Chastity peeked out between her fingers, while her cheeks bloomed pink. “It is nothing, Hazel. Really. Only… well, we spoke at Lady Harrow’s musicale, and he was… kind.”
Patience was unable to restrain herself. “And clever! And Chastity has not stopped talking about what he said about the sonnet?—”
Chastity pressed her hand over Patience’s mouth. “Enough, enough!”
Hazel laughed softly. “So, thereissomeone.”
Chastity let out a defeated sigh and lowered her hand. “Yes. But only barely. We were introduced, we spoke for perhaps ten minutes, and that is all.”
Hazel’s voice softened. “And what impression did he leave?”
Chastity hesitated, then her shoulders relaxed. “He was… unexpected. He was also thoughtful. He listened more than he boasted. And he asked whatIthought of the performance.” Her smile turned shy. “No one ever asks.”
Hazel reached for her hand. “He sounds promising.”
Patience sighed dramatically. “He sounds romantic.”
Chastity glared at her. “He sounds like someone I have metonce.Let us all calm down.”
Hazel squeezed her hand gently. “Just remember, my dear, do not give your heart lightly. Not until you know it is safe in the right hands.”
Chastity nodded. “I promise, Hazel.”
Only, it was a promise Hazel herself was not certain she could keep.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Greyson dismissed the footman with a curt nod, waiting until the door to his study clicked shut before he exhaled.
The house was quiet. Hazel was with her sisters. He had just come back from his mother’s, and she was resting, with that blissful smile of hers still there. And Jasper would not barge in until supper at least… hopefully.
It was the first true moment of solitude he’d had in days.
He crossed the study, not toward his desk or the decanter, but toward a small side table near the window. Several books lay stacked there, three newly returned from the Dowager’s townhouse. Their worn corners and smoothed edges betrayed years of tender, loving use.
Greyson stood over them. He hesitated.
Then he reached out and lifted the top book. It was thin, bound in faded blue linen. It was the very one Hazel had brought to his mother days ago, the one his mother herself had read from. The one?—
He stopped the thought before it could tighten his chest.
Carrying it to his desk, he sat heavily, the single lamp casting a warm glow across the page as he opened the book to its beginning.
The faintest imprint of someone’s fingertip smudged the corner of the first chapter. Greyson pulled open the drawer beside him and removed a long-unused fountain pen. He tested the nib on a scrap of paper. His hand hovered above the margin.
He did not write anything. He read, not for plot or language, because he had no room in his mind for fiction now. He read for something far more elusive.
He turned a page. His mother had paused somewhere here when she would read it to him and his brother. He closed his eyes. A breathy whisper of his mother’s voice filled the room like magic.
Greyson’s throat tightened. He forced himself to breathe.
He turned to the next page. There, he lowered the pen and made a small mark. It was almost nothing, just the smallest annotation a man could make while still admitting he needed to say something. He paused, then added a second mark. Then, afew pages later, he added an entire line beneath a sentence that held no obvious meaning to anyone but him, his brother and his mother.
Greyson shut the book abruptly. His pulse was too loud. He pushed up from the desk and walked to the fireplace, bracing a hand against the mantel. The room felt too warm. He closed his eyes.
This was not a grand gesture. It was not meant to be. It was simply something he needed to do, something he did not yet have the courage to articulate aloud.
After a long moment, he returned to the desk, sat down and opened the book once more. His hand was steadier now. He turned to the page where his mother had looked up at him, for the first time in years. His pen touched the margin.
