Hazel groaned. “Do not encourage them. Or they will adopt your praise as justification.” She gathered her skirts. “I am off to prevent calamity.”
She turned to go, but paused after two steps and glanced back at him, just long enough and just soft enough.
“Thank you… again… for the dance.”
Greyson inclined his head. “You are welcome, my Duchess.”
He smiled as he watched her go, not because he wanted to see where she was headed or to supervise her in any manner, but simply because he could not look away.
His wife was worried about him.
His wife was blushing at his compliments.
His wife was running off to prevent her sisters from painting livestock.
He should not smile. And yet, that was all he could do.
Chapter Twelve
Hazel had believed quite firmly and with all the practiced stubbornness of a woman who had rehearsed her future for years that remaining in London after the wedding would offer her a sense of stability. Even Belvington Manor was only a short carriage ride away.
She had told herself she would feel safe here. But the night of their wedding, as she sat alone in her new bedchamber, with her hair unbound and heavy down her back, Hazel found that safety was far more complicated than she had imagined.
That was actually the first conclusion she reached upon stepping into what had become her chamber. The room bore quiet evidence of her husband’s forethought. There was a small bouquet of violets in a vase and a small dish of sugared almonds.
She wondered how he knew she liked them.
But then she remembered that he could have easily asked her mother or her sisters. Strangely enough, it showed care, despite the fact that what they agreed upon was a marriage of convenience.
She combed her fingers through a curl absently, then reached for her comb only to pause, with her reflection staring back at her with wide, alert eyes.
She half expected him to come.
The thought startled her so entirely that she fumbled the comb, sending it clattering to the floor.
“Do not be ridiculous,” she whispered sharply, placing a hand over her fluttering chest as though she could scold her own heart into obedience.
The house was still. The servants had long since retired. She had dismissed her lady’s maid early. She had insisted she needed no assistance preparing for bed, because she was not nervous or unsettled in the slightest.
That was, of course, a lie.
Hazel bent to retrieve the fallen comb, clutching it tightly as she rose again. Her gaze drifted to the looking glass across the room. Candlelight flickered, catching the loose strands around her face.
For some inexplicable reason, she hardly recognized herself. Only, it was not because she looked any different. She had only worn a simple gown and a little powder today. No. It was her expression of uncertainty, of anticipation, of something perilously close to hope.
She swallowed heavily.
“It is thoughts like these,” she told her reflection sternly, “that led entirely sensible women such as Evelyn, Cordelia, and Matilda to fall in love. And look what happened to them.”
Her reflection did not respond, but she grimaced at it all the same.
“Utter foolishness,” she added.
But the words did nothing to dispel the memory that rose unbidden and entirely improper. She could feel his hand at her waist as they danced. She could feel his fingers brushing her wrist. And finally, she could hear his voice, so deceptively composed, telling her he had not tried his hardest yet.
The way he had looked at her then, as though her face alone occupied all the space in his world, had unsettled her to her core.
It was absurd. It was impossible. When he had said it, she had been certain he was merely teasing. Greyson Thornhill, the famously impenetrable Duke of Callbury, could not possibly have meant it as anything but a provocation.
