Chapter Twelve
Grace lightly touched the tip of her boot to the last step on the wooden staircase that led to the ground floor of Somerton’s main hall. She slid her leather-covered foot from side to side, slowly applying pressure and listening for any sign of a creek.
She noticed this particular step had a tendency to groan, but was hoping that if she was gentle enough, she could avoid being detected by Matthew and Sarah, who were just around the corner in the sitting room.
She had thought about leaping to avoid the troublesome spot entirely, but that would have been utterly unladylike. Considering she was sneaking off with Oliver to partake in a secret archery competition, she had to hold onto whatever semblance of propriety she could.
Grace breathed a silent prayer as she placed her full weight on her foot, bracing for the creek.
Silence.
Grace exhaled a sigh of relief before lifting her other foot and placing it on the floor.
Creeeeek.
The sound echoed through the quiet hall, and Grace froze in shock at the betrayal of the usually quiet floorboard.
“Where are ye sneaking off to?”
Grace looked up to see Matthew leaning against the doorway.
His Scottish lilt was always exaggerated when he was up to no good, and the twinkle in his eye suggested that he already had a suspicion as to where she was going.
It seemed as though he hadn’t shared his thoughts with Sarah, as she pushed her way past her husband, quickly making her way to Grace’s side.
“Come sit with us!” Sarah said, looping her arm through Grace’s and turning her towards the sitting room. “I feel as though we haven’t seen each other in days,”
It had only been about 14 hours, Grace deducted, but at one time she also would have felt craved for her best friend’s company.
The wave of guilt returned as she looked at Sarah.
This was the first day in nearly a week she had felt well enough to leave her bed before afternoon tea.
She still looked slightly pale, and her golden curls, which were usually piled neatly on top of her head, were haphazardly pinned and falling out in every direction.
But Matthew still looked at her as adoringly as he had when they were children.
Grace pulled back gently, and Sarah turned to look at her in surprise. Her light blue eyes widened slightly—a perfect mirror of Benjamin’s.
Grace swallowed the lump that rose in her throat and shoved down the familiar ache that rose in her chest every time she was near Sarah. How was she supposed to tell her dearest friend, the one who had held her through life’s hardest heartbreaks, that she was the one causing her the most pain?
“Grace?” Sarah’s head tilted in expectation, her hand resting lightly on her stomach. “Please come and sit with us.”
Grace forced a smile. None of this was Sarah’s fault, and causing her and her unborn child distress would benefit no one. But the tears were pressing hot and heavy behind her eyes, and she knew if she did not escape quickly, she would be unable to keep them at bay.
“Darling,” Matthew stepped in, wrapping an arm around his wife’s waist. “I just remembered that I asked Grace to accept an invitation to have tea with Mrs. Wellick on your behalf.”
Grace’s eyes snapped up to meet Matthew’s, who gave her a soft, understanding smile.
“I am feeling perfectly well,” Sarah demanded. “We can both go.”
“No!” Matthew and Grace objected in unison. Sarah’s brow furrowed in confusion. Grace held her breath, eyes locked with Matthew, waiting for him to continue. It was his lie after all.
“It is far too hot for you to ride in the carriage today, Lizzy,” Matthew offered smoothly. “You just started feeling like yourself, so let Grace go today, and I promise the next invitation that comes is yours to accept.”
Sarah hesitated for a moment, and Grace was worried his plan wouldn’t work.
When Sarah set her mind to something, there was usually no deterring her.
It was fully possible Grace would soon find herself in a carriage with a very cranky pregnant woman, off to have tea with a completely unsuspecting Mrs. Wellilck.
To Grace’s relief, Sarah nodded reluctantly. “You’re right.” She mumbled. “All I have done today is walk from here to the library, and I am already fit to go back to bed.”
Grace breathed a sigh of relief as she reached out and gave Sarah’s hand a compassionate squeeze. “Get some rest, Lizzy. Perhaps we can read together after dinner?”
Sarah’s smile brightened. “I would love to.” She took Matthew’s arm, who turned to lead her back to the settee.
Matthew looked back at Grace from over his shoulder, “Have a lovely time with Mrs. Wellick,” he drawled, giving a slight nod towards the door.
Grace turned to find Oliver stepping into the hall from outdoors. In one hand, he carried his hat, his hair wind-tossed and wild, and bits of straw stuck to the bottom of his boot. He immediately straightened when he saw Matthew and Grace watching him.
Grace turned back to Matthew, prepared to make an excuse, but he had already crossed the room to join Sarah on the settee, who was already lost in her book.
For a moment, Grace remained still, suspended in the space between where Matthew and Sarah sat and Oliver waited.
Oliver walked silently beside Grace down the winding path that led to the orchard.
Neither one of them had said a word since they left the house.
He could tell something was bothering her, but they had come so far over the past few days, he feared that if he pushed her, she would retreat once again.
“You are very quiet.” Grace’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Are you worried that I may use you as a target?”
Oliver laughed in surprise, “I had not considered that, but I suppose I am now.”
