Fool. Idiot! Why would you tell her that?
Her eyes beamed at him still, and there was no horror of confusion in them. Instead, he found something worse: a soft, aching sadness.
Greyson’s chest tightened with a sting of pure panic. He had not wanted pity, least of all from her. He could endure indifference, irritation, even her sharp tongue, but not that quiet ache in her eyes, not sympathy and certainly not the threat of questions he could not bear to answer.
He braced himself for them: for the inevitable inquiries, the gentle prodding, the unraveling he would not allow. If she asked more, if she pressed, it would end badly. They would argue. He would retreat. She would be hurt. Their delicate balance would crack before their marriage had even begun.
But Hazel did not ask. She shocked him instead.
“Well,” she murmured, “I am certain that if your mother were well enough, she would be here.”
Greyson stared at her. The words were so simple, so unstated in their kindness. They did not pry or pity. They only offered a truth that felt strangely like comfort instead of intrusion.
Hazel’s fingers shifted slightly in his hand, just enough to create the sense of contact, not pressure.
“She would not miss this day,” she added gently. “Not if she had any choice in the matter.”
Something in Greyson locked and loosened all at once. He swallowed, unable to reply for a moment. Unwelcome and unfamiliar emotion tightened his throat. Her words were toocareful, too considerate, too…right.She did not tell him she was sorry. She did not console him. She simply honored his mother’s absence with dignity.
Hazel Thorne was becoming dangerous: more dangerous than flirtation, than temptation, than desire, because without meaning to, without even trying, she was being kind. And kindness was far greater to him than beauty or wit.
He cleared his throat, forcing his composure back into place. “Thank you,” he told her.
Hazel nodded once, as though she understood precisely what that cost him. That was when the final chords of the dance floated through the ballroom, lingering like a sigh. Greyson felt Hazel begin to withdraw from the hold they had shared. He hoped it was reluctantly, but propriety demanded it, and he released her hand with a composure he did not entirely feel.
Hazel dropped into a graceful curtsey. “Thank you for the dance, Your Grace.”
He bowed in return. “It was my pleasure.”
She straightened, and her expression softened. Just a little. “And… thank you,” she added quietly, “for your earlier compliments.” Her gaze flicked briefly to his. “I appreciate them, even if I… did not accept them as graciously as I might have.”
He felt a sudden loss of breath. “You need never thank me for telling you the truth.”
Her freckles brightened, betraying another blush, but she rallied quickly, grasping for composure as though she feared she might do something outrageous like smile tenderly at her new husband.
“Well,” she said briskly, clearing her throat, “I really must leave you for a moment.”
He blinked. “You must?”
She nodded, already surveying the room again with the focus of a hawk. “Chastity and Patience have been unsupervised for far too long.”
He exhaled slowly. “It has been, what? Thirty minutes of them being unsupervised?”
“Thirty-eight,” she corrected, and her lips tightened in alarm. “By now they could have… oh heavens, they could have painted the estate geese pink again.”
Greyson choked. “Again?”
Hazel waved this off as though goose defacement were a common seasonal ritual. “Or set up an impromptu fortune-telling booth using the Viscount’s old playing cards. Or…” She paused, and her eyes widened in shock. “Or they mighthave discovered the musicians’ resting chamber. They do love instruments.”
Greyson was almost afraid to ask, but he did. “Love them how?”
She grimaced. “Poorly.”
A short, surprised laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
Hazel blinked at him. “What?”
Greyson brought a hand to his mouth, regaining composure with difficulty. “Nothing. Only, your sisters possess an admirable commitment to chaos.”
