With the last step, the Dowager reached the tea tray. She reached for the teapot with steady hands and then poured a delicate stream into one cup. Hazel faltered, stunned. But the Dowager only glanced over her shoulder, looking expectant. Hazel swallowed and resumed reading at once.
The older woman poured a second cup, placed both on the tray with careful precision, chose one for herself, and carried it back to her chair. She lowered herself slowly and elegantly. As she did so, the faintest sigh of effort left her lips.
Then she lifted her teacup and continued to listen. It was such a small thing, but it felt monumental. Hazel found her place in the book and continued.
“…and though the ship groaned beneath the wild winds, he swore he would not turn back, for somewhere in the Sapphire Isles awaited a fate he could not abandon…”
Hazel reached for her own teacup. The warmth seeped through her gloves, the taste sweet and smooth on her tongue. But she didn’t stop reading, not for a single moment. Because the Dowager Duchess was sitting beside her, with her eyes half-lowered in calm attention and her tea cradled in her hands, listening more closely than anyone had listened to Hazel in a long time.
Hazel turned the next page softly. She had just reached the part where the captain declared he would rather face a thousand tempests than abandon the mysterious heroine on the Sapphire Isles, when a soft knock sounded at the door.
Mrs. Atherton peeked in, then pressed her hand to her chest. “Oh…oh my.”
Hazel lowered the book slightly, smiling at her in quiet greeting.
The housekeeper stepped inside with the reverence of someone entering a chapel. “I am so sorry to interrupt, Your Grace,” she whispered, as though even her voice might disturb the fragile peace in the room, “but it is time for Her Grace to rest.”
Hazel nodded at once. “Of course.”
Mrs. Atherton approached the Dowager with gentle, practiced hands. But before she guided her away, she turned to Hazel and said in a trembling whisper. “I have not seen her look this lovely in… in ages.”
Hazel’s breath caught. The Dowager Duchess glanced at her then, and Hazel felt honored in a way she had not expected. Not as a duchess, not as Greyson’s wife, but as a guest permitted into something private, delicate, and deeply human.
She rose from her chair. “Thank you for allowing me to visit,” she said softly.
Mrs. Atherton shook her head with a flustered flutter of gestures. “Oh, Your Grace, no, no. Thankyou.You have no idea how much this meant. I thought… I thought perhaps she would not take to you so quickly.” She wiped at her eyes discreetly. “No one has held her attention like this in years.”
Hazel’s heart clenched. Her gaze shifted to the Dowager, who had closed her eyes but still seemed peaceful.
Hazel swallowed, and her voice dropped to a quiet, earnest murmur. “Would it… would it be all right if I came again?”
Mrs. Atherton’s face lit up as though Hazel had offered to resurrect the sun itself.
“All right?” she repeated, nearly laughing from delight. “Your Grace, it would bewonderful.Oh, she would love that.Iwould love that. And His Grace—” She caught herself, suddenly proper. “Well… he would be grateful too, I am sure.”
Hazel’s stomach fluttered at the mention of Greyson, but she pushed the feeling aside. This was not about him. This was about his mother.
She smiled. “Then I shall return.”
Mrs. Atherton beamed, her joy so bright that Hazel felt warmed by it. “Whenever you wish, Your Grace. The door is always open to you.”
Hazel inclined her head in thanks, closing the book carefully and placing it on the table beside the Dowager’s chair. As Mrs. Atherton guided the older woman toward her room, Hazel lingered for a heartbeat longer. She had come here seeking distance. Instead, she had found a connection.
With a soft exhale, Hazel gathered her things and slipped quietly out of the room, already knowing she would return far sooner than she had planned.
Greyson stepped out of the carriage, holding a small bouquet of white frost lilies, delicate blooms that appeared for only three weeks in early spring.
His mother had always cherished them. As a child, he had clumsily gathered handfuls of them from the Callbury gardens. As a man grown, he bought them from the only hothouse in London capable of coaxing them into season early.
A gesture, perhaps, but an important one.
He ascended the steps to the townhouse and knocked. Mrs. Atherton opened the door almost immediately, beaming as though he had brought sunshine instead of flowers.
“Your Grace! What a lovely surprise. Twice the joy in one day.”
Greyson paused. “Twice?”
“Oh yes,” she said happily, stepping aside to usher him in. “It was wonderful of you both to visit on the same day, though truly,” she gave a light laugh, “you might have come together.”
