Chapter Six
The Rutherford estate was a sea of color and noise—not a shimmering, glass-like sea one might dream of strolling beside on a summer afternoon, but a wild and raging tide that swept you out without warning and left you stranded with nothing to do but hope you’d make it back to the shore alive.
Parasols bobbed across the lawn, the metallic clink of croquet balls striking mallets echoed against the hedges, and laughter that was just a bit too bright to be genuine cut through the heavy summer air.
Grace lingered near a trellis of climbing roses, her parasol dangling idly from her wrist, wishing that she could be anywhere else.
Mr. Pembroke, the earnest young gentleman she had been introduced to a few moments ago, was doing his best to impress her with tales of his family’s new carriage and his very earnest ambitions for Parliament.
They arrived only a quarter of an hour ago, and already Oliver stood across the lawn in the center of a flock of young ladies. The fact that he found himself the center of their attention so quickly wasn’t what was surprising to Grace; it was Oliver himself.
He wasn’t laughing or tossing clever winks. He stood with his hands clasped lightly behind his back, listening to one of the ladies speak, with what appeared to be genuine interest. It was almost unsettling, yet Grace couldn’t force herself to look away.
As if he could feel her gaze, Oliver suddenly looked up, his eyes locking on hers. Grace felt herself brace for impact as he abandoned his circle of admirers and made his way across the lawn, his path aimed directly at her and Mr. Pembroke.
“There you are,” Oliver said brightly, sliding into place beside her as if it were exactly where he belonged. “I have been sent here on a most perilous mission.”
Grace blinked, the color draining from her face. “A mission?”
“Yes,” Oliver said, learning in to fill the space between her and Mr. Pembroke.
“Retrieve Lady Rockwell for croquet. Immediate action is required. Lives may depend on it.” He whispered as though he were divulging a great secret, though Grace knew that everything coming out of his mouth was as false as the smile she still managed to keep on her face.
Mr. Pemrboke looked between them, unable—or unwilling—to hide the confusion on his face. “We hadn’t quite finished….”
“Croquet waits for no man, Mr. Pembroke.” Oliver lifted his hand to rest lightly on the small of her back. “Or woman.”
Grace tensed immediately. “I am not playing croquet with you.”
Oliver’s expression remained perfectly serious, but she could see the unmistakable twinkle in his eye as he applied just a bit more pressure to his touch. “The battlefield calls, Lady Rockwell.”
He was toying with her. Grace felt her breath hitch, and Oliver must have noticed, because he threw her a wink before turning back to Mr. Pembroke as if he was daring him to protest.
Apparently, tangling with Lord Blackburn over lawn games was not something the young Pembroke had prepared himself for today, because he quickly excused himself, mumbling something about the refreshments table.
As soon as they were alone, Grace stepped out of Oliver’s grasp. She turned on him so sharply she nearly lost her balance. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Saving you from death by polite conversation." Oliver smiled innocently. “You’re welcome, by the way.” His tone and posture were perfectly relaxed and completely unbothered. A stark contrast to Grace, who was barely holding on to her composure.
“I did not ask to be saved.”
“You were radiating distress.” Oliver was completely unfazed, his head tilted slightly, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward.
The fact that he was enjoying this made Grace’s frustration rise even more. “I was having a conversation.”
“With Jonathan Pembroke,” he replied, his voice dipping in mock gravity. “That is a fate worse than boredom.”
“And what were you doing?” Grace crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “Holding court with half of the county's unmarried daughters?”
“I assure you, I was suffering.”
“You were flirting.”
“I was listening,” he countered. “There is a painful difference between the two.”
Grace turned and set off across the lawns.
She didn’t know why he had such a profound effect on her.
Grace was typically not one to let people get under her skin, but something about Oliver was like the thorn on a rose.
There was no denying that he was beautiful to look at, but the feelings he stirred were not—like the prick on your finger you don’t notice until the sting sets in.
“Grace…” Oliver fell into step beside her. The man certainly was persistent.
Grace refused to slow down, though she hadn’t fully thought out where she was fleeing to. “Please stop following me.” She turned down the path towards the Rutherford’s stables, and Oliver stayed close behind. “I am under strict orders to guard you during the lawn games.”
“I am not playing any lawn games.”
“Then I shall guard you recreationally.”
Grace stopped abruptly, forcing Oliver to halt a few steps ahead of her. “You made me look like a fool!” she snapped. The words came out sharper than she’d intended, slicing through the air between them.
Oliver’s composure faltered, just slightly. “I wasn’t trying to,” he said quietly, his voice gentle in a way that caught her off guard.
Grace knew he was telling the truth, but for a moment, she wished that she didn’t believe him.
It was much easier to push him away when he was playing the part of the heartless rogue, instead of looking at her with a softness that twisted her stomach in knots.
“Stop inserting yourself where you do not belong.”
“I am trying to be your friend, Grace.” Oliver took a step closer, but Grace pulled back, instinctively putting more space between them than before.
