Chapter Eleven
Grace stood near the edge of the ballroom, her hands lightly clasped and her heart beating slightly too fast beneath the soft lilac silk of her ballgown. The last ball she had attended, she had been on Benjamin's arm, and the memory pressed against her ribs like a bruise she thought had healed.
She had nearly feigned a headache to enjoy the evening in an empty house and quiet library, while the rest of them dazzled and danced to their hearts’ content.
But the summer ball at Haverhleigh House was the most sought-after invitation in the county—at least according to Sarah, who had chosen their gowns and determined their hairstyles the moment the envelope had arrived at Sommerton. Grace hadn’t had the heart to deny her.
She scanned the room, her gaze falling on Matthew and Sarah as they slowly made their way around the room.
They were not titled, yet the warmth they carried between them always seemed to draw every conversation into their orbit.
It was difficult to reconcile the radiant, graceful woman before her with the young girl who had adamantly refused her place in society for years, though Grace knew that beneath the layers of silk and petticoats, Sarah wanted nothing more than to run barefoot through the grass.
Grace smiled as Sarah’s hand absentmindedly rested on her belly.
She was not yet far enough along that her form could not be hidden beneath the folds of her dress, but her presence most definitely would have been frowned upon in London society—but for Sarah, that most likely only served as motivation. Perhaps not much had changed after all.
“This is why I keep her in the country,” Matthew had declared when Sarah had announced she would be accepting every invitation that came their way that summer.
“I simply want to see what I can get away with before I grow so large that Matty is forced to keep me locked indoors.” Sarah laughed, swatting his arm playfully. The love between them was so evident that, at times, it almost hurt to witness it.
Grace tore her eyes from Sarah and Matthew, her gaze drawn almost instinctively to the figure standing at the far side of the room.
Oliver leaned with easy confidence against the wall, laughing softly at something Lady Haverleigh had said—though, from Grace’s experience with the Countess, she could not imagine her saying anything deserving of such amusement.
There was something different about Oliver tonight, and Grace found herself completely incapable of tearing her eyes away from him.
The emerald silk of his waistcoat made a stark contrast to his light hair, and the soft candlelight bathed him in a golden hue.
When he tipped his head and laughed, his dark, stormy blue eyes caught the light in a way that reflected specs of silver, like the sun casting its light over the surface of a restless sea.
Garce’s heart launched into her throat as those mesmerizing eyes locked with hers. She turned sharply, the heat rushing to her face, hoping he hadn’t realized she was staring.
Grace took a deep breath to steady her racing heart. You were not staring, she said to herself, though the argument was unconvincing. If she wasn’t staring, then what exactly had she been doing?
Observing?
No. That didn’t sound much better.
Obviously, the heat of the summer was starting to go to her head, because this was Oliver Blackburn— ridiculous, incorrigible, infuriating, Oliver Blackburn. He was certainly nothing worth staring at.
Despite her internal objections, Grace couldn’t help but look back in his direction.
But instead of finding Oliver’s attention on Lady Haverleigh, his eyes were still fixed firmly on her.
His mouth curved in a smile as he pushed himself off of the wall, his steps purposefully pointed in her direction.
Grace fought the urge to run as he reached her, standing close enough that she couldn’t see anything else but him. How had she never noticed before how unjustly tall he was? Or how every movement he made highlighted the way his jacket pulled ever so slightly around his broad shoulders.
Grace heard a muffled giggle come from behind her, and turned to see a pair of wide-eyed debutantes, fresh out of leading strings, giggling over the man standing in front of her. She turned back to Oliver, dimpled smile still fixed on his face, and his sparkling gaze locked on hers.
Perhaps he was not entirely without appeal.
“Lady Rockwell,” he bowed, but something about the movement lacked his usual dramatic flair.
“May I claim the next dance?” He straightened, his eyes meeting hers again.
His voice was void of the usual teasing, and his face so full of sincerity that Grace found herself at a loss for words.
She had figured out how to handle Oliver with all his jokes and jabs, but this version of him—soft and vulnerable—was still uncharted territory.
