Hazel’s breath trembled. She looked away, blinking far too rapidly.
“I don’t know what to say,” she murmured.
Greyson offered the faintest smile. “Then say nothing.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off of her, feeling a quiet longing he had no business entertaining, for he had told her his truth, and in turn, she had offered him comfort.
Chapter Seventeen
“Well, I think you will all be happy to know that my husband doesnothave a mistress,” Hazel announced, placing her teacup down with a decisive clink. “And I made an absolute fool of myself assuming he did.”
Cordelia nearly choked on her biscuit. Evelyn pressed a hand delicately to her mouth. Matilda blinked once before setting her cup aside in the calmest display of alarm Hazel had ever witnessed.
Cordelia recovered first, and her eyes were shining with delight. “You thought Greyson,theGreysonThornhill, had a mistress? Oh, Hazel, that is marvelous. I mean terrible, of course, but also marvelous.”
Hazel groaned. “Cordelia, please do not enjoy this.”
“I’m not enjoying it,” Cordelia said far too brightly. “I’m savoring it.”
Evelyn reached across the table, patting Hazel’s hand with gentle sympathy. “I am certain anyone would have jumped to conclusions if they found a mysterious townhouse being paid for in secret.”
Matilda arched a brow. “Would they?”
Evelyn shot her a look. “Matilda.”
“What?” Matilda replied, lifting her chin. “Hazel is sensible. Sensible people makereasonableassumptions. And this assumption, while dramatic, was not entirely irrational.”
Hazel sighed. “It felt entirely irrational.”
Cordelia leaned in eagerly. “Tell us everything. How did it happen? Did you storm the townhouse? Did you demand answers? Did she, whoever she wasn’t, try to hit you with a candlestick?”
Hazel gave her a flat stare. “Cordelia.”
“I would have brought a candlestick,” Cordelia said with a sage nod. “Purely preventive.”
Evelyn laughed softly. “Oh, Hazel, all that matters is that everything turned out all right.”
Hazel slumped back in her chair. “Indeed. I was so certain I would walk in and find a woman in a silk robe fainting theatrically at my arrival.”
Cordelia gasped. “Was she? Was there silk?”
“No,” Hazel said dryly. “There was no silk. There was Mrs. Atherton.”
“Who was she?” Matilda inquired.
“The Duke’s housekeeper,” Hazel clarified. “She greeted me with the cheer of someone welcoming a long-awaited niece. And then promptly ushered me in to meet Greyson’s mother.”
Evelyn’s eyes widened. “You met his mother? Oh, Hazel, how wonderful.”
Hazel’s features softened, remembering the quiet, sun-filled room. “It was… unexpected,” she admitted. “But she is lovely. Fragile and kind.”
She told them about the unexpected visit, the book she read and the silent promise that she would come again.
Matilda reached for a pastry with measured elegance. “Hazel,” she said, “you visited your husband’s mother, comforted her, and eased her loneliness. That is admirable.”
Hazel felt heat rise to her face. “I did not mean to do anything admirable. I meant to… well… accuse someone of adultery.”
Cordelia burst into laughter. Evelyn tried to conceal her smile behind her teacup, but she failed miserably in that endeavor. Even Matilda’s lips twitched.
