Hazel’s pulse fluttered unpleasantly. No, not unpleasantly…dangerously.
“Well,” she murmured, leaning back over the writing table, “I shall simply remove myself from the… the trajectory of whatever it is he believes he is doing.”
Yes. That was sensible.
She could stay at one of the smaller estates. He had several; far too many for one man, in her opinion. One of them surely had comfortable rooms, a manageable household, and enoughdistractions to keep her from dwelling on kisses that did not quite happen.
She lifted another stack of documents. All she found were receipts, more correspondence, and a report on tenant repairs. But then, a sheet of parchment fell forward, sliding across the writing table like a whispered secret.
Hazel frowned. The document was neatly folded, sealed with a simple wax stamp. It didn’t look like anything official or bearing the duchy crest. This was something… personal.
She hesitated for a moment before unfolding it. What she saw made her breath catch. It revealed payments, which were regular and substantial, for a townhouse in London. It wasn’t in the duchy’s name, nor a political property.
Her stomach twisted as she realized it was a private lease, completely separate from the household accounts she had reviewed earlier. This was a rented London townhouse. For what purpose could he possibly?—
Her heart gave a small, painful lurch.
A mistress.
Of course. What else would a duke maintain a private residence for? Convenient, discreet, close enough to visit without notice.
Ice trickled down Hazel’s spine. She sank slowly into his chair, with the paper trembling in her hands. For a marriage of convenience, he had been… attentive, and also affectionate in ways that confused her. Worse, tempted her.
But this made sense. This explained everything. It was not that he wanted her. It was not that he was flirting out of genuine feeling. It was guilt. It was kindness from a man who already received affection elsewhere.
Her throat tightened painfully.
“Well,” she whispered, almost laughing, “That settles it, doesn’t it?”
The jealousy that rushed through her was hot, sharp and utterly unexpected. It mortified her. She had no right. She had no claim on him. She had no expectation of loyalty or tenderness or anything beyond polite companionship.
But oh, how her heart clenched.
She looked at the lease again. The address was neatly written. If she needed a reason to leave… she had just found one. But she needed more than a reason. She needed certainty, closure, an end to whatever foolish, fragile hope had been stirring in her since the wedding.
Hazel reached for an ink pot and a scrap of paper. Her hand was surprisingly steady as she copied down the address.
She did not know what she intended to say to the woman. She had never confronted a mistress. She had no idea how one ought to address such a person, or what sort of conversation was appropriate, or whether she was more likely to faint or throw up.
But she had to speak to her. She had to know.
With trembling fingers, she folded the copied address and slipped it into her pocket. If this was truly a marriage of convenience, if Greyson had other,privateattachments, then Hazel would leave London as soon as possible. She would reclaim her peace and not let him play with her heart any longer.
“I will face her,” she whispered. “And then I will go.”
The path she faced was painful, but at least it was clear. She would go at once, before she lost her courage, before her heart betrayed her further, before her husband could do any more damage without even knowing he was doing it.
The townhouse door had opened before she even finished knocking. Hazel had prepared herself for a hostile butler, grim-faced and tight-lipped, sworn to secrecy regarding the duke’s mistress. Instead, the door was filled by a cheerful woman of about fifty, round-faced and bright-eyed, who clasped her hands together in delight.
“Your Grace? My goodness! Welcome, welcome!”
Hazel blinked. That was certainly not the greeting she had expected.
“Oh, what a lovely surprise to have you here!” the woman exclaimed.
Hazel’s jaw went slack. “I… what?”
“Oh, but you must think mesosilly,” the woman continued, bustling forward as though greeting a long-lost niece rather than her employer’s new wife, who should not, by any reasonable measure, be here. “I am Mrs. Atherton. Forgive me, I ought to have introduced myself immediately.”
