But the blow never landed. A hand closed around her wrist, and Hazel’s breath tore from her lungs as she was halted mid-swing. The candelabra slipped from her grasp and clattered harmlessly to the floor.
She looked up, only to see a pair of silver eyes under locks of dark hair, on a face she knew as well as her own.
“Greyson?” she gasped.
He released her at once and stepped back, with his palms open as though to show he meant no harm. The moonlight caught his expression. He was utterly unlike the composed duke she knew.
“What on earth has possessed you?” she demanded, her shock swiftly giving way to outrage. “Have you lost your mind? Sneaking into my room like some… some thief? I could have hurt you!”
He laughed once, harsh and humorless. “You cannot hurt me more than you already have.”
The words struck like flint. Anger flared hot.
“You of all people should know precisely why I left.”
Greyson stared at her. He truly stared. “I do not.”
The certainty in his voice gave her pause, but only for a heartbeat.
“You don’t?” she said incredulously. “After everything?”
“I have spent the last day tearing myself apart trying to understand,” he replied, stepping closer again, though carefully now, as if she might strike him once more. “You left without a word. You sent a letter as though I were some passing inconvenience. And I swear to you, Hazel, I do not know what I did to deserve it.”
Her chest tightened painfully.
“You don’t know,” she repeated, her voice shaking now, not with fear, but with fury barely held in check. “Isawyou.”
He stilled. “You saw me.”
“On the terrace,” she said, each word sharp. “Withher.”
Realization dawned slowly, then all at once. His breath left him in a quiet, stunned exhale.
“The woman,” he said.
Hazel frowned. “Even if she is a passing fancy like I was, you should at least call her by her name.”
“A passing fancy?” he echoed, looking even more perplexed. He stared at her as though she had spoken in a language he did not recognize. “Hazel, I have no idea who that woman is.”
She faltered, just barely.
“She caught her gown on the balustrade,” he continued, and every word that he spoke was edged with disbelief. “It tore. She was mortified and could not return to the ballroom. I helped her. That is all.”
Hazel searched his face for falsehood and found none.
“Any gentleman would have done the same,” he went on. “There was nothing improper. Nothing intimate. And I confess,” his brows drew together, “that I am astonished that you would think me capable of such carelessness with your regard.”
She swallowed heavily. “You… you did not even know her?”
“No,” he said simply. “Nor did I care to.”
Silence stretched between them, fragile and trembling. Hazel felt the weight of the last days press in: the certainty she had built, the resolve she had clung to. Slowly and unwillingly, she considered the truth she had not allowed herself to entertain.
He had not known. To him, the woman had meant nothing.
“I…” Her voice caught, and she forced herself to continue. “You wanted a marriage of convenience.”
He did not deny it. “So did you.”
