Chapter Eight
Grace sat in the library at Somerton, curled up in one of the deep leather armchairs, a book open in her lap as the golden afternoon light poured across the floorboards.
She wasn’t truly reading—her eyes drifting over the words without taking them in.
Her mind caught between the memories of what had been, and the strange quiet of the past few days.
There had been no more arguments and no more unexpected confrontations.
She had barely seen Oliver at all since their heated exchange at the garden party.
She thought she preferred it that way, but she was quickly realizing that the silence his absence left made space for thoughts even more unpleasant than his company.
The door creaked softly, and Grace glanced up just as Oliver stepped into the room.
He moved with surprising quiet for someone who so often commanded being the center of attention.
He didn’t notice her at first, his hand skimming the bookshelves and his fingers brushing along the spines as though he were in search of a specific title.
He was halfway across the room when he spotted her. The flicker of alarm that crossed his face was almost comical. He slowly turned around and tiptoed back towards the door. Grace rolled her eyes. He was absolutely absurd.
“Lord Blackburn.”
He stopped mid-step when Grace softly called his name. She could see him grimace slightly before composing himself to turn back and face her.
“Lady Rockwell.” He managed a graceful bow, despite his earlier theatrics. “I did consider retreating, though it seems I have been bested.”
Grace gave him a faint smile as she closed her book. “You needn’t run from me, Oliver.”
“Forgive me, my Lady,” He arched a brow, his eyes flicking back towards the door as if he were still contemplating an escape. “But past experience has suggested otherwise.”
Grace took in a steadying breath as she smoothed her hands over her skirts.
The motion was meant to calm her heart, which was still beating just a tick too fast, but she pushed through it.
“I would like to apologize." She said, the words barely making it past her lips. Oliver straightened immediately, and Grace couldn’t tell if he was genuinely surprised or startled by her admission.
“For my behavior at the Rutherford’s garden party,” she clarified. “I was unkind. You were only trying to help, and I made things unnecessarily difficult.”
Oliver crossed the room slowly, coming to rest near the unlit hearth, leaning one shoulder against the stone. “You are hardly the first lady to object to my company," he said lightly.
“Perhaps,” Grace shrugged. “But you did not deserve it. I am still trying to navigate life the way it is now, and I am afraid that I am failing more often than not.”
He didn’t reply right away. Instead, he studied her with what many people may have mistaken as pity, but Grace, who had endured enough pitiful glances over the past seven months to know them well, recognized it for what it truly was: understanding.
“You are not failing, Grace,” he said softly. “You are surviving.”
Grace looked up to meet his eyes, and for one brief moment, she could clearly see the pain that was hiding beneath the cracks of his usual armor of charm.
Oliver offered a small smile, carefully tucking his ghosts back out of sight. “Though I have it on good authority…” he said, shifting back into his easy, familiar tone. “that survival is terribly undignified, but it is preferable to the alternative.”
Grace managed to stifle a chuckle as she set the book she had abandoned aside. Even if she had any interest in reading, the puzzling man in front of her was proving to be much more compelling than the story on those pages. “Terribly undignified?” she repeated.
He nodded, feigning solemnity. “Terrribly. There is much stumbling, occasional falling, and entirely too many moments of being caught crying over minor inconveniences.”
Grace smiled, and for once she didn’t even try to hold it back. Oliver smiled as well, but it was different from the one he usually offered, that was full of charm with an insincere twinkle in his eye. This one was quiet and peaceful in a way that stirred something forgotten in Grace’s chest.
“I know I have not made this truce easy,” she said softly, breaking the oddly comfortable silence that had settled between them. “I appreciate you not giving up on me.”
“Well, I am exceedingly stubborn.” Oliver finally settled into the chair across from her. “It is either a grievous flaw or my most admirable quality.”
Grace shook her head, “I am not sure I have figured out which it is yet.”
“Take your time,” Oliver said, reaching for the book she had discarded on the table between their chairs. “You seem to have a fondness for mysteries. I am sure you will have me solved by the summer’s end.”
She watched as he thumbed through the pages of the Ann Radcliffe novel she had been pretending to read moments earlier. His light hair fell across his brow in soft waves, as his deep blue eyes moved slowly over the text.
In the moments like this, when he let the performance drop and forgot to be the man everyone said he was, Grace felt like she was seeing someone entirely different.
His features were softer, his words carried no pretense, and something in her chest ached as though the broken parts of her were reaching out towards the broken parts of him that he was trying so desperately to hide.
“No,” she said softly to herself, her gaze still lingering on him. “I am not sure I will.”