When Oliver cleared his throat, Grace realized she had hesitated a moment too long. “Must I be forced to duel for the honor?”
Grace shook her head silently, still unable to find her words, and slipped her hand into his outstretched arm. Her heart stuttered as his hand covered hers, pressing it further against the solid warmth of his arm.
“If I tread upon your toes, you have permission to stab me with your fan.” Oliver leaned in close and whispered as he led her to the center of the room.
“You presume I carry a fan for such a purpose?” Grace finally managed to find her voice, though it came out much less steady than she would have liked.
“My dear Lady Rockwell,” Oliver sighed as the first notes of the dance began to play. “You seem perfectly capable of weaponizing anything within reach.”
Before Grace could counter, she realized, too late, that they were being led in a waltz. Oliver’s hand rested lightly on her back, and Grace felt her breath catch as his other hand wrapped securely around hers.
He led with a purpose that didn’t match the casual way he usually moved through the world. They turned across the marble floor, the narrow space between making it difficult for Grace to compose her thoughts.
She kept her gaze fixed over his shoulder on the other couples twirling about the room. If she wasn’t looking at him she was able to keep a clear mind.
“You are surprisingly competent at this,” she said, more to fill the silence than actually prompt a conversation.
Grace could see his wicked half-smile from the corner of her eye, his dimples carving into his cheeks.
“Years of desperate mothers insisting I dance with their eligible daughters. One must develop a skill for survival.”
“You have endured great hardships.”
“Truly,” he said solemnly. “I am lucky to have survived.”
Grace laughed, shaking her head, but the sound faltered when their eyes caught again. For a single moment, the world narrowed. The chandeliers blurred, and the music faded until there was nothing left but the treacherous pounding of her own heart.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with him. Not with anyone. Not yet.
As the final notes of the dance rang out, Grace pulled herself from his hold, offering a rushed curtsey before she turned to flee.
She was stopped by a steady hand on her arm, and Oliver turned her back to face him. “Are you running away from me?”
“Of course not.” Grace pulled her arm from his grasp with a little more force than necessary, nearly toppling herself over.
Oliver grasped her waist to steady her, and she quickly brushed him off.
“Why do you continue to insert yourself where you are not needed?” Her voice came out sharp and clipped.
Oliver’s eyes widened in shock as he let his hands fall to his sides. “Grace,” he said softly. “I am only trying to help.”
“I did not ask for your help.”
“Would you have preferred I let you fall?’ Oliver waved his arm, gesturing to the room full of elegantly dressed lords and ladies.
Grace took a breath, steadying her beating heart. No one had ever affected her quite like he did—no one made her lose her composure and sense of reason, and it drove her mad.
“I am sorry,” she murmured. She also could not remember the last time she had apologized as many times as she had to him. “You truly do seem to bring out the worst in me.”
Oliver’s mouth quirked in the faintest smile, his eyes never leaving hers. “I assure you, I mean no harm. Only to ensure you do not topple over and embarrass yourself.”
“I am usually perfectly capable of remaining upright,” Grace snapped, brushing imaginary dust from her gown.
“It is alright,” Oliver shoved his hands in his pockets, infuriatingly at ease. “This would not be the first time I have caused a woman to stumble and fall.”
Her chest fluttered, and she shook her head in frustration. “You are infuriating.”
“Undeniably so,” he agreed, holding her gaze as he leaned in closer. “But you could admit that you find me at least mildly entertaining.”
Grace opened her mouth to retort, but the words faltered. A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “You are slightly less unbearable than usual,” she admitted, the edge of irritation softening.
Oliver stepped back, giving her a playful bow. “I shall count that as a victory.”
Grace shook her head before she turned away, a little breathless and her heart still beating too fast.
“Do not forget,” Oliver called after her. “We have plans tomorrow.”
Grace stopped mid-step, glancing back at him as he winked. Suddenly, the thought of enduring Sarah’s wrath after strangling him seemed much easier to face than whatever Oliver had in store for her.