“You are not my friend!” She knew she should lower her defenses, but it was something about the sincerity in his eyes that made her walls rise even higher. “I am afraid you have mistaken proximity for intimacy, Lord Blackburn.”
She noticed the way his jaw tightened and his shoulders drew back, as if his armor had just settled back into place. “And you have mistaken distance for strength, Lady Rockwell.” His words hit like a blow she hadn’t been ready to take.
Strength? No.
Survival? Perhaps.
Grace folded her arms, no longer willing to simply defend herself. She took a breath as she launched her own attack. “At least I do not hide behind charm and mockery and pretend that I do not feel a thing.”
“No.” Oliver leaned in a fraction closer, his already dark blue eyes deepening with something she couldn’t read. “You just punish anyone who dares to make you feel anything at all.”
He was so close, she could feel his uneven breaths. She couldn’t tell if he was truly angry or if he was only trying to get a rise out of her.
Maybe she had become more guarded since losing Benjamin. But what else was one to do when they suffered a loss that great? She could admit that the thought of letting someone else into her life terrified her. She could. But she wouldn’t.
Grace took a step back and cleared her throat as she tried to clear her mind. “This isn’t meant to be a war, Oliver. We agreed to a truce.”
“I am not the one who started throwing punches.” Oliver’s voice was barely above a whisper, but Grace caught the slight hitch in his voice. She wasn’t entirely sure what had just shifted, but suddenly it felt as though neither one of them had the upper hand.
Grace lowered her gaze and turned to continue towards the path that led towards the long drive that came up to meet the Rutherford estate.
“Grace, where are you going?” Oliver called after her, though he made no move to follow her—and Grace made no effort to answer him.
Oliver watched as Grace walked towards the path that led to the long, winding drive that connected the Rutherford Estate to the main road. Surely she wouldn’t attempt the hour walk back to Somerton in this heat—would she?
He thought about following her to ensure she stayed safe, but at the moment, Grace Rockwell would most likely throw herself off the cliffs of Bath to get away from him, so it would probably be in everyone’s best interest if he kept his distance.
The sun was high, and the croquet game was in full chaotic swing—or as chaotic as a croquet game could be when it was being hosted by a Viscount and the daughter of a vicar.
Not a single soul was wanting for company, and every guest seemed to be happily engaged in a conversation or paired with a potential match—everyone except for Oliver.
He scanned the crowd for a familiar face and spotted Sarah sitting under the shade of a large tree; a half-empty glass of lemonade sitting on the small table beside her.
She looked slightly pale, but she was smiling brightly at something Matthew whispered in her ear before he pressed a kiss to her cheek and returned to the game.
Oliver made his way to where Sarah now sat alone, and lowered himself onto the grass beside her chair with what he hoped was more dramatic flair than an unsophisticated flop.
“So, tell me, Lizzy,” Oliver ignored the glare Sarah flashed in his direction at his unapproved use of the pet name. “Would you say Lady Rockwell's disdain for me is chronic, or merely acute?”
Sarah shook her head with a slight laugh. “What happened?”
“An attempt at chivalry gone spectacularly awry.”
“You don’t strike me as the chivalrous type,”
“I am experimenting,” Oliver replied. “It is going terribly.”
Sarah laughed again, but she tilted her head slightly as if she were studying him. Oliver plucked a few blades of grass in an attempt to avoid her gaze.
Matthew always talked about how Grace could read a man’s deepest secrets just by looking into his eyes—which was surely just an exaggeration—but the way Sarah was looking at him now made him feel like she could see things about him even he wasn’t aware of yet.
“I am trying to be civil,” Oliver said sincerely. “But it does not seem to matter, because Grace seems determined to despise me.”
“Grace does not despise you, Oliver,” Sarah said gently. “She simply does not know you.”
Oliver gave a low, humorless chuckle. “I am quite convinced that she does not want to.”
“She is still finding her footing.” Sarah continued, carefully. “There are days she barely knows how to trust the ground beneath her, let alone someone new.”
Oliver nodded, his gaze fixed on the croquet lawn.
The sound of the mallets hitting the balls reminded him of the thoughts he kept trying to knock into place, only to watch them veer off in directions he hadn’t intended.
“I do not want to add to her discomfort or her pain. I would ease it, if I could.”
“I know that,” Sarah whispered. Oliver glanced up, surprised by the certainty in her voice.
“I know your heart, Oliver.” She continued.
“Not because you show it easily, but because Matty trusts you.” Oliver blinked, caught off guard by her assessment, but even more so by how he didn’t feel the need to hide from her.
Sarah smiled and leaned over to pat his arm. “Be patient with her. I promise she’s worth it.” Somewhere across the field, a croquet ball cracked hard against a stake, and a small chorus of cheers arose. Oliver leaned back, his palms pressing into the cool grass. “I hope you’re right, Sarah.”
“I usually am,” Sarah said, her smile almost as bright as the sun that was starting to work its way through the leaves of the tree that shaded them.
For the first time that afternoon, Oliver smiled too.
Not a smirk, and not deflection, but a real smile that reached into the hard, locked-up parts in his chest.