Oliver watched the raindrops trail slowly down the windowpane. For days now, the weather had held them captive indoors, and he was beginning to believe that if the sun didn’t return soon, they might all lose their minds.
He and Grace had been getting along rather well since their conversation in the library, but with no invitations to accept and no guests to entertain, Sarah had taken it upon herself to resurrect every parlor game known to respectable Society—along with a few that would’ve been thoroughly frowned upon in more polite company.
Now, as the clouds began to thin and the rain softened to a lazy mist, she had moved on to her next campaign: convincing them all to ride down to the pond.
Oliver could think of few things less appealing than donning a waistcoat and jacket only to be jostled around on horseback, through a muggy drizzle, during one of the hottest summers he’d ever experienced in Berkshire.
But Matthew, the ever-obliging husband, was already nudging him with what appeared to be genuine enthusiasm. “What do you say, Oliver? Up for some fresh air?”
Matthew and Sarah’s definition of fresh was apparently the same one their cook used while preparing last night’s venison stew; dense, heavy, and vaguely offensive. Not that the sitting room was much better, stifling as it was, but at least it was dry.
Sarah didn’t wait for his answer before turning to try to convince Grace. “You’ve been here nearly two weeks, and we’ve yet to go riding,” she said, leaning in on the settee. Grace’s eyes remained fixed on her book.
“Matthew won’t let me race anymore because of the baby,” Sarah added with a dramatic sigh, “But if I ask nicely, perhaps he’ll indulge us in a brisk trot.” Sarah giggled, but Oliver noticed the way Grace’s shoulders tensed slightly.
“I am not in the mood to go riding today,” Grace said quietly. She angled her body away subtly, and Sarah either missed the cue or chose to ignore it.
“Oh, come now,” Sarah pressed, rising from the couch and stepping directly in front of her. “We can’t spend the whole summer locked away indoors. The rain is letting up, so it is the perfect time to go—”
“I do not want to ride!” Grace’s voice cracked through the drawing room. Her eyes squeezed shut, and her breath seemed to come in uneven waves. Oliver flicked a glance toward Matthew, who was already looking at him, no doubt wondering if they could both slip out unnoticed.
Sarah still stood in front of Grace, her hand still stretched out awkwardly between them. “Grace…”
Matthew cleared his throat, stepping closer to his wife.
“Lizzy,” he said gently. “Perhaps it is not the best afternoon for a ride.” Sarah pulled away from him as she knelt in front of the settee, trying to force Grace to meet her gaze.
But if Grace had opened her eyes, Oliver couldn’t tell because they still remained locked on her lap.
“Grace…” Sarah whispered again. “Have you ridden since Benjamin’s accident? ”
The tension in the room pulled tightly around them, and Oliver could feel it in his own chest. Grace’s fingers tightened around her book, her knuckles whitening. “I am not afraid,” she said a little too forcefully. “I just do not have the desire.”
The silence that followed was even thicker than the air outside. Sarah reached forward, resting her hands lightly on her friend’s lap as though she was going to shatter at the touch. “Why did you not tell me?”
Grace’s head snapped up; the pain in her eyes was unmistakable. “Why did you not tell me,” she hissed. “That you had taken in Benjamin’s horse.”
Oliver felt something cold settle into the pit of his stomach as Matthew turned sharply to Sarah, “You did not tell her?”
“I was going to,” Sarah shook her head, visibly flustered. “I was waiting for the right moment.”
“The right moment,” Grace repeated, the bitterness in her tone was heartbreak wearing a mask. “Would have been before I walked into the stables and saw him standing there like a ghost.” Oliver’s throat tightened as he looked down at the floor, his jaw going tight.
“I promise you, Grace, we did not—” Sarah started, but Oliver cut in before she could finish.
“It is not Sarah and Matthew’s fault.” All three of them turned toward him, looking as though they had forgotten he was even there.
He cleared his throat, forcing himself to look Grace in the eyes. “Champion is my horse.”
She didn’t blink. She didn’t speak. Oliver wasn’t even sure if she was breathing.
“I did not know that you were going to be here when I brought him.” The excuse sounded hollow, even to his own ears, but he pressed on.
“When Matthew told me that Mr. Weston was planning on selling him, I just thought that he still deserved to have a good home. I never meant to…” Oliver’s words trailed off because he could see that the damage had already been done.
Whatever familiarity had started to grow between them had shattered, and Grace stared at him now as though she were looking at a stranger. She turned and walked out of the room without a word, leaving only the echo of her footsteps behind her.
Oliver stood motionless. The room which was stifling just moments ago, suddenly felt cold, as if she had taken all of the air with her. He could feel Matthew and Sarah’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look up. His gaze was rooted to the place where Grace had been standing.