Greyson exhaled through his nose.
Tea.
An affair he could hardly imagine enduring without severe internal fortitude. The very idea of sitting in a drawing room with dainty cups, polite chatter, and forced smiles felt almost ludicrous. He had never understood why society insisted on such unnecessary rituals when matters could be settled far more efficiently through a written contract.
And yet, he had accepted… because it was expected, and because marriages, even of the convenience sort, required at least a semblance of propriety. And because Hazel, for all her flushed indignation and disastrous talent for stumbling into scandal, deserved clarity.
He folded the letter with precision and placed it atop the outgoing correspondence. He then retrieved his gloves from the corner of the desk and slid them on with deliberate, unhurried motions, though he could feel time pressing at his back.
He didnotwant to be late, but not because he cared about tea or because he cared about propriety. It was simply to demonstrate the truth of his intentions. The situation demanded seriousness, and he would show it through actions, not sentiment.
He stepped toward the door, pausing only once to glance back at his study: the ordered desk, the quiet efficiency, the sanctuary of logic he preferred above all else. It would have been a relief to remain there. But he had a tea appointment to keep.
“Very well,” he muttered to himself. “Let us get this over with.”
Chapter Seven
“… a
nd of course, Your Grace, we must have at least four footmen at the entrance. Anything less would simply look cheap.”
Hazel nearly dropped her teacup.
Her mother had been talking for the past twenty minutes without taking a breath. Lady Belvington sat forward on the edge of her chair, with her hands fluttering with excitement, while Greyson Thornhill, the Duke of Callbury, sat rigidly opposite her. The porcelain cup in his hand was held with the precision of a man handling a loaded pistol.
“Mama,” Hazel ventured, “perhaps?—”
“No, Hazel, let me finish,” her mother insisted, waving her hand as though swatting away a gnat. “Now, Your Grace, I do think the gardens would suit a twilight ceremony. The lanterns will glow beautifully against the hedges.”
Greyson blinked once. “Lanterns.”
“Oh yes,” her mother breathed. “Hundreds of them. Perhaps thousands.”
Hazel nearly choked on her tea. “Mama, that sounds?—”
“Glorious, I know,” her mother said, cutting her off again.
Patience and Chastity sat on a settee near the window, trying and failing to appear composed. Patience’s shoulders quivered with suppressed laughter. Chastity elbowed her sharply every time her giggles grew audible.
Hazel wanted to throttle them both.
Her mother obliviously continued. “And as for the orchestra, well, naturally, we must have a large ensemble. At least thirty musicians.”
Greyson’s brow crept upward a fraction. “Thirty.”
“Or forty,” her mother said airily. “Depending on the size of the chamber.”
Hazel set her cup down before she broke it. “Mama, please. This is my wedding?—”
“Yes, and because it isyourwedding, I must take charge,” her mother declared matter-of-factly.
Hazel stared. “That is not how that works.”
“Nonsense, dear. You’ve never planned a wedding. You would be lost.” She turned back to Greyson with a beam. “Don’t worry, Your Grace. Leave everything to me.”
Hazel shot Greyson a horrified look out of the corner of her eye. He was wearing that calm, unreadable composure. Hazel’s cheeks heated.
Then, Patience whispered loudly. “Mama, what about the swans?”
