Hazel stared at the woman, still speechless. Mrs. Atherton was either the most audacious woman Hazel had ever encountered or something utterly shocking was taking place. But before Hazel could gather a single coherent question, Mrs. Atherton ushered her inside with gentle but brisk efficiency.
“There we are, come in, come in, Your Grace. Oh, what a wonderful surprise! How kind of you to have come!”
“I… I beg your pardon?” Hazel managed, still at a loss.
Mrs. Atherton beamed. “Now, now, don’t you fret. She is having a very good day. And your arrival will brighten it further.”
She would brighten the day of her husband’s mistress? It was all utterly ridiculous. Hazel tried to speak, but nothing emerged.
The hallway was warm, tastefully furnished, with vases of fresh flowers and several paintings, none of which gave Hazel any clues as to whose house this truly was. This was certainly not the lair of a secret mistress.
Mrs. Atherton led her down the corridor. “This way, Your Grace. She is in the morning room.”
Hazel followed, dazed and hollow with confusion. Who waited?
Mrs. Atherton pushed open a bright, sunny door, revealing a large chamber lined with windows that let in the soft afternoon light. A vase of yellow roses brightened the corner. And near the window, in a high-backed chair, sat an older woman with her back turned, gazing out at the garden.
Hazel froze.
Mrs. Atherton lowered her voice, though excitement still bubbled beneath her words. “Go on, Your Grace. It’s quite all right. She would love to see you.”
Hazel’s feet felt impossibly heavy as she approached the chair. The older woman was slender, and her hair was silvered with age and gathered neatly at the nape. She seemed unaware of Hazel’s presence at first, and remained lostquiet, contemplative and fragile in a way that twisted something in Hazel’s chest.
She stepped closer, then she reached the woman’s side and finally saw her face. The sight made Hazel stop breathing,because the woman’s profile with its delicate cheekbones, familiar jawline and striking silver eyes dulled only by slight fatigue, was unmistakable.
It was Greyson’s face. It was older, gentler and lined with sorrow and time, but it was still absolutely and undeniably his.
Mrs. Atherton stepped behind Hazel and whispered warmly. “Your mother-in-law has been looking forward to meeting you.”
Hazel felt the world tilt. There was no mistress, no scandal, no betrayal. This washis mother,hidden away, unwell and protected from the world.
And Hazel had come to confront a woman who did not exist. Her throat tightened painfully.
“Oh,” Hazel whispered. “Oh dear.”
Her heart dropped to her feet. How terribly she had misjudged everything…
The older woman blinked slowly, her silver eyes shifting between Hazel and the window. There was a softness there, but also a distant sorrow, which spread heavy and aching, the kind born of years rather than days. It was the kind that had hollowed out Greyson’s voice when he’d spoken of her absence at the wedding.
Hazel swallowed hard, her throat tight with shame.
“I… I am so very sorry,” she whispered, unsure even what she apologized for: for doubting him, for assuming scandal where there was none, for not imagining that grief might take this shape. “I should not have… I did not know.”
Mrs. Atherton, bustling cheer incarnate, clasped her hands together. “Well! I shall fetch the scones. She loves the currant ones, you know. And a pot of tea. I shall bring it at once.”
“Oh, no, please, truly, that is not necessary,” Hazel protested, horrified by the thought of disturbing them further.
“Nonsense, Your Grace.” Mrs. Atherton beamed. “You could never be a bother, not to her, and certainly not to me. Now sit, sit! I shall return immediately.”
With surprising swiftness for a woman of her age, Mrs. Atherton hurried out, leaving Hazel alone with the Dowager Duchess.
Hazel clasped her hands together tightly. “It is a lovely home,” she said softly. It felt inadequate, but she needed to say something. “It is very warm and peaceful.”
The older woman did not respond, though her eyes flickered faintly, as if acknowledging Hazel’s words.
Hazel took a small breath. “And your son… he is a good man.”
There was still no spoken reply, only that quiet, lingering sorrow. Hazel winced inwardly. Everything she said felt shallow,like polite chatter at a tea table rather than something worthy of the moment or the woman before her.
