Greyson stopped mid-stride.
“Both?” he echoed sharply. “Mrs. Atherton, who are you referring to?”
She blinked at him, but her smile was slowly faltering. “Why, your wife, of course.”
Greyson’s pulse lurched. “Hazel was here?”
Mrs. Atherton’s cheerful expression dimmed into uncertainty. “Yes… Oh dear, is something the matter?”
Greyson stared, momentarily unable to answer. Hazel was here, in his mother’s private sanctuary, the one place he had never brought anyone but Jasper.
“My wife came here?” he said again, slower this time, feeling the words heavy in his throat.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Mrs. Atherton said softly. “Just earlier this afternoon.”
Greyson struggled for composure. “How did it happen? What… prompted her to come?”
“Oh, well,” Mrs. Atherton began, brightening again as the memory returned, “Her Grace knocked on the door, and I let her in, and she sat with the Dowager for over an hour. Read to her from that sea adventure she loves.The Mariner of Moonlit Haven, you know the one.”
Greyson did know it. His mother had read it three times in a single summer, delighted by every improbable storm.
Mrs. Atherton continued, her voice warm and full of awe. “I have not seen Her Grace, the Dowager, I mean, look so peaceful in years. She even poured tea herself.”
Greyson’s throat tightened painfully.
“She poured teaherself,” he repeated, barely above a whisper.
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Atherton said, pressing a hand to her heart. “Your wife has an effect on people. A gentle one. Her Grace was… different today… lighter.” She hesitated, then added with soft sincerity. “Your mother enjoyed every moment of her visit.”
Greyson stood very still. Hazel had come here of her own accord. She had sat with his mother. She had read to her, stayed long enough to bring quiet into a room where grief had lived for years.
He closed his eyes, a breath leaving him in a slow, unsteady rush. He thought of Hazel with her soft voice, Hazel who mothered everyone she met without meaning to, Hazel who would throw herself between the world and anyone who needed her. And she had gone to his mother when he had barely mentioned his mother to her.
Mrs. Atherton stepped closer. “Your Grace… are you well?”
Greyson opened his eyes. A dozen emotions surged: relief, gratitude, confusion and something dangerously close to awe. But, above them all was one razor-sharp realization. Hazel had done this, without being asked, simply because caring for others was as natural to her as breathing.
“Yes,” he said finally. “Quite well.”
Mrs. Atherton smiled again, reassured. Greyson looked down at the bouquet in his hands, at the frost lilies he had believed would be the brightest part of his mother’s day. But Hazel had already brought her far more.
“I should like to see my mother,” he said quietly.
“Of course, Your Grace,” Mrs. Atherton replied, stepping aside. “She is resting now. But she will be very happy to know you’ve come.”
Greyson nodded. As he crossed the threshold into the sunlit room where his mother slept, he couldn’t stop thinking about Hazel’s visit. She had changed something in his world today. And he doubted he would ever be able to look at her the same way again.
Chapter Sixteen
Dinner was served precisely at seven.
The table at Callbury House was long enough to seat twenty guests with comfort, but tonight only two places were set, one at each end, as propriety dictated.
Yet, Hazel barely tasted a bite. And Greyson seemed… distracted. His posture was impeccable and his tone measured, but Hazel had spent enough time reading people, her sisters, her parents and half of society, to recognize a troubled mind when she saw one. And Greyson’s mind was very, very troubled. He kept looking at her with that strange, unreadable intensity that made Hazel feel as though she were sitting much closer to him than the length of the table allowed.
She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, trying to steady herself.
She had expected, perhaps even deserved, a certain severity from him. After all, she had rummaged through his private studylike a thief and then invaded what she thought was his mistress’ home. The shame of it still prickled at her skin.
