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.