Grace watched him with clear amusement. “Wise,” she said lightly. “I have been told my aim is excellent.”
“By whom?” He teased. He was coming to learn that her well-timed barbs were her greatest defense, but he also could not resist the sparkle in her eye when he returned fire. “Your embroidery hoop?”
Grace’s lips parted in mock outrage. “You underestimate me, Lord Blackburn. I shall have you know I once shot a hat off of Benjamin’s head.”
“Accidentally, I presume.”
“Not at all,” she retorted, the corner of her mouth twitching with the hint of a smile. “He laughed at me.”
They continued on until they reached the small clearing Oliver had discovered earlier that morning. The crate leaned against the cherry tree where he had left it, a crude chalk circle scrawled across the front.
In an effort to keep his promise to ensure Matthew and Sarah did not find out about their little rendezvous, Oliver had taken to setting up each of their activities on his own with no help from the servants.
The past few days had been simple—birdwatching only required a notebook and pencil, and a chessboard was much easier to sneak out of the house than archery equipment.
Grace’s brow lifted at the sight of the makeshift target. “What is that?”
Oliver pressed a hand to his chest in feigned offense. “I shall have you know that crate nearly broke my back. It may not be elegant, but it will serve its purpose. Unless of course, you would rather we shoot at apples like scoundrels?”
Grace shook her head, “Not apples.” She looked up at him, her eyes dancing with anticipation. “Cherries,” she said at last, nodding towards the clusters of ripe red fruit dangling from the trees around them.
Oliver barked a laugh. “Ah, so you desire humiliation rather than sport?”
Her brow furrowed in challenge. “You doubt I can do it.”
“On the contrary, Grace,” he said, taking a step closer to her than necessary and handing her the bow. The knot in his stomach tightened as his fingers brushed over hers. “I have no doubt you are capable of doing whatever you set your mind to.”
Her eyes flickered to his, but only for a heartbeat before she turned away to notch her arrow. Oliver took a step back, for safety, and so he could clear his mind.
She released the string, and the arrow struck the bark a full hand’s breadth above the fruit. She exhaled sharply in frustration. Oliver clicked his tongue. “When you made the famed hat-shot, did Benjamin jump by chance?”
Grace shot him a fierce glare over her shoulder, though she was fighting against a smile. “You try to do better.” She quipped.
He accepted her challenge, smoothly drawing the bowstring. The arrow flew, splitting the cherry from its stem, and it dropped neatly to the grass. He offered her a deep, mocking bow. “Was that acceptable, Lady Rockwell?”
“You had the advantage,” she scowled. “The bow is clearly weighted to your preference.”
“Clearly,” he repeated, fighting a grin.
She gasped at him, indignant, but laughed as she swiped the bow from his grasp and prepared another shot.
This time she struck the branch, sending two cherries tumbling. She spun on her heel, triumphant. “And what say you to that?”
Oliver grinned, warmth rushing through him at the sound of her laughter. “I say..” He stepped closer, reaching for the bow but letting his hand linger over hers. “Best of three?”
Her next arrow went wide, and his next clipped another cherry. Her third landed the truest, splitting the fruit in a shower of red. The sound of their laughter lingered in the air, like sunlight breaking through the clouds.
Grace bent to pick up one of her spoils and, without hesitation, she bit into the cherry, the juice clinging to her lips.
She quickly lifted her hand to wipe it away, but Oliver moved first. He hadn’t even been thinking, his hand moving faster than reason. He gently cupped her chin, his thumb reaching to brush away the red stain from the corner of her mouth. His heart stopped, and the world went still.
He heard the hitch in her breath as his thumb feathered over her lip. Her lashes lifted, eyes locking with his. She was so close—so devastatingly close.
His heart started beating again, this time with such force he feared she would be able to hear every beat.
For one maddening moment, he wondered what it would be like to close the space between them and kiss her until neither of them remembered what they had lost. But the weight of what hung between them made the inches feel like a chasm that Oliver dared not cross.
He pulled his hand away, every nerve screaming in protest. “Another round?” His voice came out strained, utterly betraying him.
Grace smiled. “Very well,” she said, her voice holding the same forced lightness as his own. “But I should warn you, my aim only improves with practice.”
“Then I had best keep you occupied, lest you grow too dangerous.” His gaze dropped back down to her lips before he caught himself and forced it on the bow.
Grace tilted her head, her eyes softening. “Are you afraid I might wound your pride?”
“My pride is the least of what is at risk,” he said, his voice low.
Grace’s eyes dropped to his lips and lingered so briefly that Oliver would have thought he had imagined it if it hadn’t been for the way her own lips parted softly.
She dropped her gaze to the ground before stepping back completely out of his reach, breaking the trance that had been holding him captive.
Grace raised the bow to prepare for another shot, but Oliver was completely incapable of focusing on where it landed.
There was no use fighting the truth of it anymore. He was falling in love with Grace Rockwell—and she was still in love with a ghost.