“But… who helps you?”
Her lips parted. “I… I don’t need help.”
Greyson’s gaze lowered to her mouth for the briefest moment before rising again to her eyes. “Everyone needs help sometimes,” he murmured. “And you have proven that to me today.”
Her heart fluttered violently. He stepped closer again. The marble floor, the gilded sconces, the portraits lining the walls, they all blurred softly at the edges. All Hazel could see washim.
Their bodies were only inches apart now, close enough that she felt the heat of him, his breath against her cheek.
His voice dropped to a whisper meant only for her. “You gave my mother a piece of her life back.”
“You deserved that moment,” Hazel whispered back.
His hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed a stray curl from her cheek. Hazel’s breath shuddered. They stared at each other, suspended in a silence that felt like the air before a lightning strike.
Their faces drew closer. They were not touching, but they were achingly near. Hazel could feel the warmth of his breath ghost across her lips. Her own lips parted, instinctively. Her heart pounded so fiercely she wondered if he could hear it.
Just then, a sharp voice cut through the silence. “Your Grace?”
Hazel flinched backward. Greyson straightened so quickly it was as if someone had doused him in cold water.
A footman stood at the end of the corridor, holding a silver tray and wearing an expression of pure, innocent terror, because he knewexactlywhat he had interrupted.
“I… I beg your pardon, Your Graces,” the footman stammered, as his eyes darted everywhere except toward them. “I did not mean to intrude.”
Greyson cleared his throat, and every trace of vulnerability shattered behind his composed ducal exterior. “What is it?”
“The, ah, the carriage from Lymington House has arrived with the documents you requested, Your Grace.” The man dipped his head toward Greyson. “I was told to fetch you at once.”
“Very well,” Greyson said, though his voice held a faint roughness. “I will attend shortly.”
The footman bowed again and practically fled down the corridor, leaving an echoing silence in his wake. Hazel pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks, mortified and breathless. Her heart still raced violently, as though unaware that the moment had been broken.
Greyson stood a few paces away now, breathing unsteadily. He was looking at the floor, but then dared to look at her again. When he did, her heart almost stopped. There was longing in his gaze, unmistakable and real. But there was fear, too. Fear for himself, herself, and the line they had nearly crossed.
Hazel swallowed, trying to gather the tatters of her composure.
“I… suppose I should go… upstairs,” she murmured.
“Yes,” Greyson said softly. “Perhaps.”
Neither moved at first. But then, Hazel forced herself to turn. She took a step toward the staircase, then another, feeling the weight of his gaze on her back with each one. When she reached the first stair, she dared a final glance over her shoulder. Greyson was still standing exactly where she had left him, unable to look away.
She dipped her head and ascended the steps. Only when she reached the landing did she allow her hand to clutch the banister, steadying herself. Her heart still raced, and her lips still tingled with the ghost of what almost happened.
But worst of all, she wasn’t entirely certain that she would have stopped him, even if she should have.
Greyson walked toward the study with the long, measured strides of a man whowantedto appear in control.
He was failing.
He knew. The servants probably knew it. And most of all, Hazel had surely seen the shattering in him.
The corridor felt unbearably warm. His cravat felt too tight, as though someone had tied it with the intention to strangle him. His pulse thundered in his ears.
He reached the study door, paused, then forced himself inside. The footman stood waiting, and behind him rested a stack of documents neatly arranged on a silver tray. Greyson attempted to compose his features into something ducal, but the moment the footman bowed, Greyson realized he hadn’t even fully caught his breath.
“Your Grace,” the footman said, presenting the papers.
