“From the Duchess?” Greyson asked.
“Yes, Your Grace.” The footman hesitated, then added cautiously. “Her Grace’s carriage is also waiting below. She has requested that some of her belongings be packed and returned to her.”
The words did not immediately make sense.
Greyson rose so abruptly that his chair scraped against the floor. “Returned to her?”
“Yes, Your Grace, to Belvington Manor.”
For a moment, the study felt too small, as if it were suffocating him on all sides.
“Leave it,” Greyson said curtly, snatching the letter from the tray. “You may go.”
The footman bowed and withdrew with commendable speed. Greyson stood motionless, staring at the envelope as though it might accuse him if he opened it too quickly. Hazel had left without a word. Now she was removing herself, and she was doing it quietly and efficiently, as she did everything else.
Why?
He broke the seal and read. By the third reading, the calm courtesy of her words felt like a blade pressed between his ribs.
Played our respective parts… inconvenienced by my presence… free to resume your life as you wish…
His hand tightened on the page. She somehow still believed that their marriage was just a marriage of convenience, that everything he had doneforher andwithher had been nothing but an act.
Greyson turned away from his writing table, pacing the length of the room with sharp, restless strides. However, he did not summon deliberation. Instead, he summoned his coat. Within moments, his study was left abandoned. The careful order of his world was disrupted without a second thought. He jumped two stairs at a time, with resolve sharpening at every step.
If Hazel believed he wished to be free of her, then he would not allow that belief to stand, not for a single moment longer. And he would not write as she did. He would not wait. He would not permit what he believed had to be a misunderstanding to calcify into chaos.
“Have the carriage made ready,” he told the footman in the hall. “At once.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Greyson did not slow as he crossed the threshold into the morning air. The courtyard was empty. Hazel’s carriage was gone now. It had already departed, already carrying pieces of his life away from him. That thought struck like a blow.
His own carriage was brought round quickly. He climbed inside without assistance, rapping sharply on the roof.
“Belvington Manor,” he ordered. “And make haste.”
The horses immediately lurched forward, and streets unfolded then disappeared beneath him as his thoughts raced ahead. Heleaned back against the seat, forcing himself to breathe through the tightness in his chest. He thought of her letter, which was so controlled and so painfully reasonable. He thought of the way she had excised herself from his life as though she were nothing more than an inconvenience, finally resolved.
The injustice of it burned, not because she left, but because she believed she had to.
The carriage rolled on, with the city thinning and the familiar route to Belvington unfolding like a reckoning long delayed. Greyson stared out the window, scarcely seeing the passing world.
He would explain whatever she needed to have explained. He would tell her everything that lay upon his heart. And they would be happy, as they had been so far… even more.
Several minutes later, Belvington Manor stood exactly as it always had. It was imposing, familiar and suddenly forbidding. Greyson mounted the steps two at a time and knocked without hesitation. The door was opened almost at once by the butler, who stiffened visibly at the sight of him before recovering himself with practiced composure.
“Your Grace.”
“I wish to see the Duchess,” Greyson said. He did not soften it. “At once.”
The butler hesitated, regret already settling into his expression. “I am very sorry, Your Grace, but the ladies have stepped out.”
Greyson stilled. “Stepped out.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Lady Belvington and the young ladies departed not long ago.”
“When will they return?”
