Grateful.
The word landed like a stone in her stomach.
Another murmur rose beyond the doors, and a soft trill of violins began. It was the signal.
Her father straightened proudly. “It is time.”
Hazel’s pulse quickened, fluttering like a terrified bird against her ribs. She dug her nails gently into the satin of her gloves, steadying herself. In a few steps, everything would be sealed: her freedom, her future, hefate.
Hazel drew in a slow breath, and together, she and her father walked toward the grand hall to meet the man she was about to marry. A moment later, the double doors swept open, and a collective gasp rippled through the grand hall, lifting the fine veil at Hazel’s temples. Her father stepped forward with polished confidence, guiding her into the light.
Hazel, however, felt as though she were moving underwater. Her family’s hall never looked so vast. There were cascades of flowers and rows upon rows of familiar and unfamiliar faces turning toward her in awe. But all of it blurred, because at the far end of the aisle, the duke stood waiting.
Her breath caught. He stood with the rigid dignity of a soldier, with his hands clasped behind his back and his expression carved from marble. His black coat was cut perfectly to his tall, athletic frame, while the deep silver of his cravat echoed the chilling color of his eyes.
He was breathtaking. He was devastating. As much as she hated to admit it, he was utterly magnificent.
Hazel’s heart gave one violent, traitorous pang. Her legs wobbled slightly beneath her gown. He looked so imposing, so assured in his stillness, that she almost forgot how to breathe. There was no warmth in his gaze, none at all, but there was strength, presence and a sense of unwavering control.
She had known he was handsome. Everyone did. Gossip spoke of his face and form with the same reverence used for Greek statues and myths. But seeing him here, waiting for her… it unsettled her more deeply than she cared to admit.
He turned his head slightly as she approached, and for the briefest flicker of a second, so quick she might have imagined it, something almost like awe or surprise flickered through his eyes. Then, it was gone, replaced once again by the impeccable composure she knew too well.
Hazel forced her feet forward. One step, then another. Her father’s arm remained steady beneath her hand, anchoring her even as her heart skittered dangerously inside her chest.
Everyone was watching. Everyone was whispering. Everyone was marveling.
But Hazel saw only him.
Greyson Thornhill.
Her future, her fate, her impossible, irresistibly handsome duke.
For a man who prided himself on composure, Greyson Thornhill found himself… unsettled.
Hazel Thorne stepped into the grand hall on her father’s arm, with sunlight falling over her like a soft blessing, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
It was not because she was beautiful in the conventional sense, though she was. It was not because her gown floated around her like mist, or because the guests audibly gasped.
It was her eyes; those wide, steady, resilient eyes, the color of warm hazel wood in late autumn, the same eyes that held a thousand quiet burdens and still faced the world without flinching.
While everyone else stared at her gown or her figure or the elegance of her veil, Greyson saw her resolve, the way she lifted her chin ever so slightly, even as nerves tightened her shoulders.The freckles dusted over her nose stood out faintly beneath her veil, like stars scattered across pale skin.
And then he noticed something no one else ever bothered to see: her hands. Her fingers trembled, curling against her father’s arm. She held her bouquet too tightly, not out of vanity or ceremony, but because she was anchoring herself.
He admired that. He respected it.
By the time she reached him, Greyson’s pulse had steadied again. His face had regained its usual cold mask, but there was an uncomfortable warmth in his chest.
Hazel stopped at his side. For a moment, she did not look at him. He saw the rise and fall of her breath. Her posture was straight, but strained. And then, before he had formed a conscious thought, his hand moved.
It was instinct, a betrayal of all the control he cherished. His fingers brushed the back of her gloved hand. It was not a hold, much less a caress, but there was enough pressure to tell her that she was not alone.
Hazel startled. A tiny, almost imperceptible breath left her lips. She blinked up at him, and somehow, her entire body steadied. Her shoulders loosened. Her trembling eased.
He almost smiled to himself, forhehad done that. Perhaps no one else noticed, but he did. He felt the faint but unmistakable ripple of relief that moved through her.
He kept her hand in his. “Breathe, Hazel,” he whispered.
