Greyson followed her glance. The steward, who had spent the last minute trying to blend into the wallpaper, began shaking his head with frantic urgency, mouthing silently:No, Your Grace. Not at all. Absolutely not. Later. Much later.
Hazel raised an expectant brow.
“I might not be,” Greyson said carefully.
Hazel chuckled, soft and incredulous. “You either are, or you are not, Greyson. Which one is it?”
He loved it when she wove his name into the conversation so effortlessly that she probably thought he didn’t even notice it.
He did.
He opened his mouth, closed it. He opened it again, the words forming of their own accord, words that shocked him as much as they would the entire household.
“I am not busy.”
Hazel’s smile bloomed, warm enough to melt the marble beneath their feet. “Excellent.”
Greyson’s heart executed some manner of discreet but alarming misbehavior.
She descended a step toward him, as her hands curled lightly along the banister. “Why don’t you join us on our spontaneous ride? It seems you could use one as well.”
Greyson almost choked.
Join them? Join a group of duchesses? In the park? Socially? Spontaneously?
Absolutely not. He had a thousand reasons.Goodreasons.Practicalreasons. He was a duke, he was busy, he was not fond of large gatherings, he was not fond of horse rides that were not meticulously scheduled, he wascertainlynot fond of anything described as spontaneous…
But then Hazel looked at him. Her eyes sparkled with delight, and that fresh freedom she had claimed earlier glowed through her like fire through glass. There was no expectation in her gaze, only a warm invitation to be by her side.
“I…” His voice failed him once, then twice. He tried again. “I could join you.”
Hazel brightened, completely unaware of the storm she had unearthed. “Wonderful! I shall be down shortly.”
She hurried up the stairs, leaving Greyson rooted to the marble. Only when she disappeared around the landing did he finally exhale.
Behind him, the steward murmured in a daze. “Your Grace… did you just agree to… unplanned leisure?”
Greyson shot him a murderous glare. “Prepare our horses.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the steward said at once, nearly tripping over himself in his hurry to obey.
Greyson looked back up the stairs Hazel had taken. He had no business agreeing to this. Yet he could not deny her, not when she looked at him the way she just had, as if he were capable of joining her in that strange, exhilarating lightness she carried within her.
Greyson Thornhill, the Duke of Callbury, master of restraint and order, whispered to the empty hall: “What am I doing?”
And for the first time in his life, he had absolutely no idea.
“Hazel!” Cordelia called over her shoulder the moment Hazel and Greyson caught up with their friends at the park. “We were beginning to think you had abandoned us! But I see that you’ve come armed with a husband!”
Hazel laughed, gathering her reins. “I assure you, I would never abandon any of you. Though I did half-expect His Grace to change his mind before we reached the park.”
“I heard that,” Greyson said, perfectly dry. He gave them all a polite bow. “Ladies.”
Evelyn turned in her saddle with a grin. “It is always a pleasure, Your Grace. We are merely astonished you joined us on this spontaneous outing. I’ve heard they are not your usual territory.”
Greyson inclined his head a fraction. “One must attempt new things… occasionally.”
Cordelia gasped. “Matilda, did he just attempt humor? Did anyone else hear it?”
