Chapter One #2
Matthew blinked, taken off guard but clearly amused. “Unfortunately, I have yet to master the art of reading your mind, so you will have to be more specific.” His gaze drifted over the room. “I can think of at least six men here deserving of that title.”
“Lord Blackburn.” Grace sighed, already regretting giving him the dignity of a mention. “I just had the misfortune of speaking with him.”
Matthew laughed, “Oliver? He is harmless.” Grace’s head snapped up in surprise. “Harmless? I was perilously close to losing my sanity, Matty.”
“He is not entirely what he seems, Gracie.”
Grace’s chin lifted in challenge. “What he seems is difficult, and I am perfectly content knowing nothing beyond that.”
“You know,” Matthew said slowly, as if weighing the cost of what he was about to say. “Some may believe the same of you lately.” Grace leveled him with a glare, “Matthew Fenwick, are you comparing me to Oliver Blackburn?”
“Not in any way that should offend you.”
Matthew always told her that she could see too much, but tonight she felt the balance shift, as if he were peeling back the layers she wished everyone would leave untouched.
Grace felt her walls snap back into place. “I was not aware you also liked provoking bears.”
Matthew chuckled, “I know better than that.”
Grace tilted her head, a teasing edge in her voice. “I am not sure you do.”
Matthew’s gaze softened. “May I speak freely, as your friend?”
“I would prefer it if you did not.”
Matthew nodded silently, turning back towards the crowded room, his hands buried deep in his pockets. Grace studied his relaxed posture and the quiet resolve in his stance. “I did not expect you to give up so easily. I suppose whatever you had to say was not that important.”
“It is,” he replied. “But if you will not hear it from me, Sarah can simply tell you later.”
Were all men equally infuriating, or only the ones in her life?
“What did we just say about the bear, Matty?” He turned back to face her, his knowing smile far too similar to the ones she had tossed his way over the years.
“When I said I knew better, that is not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” she asked, though a small part of her already feared the answer. Matthew took a small step towards her, his eyes as steady and familiar, but edged with a heaviness and grief she knew all too well.
“What others see as an angry bear,” he said quietly, “I know is really just a frightened cub. You may seem fierce, but it is only because you are protecting something tender. And your growl is far worse than your bite.”
Grace’s throat tightened. She hated how well he still knew her. For the second time that night, she found herself without a defense and with a sudden urge to flee.
“Suddenly, I am quite tired,” she said, forcing a steady breath. “If you see Sarah, tell her I have gone up and I will speak to her in the morning.”
Before he could say more, Grace quickly turned away, determined to stay one step ahead of the grief she still hadn’t fully allowed to catch up with her.
The music swelled again, another lively reel that sent skirts spinning and champagne flowing. Oliver leaned against the paneled wall, watching the tide of the room swirl around him. It was, quite frankly, exhausting.
His gaze caught a flicker of dark blue silk as it disappeared into the crowd—Lady Rockwell, retreating from the battlefield of polite society with all the dignity of a queen in full retreat.
He shouldn’t have pushed her. He knew better. He always knew better, but it rarely bothered him. But something about her was different.
It wasn’t just the sharpness in her eyes that struck him; it was the hollow beneath them. It was the kind of ache he recognized all too well. Pain knew its own.
He let out a slow breath and waved off the glass of champagne a footman tried to press into his hand. He didn’t need another drink; he needed to distance himself from whatever had cracked open the quiet ache in his own chest tonight.
He found Matthew near the edge of the room, surveying the crowd with the wary air of a man guarding something precious, or perhaps waiting for the chandelier to fall and crush half of the guests—knowing Matthew Fenwick, either scenario was entirely plausible.
Oliver approached him with the lazy confidence of a man who knew precisely how far he could push without risking a limb.
“Fenwick!” he drawled, claiming the empty space beside him. “Tell me, have you always been a glutton for punishment, or is hosting house parties a new form of self-flagellation?”
