Chapter Twenty-Two
Greyson stood by the tall windows of his study, watching Hazel bent beside the gardener, inspecting a cluster of late-summer roses with earnest concentration.
He should have returned to his paperwork ten minutes ago. Instead, he watched her.
Hazel pointed at a wilted blossom, murmuring something he could not hear. Whatever she said made old Mr. Hollis throw his head back in laughter. It was a full, warm, unguarded sound, Greyson had not realized the man could still manage. Hazel laughed, too.
Even he himself smiled. Hazel could coax warmth from a stone.
He watched as she straightened, brushing dirt from her gloves. Mr. Hollis said something, scratching his chin, and Hazel responded with a gentle pat to his arm.
Greyson’s brows drew together. It had taken Hollis six years to look Greyson in the eye. Six years to learn the duke was not the sort to snap at an underling simply for existing. And yet Hazel had been here scarcely a month and the man was practically beaming at her like a doting uncle.
She made everything and everyone around her content. And he liked it more than he ought to.
She could make anyone smile,he thought to himself.Even Mother.
Greyson stiffened. Despite the impossible feat that Hazel had managed to performGreyson knew that affection, of any kind, was dangerous. It was unpredictable. It weakened a man, and it weakened families. He had seen the ruin it left in its wake, felt the aftermath carved into the bones of this very house.
He couldn’t allow softness to sway him. But Hazel… she defied such logic simply by being herself.
Greyson had barely taken a step back from the window when the study door swung open without so much as a knock.
“Greyson, old boy!” Jasper announced, striding in with all the subtlety of a parade. “I come bearing exceptionally good news, though I doubt you deserve it, considering you have not answered a single one of my notes this week?—”
Greyson did not turn. He did not blink. He did not, in fact, hear a single word.
Hazel had paused by the rose archway, and sunlight turned her hair into warm copper. She lifted her skirts slightly to avoid a puddle, smiling as she did so.
Behind him, Jasper continued. “…and one could even argue that you have been positivelyreclusive, which is terribly rude behavior for a newly married man. One might think you would be reveling in social glory, but you… Greyson, are you listening to me?”
Greyson did not offer even a grunt of a greeting.
Jasper’s brows rose. He walked closer, leaned sideways a fraction, and followed the line of Greyson’s gaze straight through the window.
“Oh,” Jasper breathed, and there was a grin blooming. “Well, well.”
Greyson finally tore his eyes away from Hazel, only to scowl at Jasper, which did nothing to hide that hehadbeen staring.
Jasper clasped his hands dramatically. “I must say, old friend, this is truly a historic moment. The great Duke of Callbury, felled by the sight of his own wife smiling at a rosebush.”
“I was not felled,” Greyson snapped.
“It certainly looked like it.”
“I was thinking.”
“About roses?”
“About the gardener,” Greyson said stiffly.
Jasper laughed outright. “Yes, that poor fellow is clearly the source of your sudden introspective paralysis.”
Greyson glowered. “You are insufferable.”
“Thank you,” Jasper said brightly. “But let us examine the facts, shall we? I entered the room. I spoke. I continued speaking. You did not respond. You did not blink. You did notbreathe. The only conclusion is that your attention was entirely occupied by?—”
“—not by Hazel,” Greyson lied with all the conviction of a man caught red-handed.
