idea. Thank you.”
He stepped closer, mindful of propriety even as circumstances pressed them into proximity, and draped the coat carefully around her shoulders, angling his body so that his back faced the open terrace doors. The night air brushed his collar, but he scarcely noticed it.
“You are quite safe,” he said quietly. “Go on.”
She worked quickly beneath the coat. Her fingers were nimble despite her nerves. Greyson kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead, his every sense attuned to the possibility of interruption. He was acutely aware of how it must appear, but his concern extended only to discretion and her comfort.
“There,” she said softly after a moment. “I believe it will hold.”
“Very good,” he replied.
He stepped back at once, allowing the coat to fall open, then immediately drew it more properly around her shoulders, offering it as a shield rather than a screen.
“You may keep it on until you reach assistance,” he urged. “There is no need to risk further damage.”
She looked at him with open relief. “You are exceedingly kind, Your Grace. I do not know what I should have done otherwise.”
He inclined his head. “I am glad I could be of help.”
He did not see her linger a moment longer, nor did he think to look back toward the far edge of the terrace. If he had, he might have understood how easily kindness could be mistaken for something else entirely.
“Is that… Greyson on the terrace?”
Hazel stopped so abruptly that Chastity nearly walked into her. The gravel crunched beneath their slippers as Hazel lifted her gaze toward the pale stone beyond the garden path.
Chastity squinted. “Where? I can’t see very well from here.”
“There, by the balustrade.” Hazel did not look away. She could not. “That man.”
He stood with his back to them, half in shadow, bending slightly as though intent upon something just out of view. The lantern light from the terrace caught the broad line of his shoulders and the familiar slope of his neck.
Chastity tilted her head. “It might be. There are several gentlemen out tonight.”
“No,” Hazel said quietly. “It’s him.”
“How can you be sure?”
She recognized the shirt. He wore ivory linen, finely pressed but softened with wear, the collar open just enough to abandon stiffness.
She had noticed it earlier, how it brightened his face.
She remembered, absurdly, the way the candlelight had caught along the seam of his sleeve as he lifted her hand during the dance.
“He’s bending over something,” Chastity murmured. “Or someone?”
From their angle, the coatless figure appeared too close to another shape partially obscured by shadow. There was movement: his arm lifting, his body angling inward. Something dark enveloped the smaller figure, as though he were wrapping it around her.
Chastity frowned. “Hazel… what is he doing?”
“I don’t know,” Hazel replied, though her voice sounded distant even to her own ears.
They stood there, suspended in a moment that stretched thin and sharp. The figure shifted, straightening at last, and then he turned. The light caught his face. Hazel’s breath left her in a single, stunned exhale.
It was him.
There was no mistaking the sharp planes of his features, the unmistakable set of his mouth and the silver of his eyes as he looked down at the woman before him… a woman standing wrapped in his coat.
Hazel could not look away. The sight before her rearranged itself into meaning with brutal speed, each thought striking harder than the last: the coat, the closeness, the quiet attention with which he regarded the woman before him. It was all suddenly, horribly clear.
She had been a fool… a romantic, foolish, utterly unguarded fool.
Somewhere between their wedding and the stars and his careful hands at her waist, she had crossed a line she had sworn never to approach.
She had let herself believe that this might be something more than arrangement and obligation, that perhaps, quietly and against all sense, she had begun to hope.
And now she saw the truth of it.
Their marriage was a convenience. It had always been. And she, who had so prided herself on her practicality and caution, had mistaken attention for affection, kindness for constancy.
He had her now. Her affection was entirely secured. Why should she remain interesting?
The sharpest pain of all came with the realization that she wanted what she had once denied herself the right to want: a husband in more than name, a family, a life shared not merely by contract, but by choice. She had broken every vow she had made to herself. And for what?
“Hazel?” Chastity’s voice reached her at last. She sounded alarmed. “Are you… are you all right?”
Hazel blinked, once, then twice. She straightened her spine with mechanical precision, drawing the shawl tighter around herself as though it were armor.
“I am quite well,” she said, and heard the lie in her own voice. “I am simply… tired.”
Chastity frowned. “You don’t look well. You look as though—”
“I should like to go home,” Hazel interrupted gently but firmly. “To Mama and Papa’s. I will wait there for you and the others.”
Chastity stared at her. “Go home? Now? But the ball—”
“I have had enough of it.”
A pause. Then, softer, “I will go with you.”
Hazel shook her head. “No. Stay. Enjoy yourself with Mr. Langford.”
Chastity hesitated, then glanced back toward the terrace. “What about your husband?”
The word landed like a blow. Hazel’s composure cracked not outwardly, but inwardly, splitting clean through the careful order she had constructed around her heart.
Fury rose sharp and sudden, flaring first toward Greyson, then the woman wrapped in his coat, but it turned, inevitably, inward, at herself, her weakness, her hope, and finally, her foolish, treacherous heart.
She lifted her chin. “He has already made his choice.”
Chastity’s eyes widened. “Hazel, I’m certain that—”
“No. I will not make a scene,” Hazel cut her off. “I will not beg for an explanation. I will simply remove myself.”
Chastity’s usual brightness was now dimmed by concern. Then she squared her shoulders. “Then I will go home with you.”
Hazel shook her head at once. “There is no reason for you to leave.”
“I am not leaving you alone like this,” Chastity replied, with an unfamiliar firmness. “Not tonight.”
Hazel opened her mouth to argue, but Chastity lifted a hand.
“I only wish to tell Mama what has happened,” she continued. “She will notice our absence, and—”
“No.” Hazel’s grip tightened at her sister’s wrist. “Absolutely not. She must not know.”
Chastity hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Very well. Then I shall tell her something else.”
Hazel looked at her with the eyes of a startled doe. “What?”
“That you scolded me,” Chastity said calmly. “For Mr. Langford. I shall say you thought my behavior improper and insisted we retire before anyone could speak of it.”
Hazel’s breath caught.
“I am quite accustomed to Mama’s displeasure,” Chastity added with a small, wry smile. “And this way, no one will think anything amiss of you or of the Duke.”
Hazel had been holding herself together by sheer force of will, by habit, by years of being the strong one. But this, this unexpected generosity, this willingness to shoulder blame for the sake of peace, struck deeper than Greyson’s betrayal ever could.
Her eyes burned. She blinked hard, but tears gathered all the same.
“Chastity,” she said, her voice roughening despite her efforts, “you do not have to do that.”
“I know,” her sister replied simply. “I want to.”
Hazel reached for her then, clasping Chastity’s hand tightly between both of her own. “Thank you,” she said, the words carrying far more than gratitude alone.
Chastity squeezed back. “I will not be long.”
Hazel nodded, unable to trust her voice further. “I will wait for you,” she said. “In your carriage.”
She turned away before the tears could fall in earnest, before her sister could see how close she was to breaking. As she moved toward the front of the house, the music from the ballroom followed her, oblivious to her pain and unbearably cruel.
And for the first time in years, Hazel allowed herself to lean, just a little, on someone else’s strength.