Matthew didn’t smile. He barely even looked at him. “Have you come to confess your sins, or make your defense?” Oliver pressed a hand dramatically to his heart. “Must you always assume the worst of me, Matty? Perhaps I merely came to complement you on your stunning selection of lukewarm beverages.”
Matthew’s mouth twitched, failing to hide his amusement. “I do not always assume the worst, Oliver. But in this particular case, I happen to know the truth.”
Oliver shifted, adopting an expression of exaggerated innocence. “I may have, unintentionally, caused Lady Rockwell some minor, barely noticeable, hardly worth mentioning distress.”
Matthew turned to face him fully, studying him with a steady gaze and crossed arms. “Grace is not like the others, Oliver. She is not here to be dazzled or distracted, and she is not a game.”
Oliver raised both hands in surrender. “I swear before heaven and the tepid punch, I have no such ambitions towards her.”
Matthew’s gaze did not waver. “Good. But allow me to be clear—tread lightly.” His words were firm; less of a warning and more of a vow. Oliver sobered, his voice barely strong enough to be heard above the chatter of the room. “I know who she is, Matthew.”
He had known Benjamin Weston better than most. He had spent many idle hours at Eton listening to Benjamin talk about his sister’s wild laughter and Grace’s fierce kindness.
She was the one he spoke about least, but there was a different light in his eyes when he said her name, like she was a secret worth keeping.
Oliver knew how deep her loss ran. He knew because he carried his own grief in the same hidden, unspoken places. “She is not the only one who has buried a future she thought she could count on,” Oliver added, his tone carrying more of an edge than he had intended.
Matthew studied him for a long moment, long enough for Oliver to feel the weight of everything they both knew but didn’t speak outloud.
“She doesn’t need another man feeling sorry for her,” Matthew said at last.
“I am not feeling sorry for her,” Oliver replied. He tried to force a smile, as broken as it was. “Though pity is tempting, considering she had to endure an entire conversation with me.”
Matthew’s gaze softened slightly, “She made a similar remark.”
“I saw her sitting alone, and I could not simply leave her there.” Oliver’s voice dropped to a near whisper, brushing against something dangerously close to sincerity. He cleared his throat before it could settle.
“You have nothing to worry about, old friend.” He flashed his signature smile. “I have no designs on your precious bear cub.”
He knew Matthew had caught the shift in the air, but he didn’t press. Instead, he clapped a hand to Oliver’s shoulder and leaned in close. “Good. You wouldn’t survive the attempt.”
Oliver chucked. “I always hoped if I were to die young, it would be at the hands of a jealous husband or an outraged father—not mauled by you for mildly inconveniencing your houseguest.”
Matthew lifted a brow in amusement, “It wasn’t me I was referring to.” He tipped his head towards the doorway Grace had slipped out of. “But you would deserve it either way.” Matthew suddenly caught sight of his wife and excused himself, making his way to her side.
Oliver slipped out onto the terrace, the last murmurs of the music inside floating behind him like a ghost that refused to leave.
The gardens stretched before him in silver shadowed lines, rows of rose bushes sleeping under the low-hung moon.
He exhaled slowly and ran a hand through his hair, letting the mask slip now that there was no one to see.
He hated nights like this, the ones that didn’t distract or offer enough noise to keep the memories at bay.
He didn’t know why he had accepted Matthew and Sarah’s invitation to stay for the summer.
He had thought it would be better than sitting in his empty townhouse, but the moment he saw Grace Rockwell—holding herself together so tightly that the cracks wouldn’t show—something inside his chest had broken loose.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. Grace stood a few paces away in the garden, partially hidden by a rose bush. She wasn’t crying, but the stillness in her shoulders spoke of someone who’d learned the cost of putting to much hope in your dreams.
He didn’t approach her; instead, he simply watched her a moment longer before turning away and heading back toward the crowded drawing room.
Broken things recognized each other—and Oliver knew that sometimes the kindest thing you could do for a wounded creature was to leave it alone.
At least for now.