Jasper leaned back, studying him carefully. “You’re not angry at Edward,” he pointed out quietly. “You’re angry at grief, at the destruction it left and at what it did to your mother.”
Greyson’s fist tightened around his glass. “I am angry,” he said, “atlove.”
Jasper sighed. “Greyson?—”
“Spare me,” Greyson snapped. “I have no patience for preaching.”
Jasper’s gaze steadied. “And I have no patience for listening to you talk as though emotion is a moral failing. I admire my wife greatly, and I certainly do not consider that a moral failing. While you’re here, speaking like a man who has locked himself in a room and thrown away the key.”
Greyson’s jaw tightened. “I prefer it that way.”
Jasper shook his head, a slow, sad motion. “You’re not unbreakable, Greyson. You only think you are.”
Greyson stood abruptly, with the legs of his chair scraping against the polished floor. “This conversation is over.”
Jasper stood too, sighing deeply. “Yes. I can see that.”
The club was warm and lively, but the air between them had turned cold and brittle. Jasper gathered his gloves and hat, pausing only long enough to place a hand on Greyson’s shoulder. It was brief and steady, a reminder of seventeen years of friendship.
“When you calm down,” Jasper told him softly, “I’ll be here.”
Greyson didn’t answer. Jasper stepped back, dipped his head politely, and left the club. Greyson stood alone, staring at the empty doorway, feeling the fury simmering dangerously beneath his skin.
He told himself he didn’t need Jasper’s understanding… or anyone’s, for that matter. He didn’t need Hazel Thorne’s warm eyes, or her soft voice, or the way she looked at him as though she truly saw him. He didn’t need any of it.
Greyson sat back down, poured himself another drink with a steady hand, and stared straight ahead, furiously convinced that he was right.
Chapter Nine
“This is a remarkable opportunity for us, Hazel. Truly remarkable.”
Her father’s voice echoed off the marble floors of the Belvington townhouse foyer, drifting into the corridor where Hazel stood waiting, her hand resting lightly on her father’s arm. Beyond the tall double doors, she could hear the murmur of guests gathering in the grand hall. The ceremony would begin in moments.
Hazel forced herself to swallow, but her throat was tight in her lace collar. “Yes, Papa.”
Lord Belvington adjusted his cuffs with brisk satisfaction. “You are about to become a duchess, Hazel. Think of the weight that title carries, the influence, therespect.”
Hazel nodded. The respect and the influence didn’t feel even remotely as if they would belong to her.
“This is the sort of union people dream of, you know. A union that elevates everyone.”
Hazel tightened her grip on his arm to keep herself steady. He did not notice. Her heart thudded painfully under the bodice of her wedding gown. It was simple, elegant, and of course, chosen by her mother with no regard for Hazel’s opinion. Her veil hung light as air behind her, though it felt like a net trapping her in place. She tried to draw breath, but her lungs seemed to resist.
“Papa,” she murmured, not even knowing what she wanted to say.
He turned to her with a warm, paternal smile she was not accustomed to. “You will do splendidly, Hazel. You always do.”
Hazel stared at him, at his pride, his certainty, his utter lack of hesitation and felt a hollowness open inside her.
Was anyone going to ask her if she wanted this? If she was ready? If she was afraid?
No. No one ever did.
Lord Belvington patted her hand, mistaking her silence for nerves. “Do not fret. Greyson Thornhill is an excellent man, well respected. He runs one of the finest estates in the country.”
Hazel let out a soft, brittle sound. “Yes, Papa.”
Then her father leaned closer, lowering his voice. “This marriage will secure you for life. You should be grateful.”
