Damian fell asleep on her lap on this very line.
Hazel swallowed hard. This book was the heart of a family she had never seen. Here was a mother before grief consumed her. Here was a brother before despair claimed him. And this was the childhood before everything shattered.
Greyson had shared it… withher.
Hazel turned another page and stilled. Near the end, the ink became slightly darker, as though he had hesitated before writing:
Hazel, this is the part she read most often. We used to say it was the safest place in the world. Now you know why this book matters.
Her hand flew to her heart. He had written her name, intertwining her fate with theirs. She closed the book carefully, holding it to her chest as though it were porcelain and might break if she breathed too hard.
Greyson had not given her a book. He had given her his childhood, his memories, his mother’s laughter, his brother’s joy. He had let her see the boy he once was, and now, the man who still grieved him.
Hazel pressed her forehead to the cover, feeling the tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
“Oh… oh, Greyson…”
She had done her best trying to protect her heart, but it was too late, for she feared it belonged to him already.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hazel woke with an uncharacteristic lightness, as if her heart had woken before the rest of her. For a brief, drowsy moment, she lay still, staring at the soft drapery above her bed, with Greyson’s book resting warm against her head on the pillow.
She pressed her hand lightly to her chest, feeling a flutter there that she could no longer pretend was anything but what it was.
She needed to see him, to thank him, to tell him what he had shared was more precious than jewels or declarations could ever be.
Hazel practically flew from her bed, dressing with a haste that startled her lady’s maid, who was unaccustomed to the duchess wishing to beanywherebefore breakfast. Hazel barely paused to pin her hair, leaving a few rebellious curls to arrange themselves, before hurrying down the corridor.
The dining hall doors stood open, and she stepped inside, but it was empty. Momentarily, her smile faltered. Only a footman was present, adjusting the silverware on the long table.
Hazel cleared her throat gently. “Good morning. Has His Grace breakfasted already?”
The footman bowed. “Good morning, Your Grace. The duke did not dine here this morning.”
“Oh.” Her heart dipped strangely. “Do you know where he is?”
Before the footman could answer, two maids entered carrying a tray of fresh bread and fruit. Hazel turned toward them.
“Excuse me,” she said, trying not to sound breathless, “have either of you seen His Grace this morning?”
The younger maid bobbed a curtsy. “Oh yes, Your Grace. The duke left quite early. Before any of us were downstairs.”
Hazel tried to hide her disappointment. “I see. Did he… mention where he was headed?”
The older maid smiled warmly. “He said he was visitin’ the Dowager first thing, Your Grace. Then somethin’ about affairs in town.”
Hazel’s heart softened at once. She pictured him in the Dowager’s sitting room, sitting quietly beside her, perhaps reading to her, or perhaps simply being present. That image alone sent warmth flowing through Hazel. Still, she had hoped to see him before he headed out.
The younger maid hesitated, then added shyly. “He seemed in very good spirits, Your Grace.”
Hazel blinked. “He did?”
“Oh yes,” the maid continued. “Walked out with a certain lightness, if you don’t mind my sayin’. Haven’t seen him look so… well,content, in quite some time.”
Hazel felt her cheeks warm. Was he content because of his mother, because of what happened there? Or perhaps, was it because of… her?
She pressed her hands together, steadying herself.
