“Mother…” he breathed with such tenderness that it threatened to tear him apart.
She smiled in response. Her fingers trembled as they curled around his. He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against her knuckles with the reverence of a man greeting a long-lost loved one returned from the dead. He bowed his head, unable to speak past the sudden burn behind his eyes.
Then, he felt her touch. His mother’s frail hand rose to his cheek. Her thumb brushed the skin there as if memorizing it, as if reminding herself he was real… her son, her Greyson.
He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply.
He had not felt her touch, not like this, in over a decade. And now she cupped his face with such love and such tenderness that he nearly broke entirely. Emotion surged through him, choking and fierce.
“Mother…” he whispered again, and everything he wanted to tell her fit into that single word.
Her thumb stroked his cheek again in a soothing gesture from another life, another home, another time when his world had not yet fractured. For one fleeting moment, Greyson Thornhill, the cold, controlled Duke of Callbury, felt seventeen again; a son, a brother, a boy loved beyond measure… and overwhelmingly grateful to the woman who had brought this moment back to him.
Even if she had defied him to do it.
Chapter Twenty
They returned to Callbury House separately. Hazel had fully expected Greyson to remain behind with his mother, to have the moment she’d given him, but he had insisted on coming home as well.
And now, standing in the marble corridor, she wanted nothing more than to flee to her rooms, lock the door, and breathe again. She knew she had disobeyed him. She had done everything he told her not to. Even if the outcome had been miraculous, it was still done against his wishes.
She didn’t want to talk about it now, to have his scolding ruin the moment they had. So, she tried to run toward the staircase, but his voice caught her.
“Hazel.”
She closed her eyes briefly, gripping at the railing of the staircase.
No. No, no, no.
She was not ready to be scolded. She was not ready for disappointment or anger, or worse, a quiet, polite reminder of boundaries she had already shattered.
Drawing a breath, she turned. He was already close, much closer than she expected him to be.
“Before you tell me anything,” she rushed out, her hands lifting as if to ward off his words, “please allow me to expla?—”
“Thank you.”
Hazel blinked.
“What?” she breathed.
He held her gaze for a moment, and she could see that same emotion she had witnessed in that sunlit sitting room.
“Thank you,” he repeated, and this was the first time that his voice sounded as if it were on the verge of breaking, “for giving me a moment with my mother I thought I would never have again.”
Hazel stared at him, utterly stunned. Her breath caught somewhere between her throat and her heart.
“I…” She swallowed. “You are thanking me?”
“Yes,” he said softly. “I am.”
She had imagined anger, resentment, and then, lastly, a lecture on boundaries or propriety or trust. She had not imaginedthis: him standing before her, vulnerable and grateful.
Hazel found her voice, though it felt barely steady. “I know I was wrong to disobey you. Truly, I do. I never meant to… to hurt you or go against your wishes. I only wanted to help her.”
“I know.” His tone was gentle, the softness of it sending something warm spiraling through her. “You always know what to do to help.”
He took a small step closer. His cologne nestled her senses into a deeper warmth. Then, he said something that rooted her to the floor.
