Evelyn pressed a hand to her forehead. “Cordelia, please do not give Hazel more to fear.”
Hazel took another steadying breath. Her friends meant well. Her sisters were growing. And her life had shifted. Still, the unease refused to let go of her.
Hazel Thorne had learned something important a long time ago: when she sensed trouble, she was almost always right.
Greyson watched his new Duchess from across the ballroom with the sharpened attention of a man who tried very hard not to appear as though he were watching anything at all.
Yet Hazel made such attempts pathetically impossible.
She stood amidst her circle of friends, women he respected, tolerated, or feared in varying degrees, and radiated the sort ofanxious vigilance one expected from a general awaiting news of enemy advancement. Her eyes combed every corner. Her shoulders tensed each time a door opened. She was all but vibrating with dread.
He knew that look. He had seen it in her far too often: the burdened caretaker, the weary sentinel of Belvington, eternally bracing for the next calamity brought on by her younger sisters.
Greyson, who had entered this room prepared to endure a night of polite admiration and unbearable sentimentality, suddenly found himself moving toward his bride with unusual purpose. And though he scarcely admitted it, even in the quietest parts of himself, her frown bothered him more than it ought. He reached her side just as her sigh reached its most despairing volume.
“Your Grace,” Evelyn murmured pleasantly, dipping her head.
“Ladies,” Greyson offered them all a brief nod.
“Oh,” Hazel got startled upon seeing him, almost as if she hadn’t expected to see her own husband at her own wedding ball. It almost made him chuckle. Then she continued. “I didn’t see you.”
She absolutely had not seen him. Her eyes were aimed everywhere but at him.
“Evidently,” he replied.
Cordelia bit her lip behind her fan. Evelyn looked delighted. Matilda appeared deeply relieved, as though she had been wishing very hard for divine intervention and had just received it.
Greyson turned to Hazel fully. “Might I have the honor of this next dance?” He offered his hand.
Hazel froze. “Dance? Now?”
“It is customary,” he reminded, “for the duke and duchess hosting a wedding ball to be seen dancing at least once.”
Cordelia made a strangled sound of laughter. Hazel shot her a glare before reluctantly placing her gloved hand into Greyson’s. He led her to the dance area, and momentarily, the musicians lifted their bows. And much to his chagrin, his wife exhaled like a prisoner being marched to the gallows.
“You needn’t look as though I am forcing you,” Greyson murmured once they found the rhythm. “I assure you this dance is purely voluntary.”
Hazel’s eyes flicked toward the crowd, scanning desperately. “Oh, I’m… sorry. I am simply distracted.”
“Yes,” he replied, “I had noticed.”
She scowled at him. It was astonishingly endearing. “My sisters have vanished.”
“I suspected as much,” he said calmly. “Their absence appears to be causing you mortal distress.”
“It is not mortal,” she muttered. “Just… significant.”
Greyson’s lips twitched. “Hazel.”
He liked how her name rolled down his tongue, lingering on the L sound.
“Yes?”
“Look at me.”
She blinked up at him, startled by the gentle command. He lowered his voice.
“You look beautiful.”
