“It is more than something,” Matilda insisted softly. “It is clarity. He does not pretend affection. He does not give false hope. He means exactly what he says.”
Hazel looked down at her hands. “And what he said was that he is indifferent.”
“Indifference,” Matilda said gently, “is safer than deception. Better than a man who promises devotion he does not have. Better than one who demands what you are not ready to give.”
Hazel swallowed.
Matilda reached out again. “Greyson does not want anything from you that you cannot give. He does not want romance. He does not expect affection. He is not a man who will press you, or demand sentiment, or entangle your heart against your will.”
Hazel’s breath caught.
Matilda finished softly. “He asked you for convenience because that is truly all he wants.”
Hazel was still not convinced, but Matilda’s words settled over her like a soft blanket. “So you are saying he will not expect… more.”
“No,” Matilda assured her.
Hazel nodded slowly, unsure how that made her feel: relieved or trapped in a new, unfamiliar way. But at least her friends were here. At least someone was trying to seeher, not the title she would marry into. Hazel let herself lean into them, just a little.
For the first time all day, she felt a thin sliver of steadiness return. Even if the ground beneath her life had shifted, her friends had not.
Chapter Five
The path to his mother’s dower house was lined with bare winter branches. Greyson dismounted at the gate and handed his reins to a waiting groom. The air smelled of frost and old roses, the remnants of gardens his mother once tended herself.
He straightened his coat and stepped toward the small, elegant house. It had been built for light, with wide windows and pale stone, but Greyson always felt a heaviness settle over him the closer he came.
The door opened before he reached it.
Mrs. Atherton, his mother’s housekeeper of nearly thirty years, beamed at him as though he were still a boy arriving home from lessons.
“Your Grace!” she said, dipping into a curtsy. “How very good to see you.”
Greyson managed a polite nod. “Mrs. Atherton.”
She ushered him inside with warm efficiency, speaking as she led him down the short corridor. “Her ladyship will be pleased you’ve come. She is in her chamber. I told her you might visit soon.”
Greyson did not answer that. Mrs. Atherton meant well, but his mother had not truly reacted to his presence in a very long time.
He removed his gloves, tucking them into his coat. “How is she today?”
Mrs. Atherton hesitated. It was a brief, polite pause before the truth.
“She is… all right,” she said with a forced brightness. “More restless than usual, perhaps. She has been fretting about… oh, what was it? Ah.” The housekeeper clicked her tongue. “The lace on her handkerchiefs. She keeps picking at the frays.”
Greyson blinked. “Her handkerchiefs.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Atherton said, smiling apologetically. “She spent half an hour examining them one by one. I remember how she used to say that she cannot possibly go visiting unless the lace is repaired properly.”
Greyson’s chest tightened into an old ache, knife-sharp and familiar. His mother had not been well since his brother’s death,and her mind had retreated to small, delicate fixations like lace, garden tools arranged by height and curtains she insisted were hung crooked even when they were not. But that was back when she would leave her room.
“I see,” he said quietly.
Mrs. Atherton’s smile softened. “It is a small worry, Your Grace. But she clings to what she can.”
Greyson nodded. He understood. His mother lived in a world held together by threads, which were thin, fragile and always threatening to snap. Mrs. Atherton stepped aside and gestured toward the end of the corridor. “She is in her room. I’ve just given her tea.”
Greyson inhaled slowly, bracing himself.
