Chapter Fifteen
The dining room at Somerton glowed with candlelight, the crystal glasses throwing fractured rainbows across the white linen tablecloth. Oliver sat two seats down from Grace and across from Matthew, doing precisely what he did best—performing.
He was mid-story about a night at Eton involving a goat, a locked library, and a bottle of brandy, and the entire table was enthralled. Every laugh, every gasp, every incredulous “Unbelievable—” fed the part of him that thrived on holding a room in the palm of his hand. But it was all hollow.
Every time he glanced at Grace, he found her watching. Not smiling, not smirking, just observing. He could feel the weight of her gaze like she was trying to see through him, and it was maddening. He took another sip of wine, willing himself to focus on the story and the laughter.
They hadn’t truly spoken since that night on the bench, when he had revealed just a little too much. And now she her radiant golden eyes were fixed on him in a way that made his chest tighten. Part of him wanted her to look away; part of him needed her not to.
Because in her gaze, he could see the version of himself he had buried long ago—the one with softness, hope, and a belief in futures—even though she had never known him.
Oliver dropped his gaze as he set down his wine, and forced another laugh. But judging by the look on Grace's face, it was not very convincing.
Grace leaned back against the polished wood of Matthew’s desk, staring down at the amber liquid in her glass.
It burned as it slipped down her throat.
She didn’t know why men were so enamored with brandy—it tasted like a punishment.
But that hadn’t stopped her from drinking nearly half the bottle in under twenty minutes.
She knew she ought to be with the other women in the drawing room, discussing wallpaper, waistlines, and the weather.
But the moment she stepped into that room, she could feel the bitterness rise in her throat.
The sounds of their bright laughter and absurdly cheerful voices were a stark contrast to the darkening storm churning in Grace’s stomach.
She had been polite. She had smiled, and then she had fled.
Benjamin had once told her a story of a classmate who had swiped a bottle of port from their Dame’s kitchen.
The thief and a small handful of friends had polished the bottle off in one night, none of them having any recollection of what had occurred when they awoke the next morning.
If Grace was lucky, the vile drink in her hand would have the same effect and the past few weeks would be nothing more than a hazy dream, and the questions that consumed her would fade into silence.
Two men lived in her heart. Benjamin’s memory haunted every corner of her mind, and Oliver—infuriating, dazzling, impossibly confusing Oliver—kept showing up in places he shouldn’t be, like the edges of her thoughts and the center of her chest.
Grace moved to lean her head back against the desk, but winced as it met the smooth wood with a loud thud. Perhaps she shouldn’t finish the bottle after all.
The door creaked open.
“Is someone in here?”
Grace’s heart flew to her throat, immediately recognizing Oliver’s voice. Why did he always seem to find her at the exact moment she was trying to escape him? Grace took another sip, willing her voice to stay steady as his tall frame came into view.
“Hi, Ollie.” She said, wincing at the volume of her own voice. “Would you like some?” She tipped the half-empty bottle in his direction.
“Grace?” He blinked at her, then at the brandy, concern flickering through his expression. “How many glasses have you had?”
“Enough that I am no longer able to count them.”
He crouched beside her, the concern in his face giving way slightly for amusement. His presence close enough to warm the space between them as he reached for the glass in her hand. His fingers brushed against hers, the brief touch sending a jolt up her arm.
She jerked back, her pride flaring even in her pitiful state. “I am willing to share, but you must get your own glass. This one is spoken for.”
His eyes narrowed, “Grace, give me the glass.”
She shook her head, the motion causing her stomach to churn as if she were in a runaway carriage. “What are you doing here anyway?” she asked, attempting to avoid his gaze.
He settled onto the floor beside her, not close enough to touch, but close enough that every one of her senses was completely consumed by his presence.
The sound of his steady breathing seemed to fill the entire room.
The spicy scent of his soap, which had become so frustratingly familiar, tickled her nose, sending heat rushing to her cheeks.
She could feel the empty space burning between their arms as he leaned against the desk beside her.
Even as she kept her eyes focused on the hearth straight ahead, she could imagine the golden firelight dancing across his blonde curls and the light reflecting in his blue eyes.
“The library was stifling.” His voice pulled her from her thoughts. “I needed some air, but as I was walking by, I heard a thud.”
“Oh, yes.” Grace squeezed her eyes shut. If she couldn’t see anything, maybe it would make his presence less dizzying. “That was me. Apparently, my head is heavier than I thought.”
His eyes flicked toward her with dry amusement. Not that she could actually see his eyes, but she could feel the weight of them.
“Are you hurt?”
“Not physically,” she murmured.
“Grace,” he said softly, forcing her to open her eyes and meet his gaze. “You need to give me the glass.”
Grace felt the frustration rise in her chest, the brandy weakening her desire to stop it. “What I need is to be left alone.”
Oliver smiled, clearly unfazed by her outburst. “Is that why you’re hiding in Matthew’s study instead of charming the ladies with your opinions on floral upholstery?”
“I am tired, Ollie.” Grace’s voice cracked despite her effort to hold it steady. “I am tired of sitting in rooms full of people who either treat me as though I might shatter, or pretend the darkest moment of my life never happened.”
Oliver nodded slowly. She noticed the way his shoulders tensed, his eyes lowered, and his throat worked as though he were trying to hold back tears. He only let his composure falter for a moment before turning back to her. But the mask he usually wore so elegantly didn’t hide as much as it used to.
The world admired his careless charms, but even as her vision was starting to blur, Grace could clearly see that it was all a performance born of desperation and sustained by grief.
“Are you ever going to tell me her name?” She asked, the words slipping out before she even realized she had thought them.
He blinked. “Whose name?”
“Come now, Oliver.” She pressed on. “I think we are far past pretending.”
Oliver kept his eyes locked on hers, every breath felt painfully measured. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in the way he spoke of her loss—he knew the pain she felt, because he had felt it too.
Oliver finally broke the silence with a heavy sigh. “If I tell you her name, will you put down the glass?”
Grace nodded, refusing to break her gaze from his. If it were not for seeing his lips move, she might have missed his soft whisper.
“Odette.”
The name landed like a stone on the surface of a glassy pond.
“She died?”
His eyes darkened, the warmth draining from his face. Though the study was sweltering, a shiver stole down Grace’s spine.
“I do not talk about her.” His voice was barely more than a whisper, but the emotion that filled it was unmistakable.
If Grace had been of sound mind, she would have allowed him to hold onto the secrets he was so obviously trying to keep. But unfortunately for Oliver, her mind was far from sound. “Says the man who devoted his entire summer to getting me to speak of Benjamin.”
To her relief, his shoulders eased, and a soft laugh escaped him. “It seems advice is far easier to give than to live.”
“It is such a shame,” Grace whispered. If the taste of the brandy wasn’t punishment enough, her tongue was ensuring she would regret every sip. “What is the point of being loved at all, if no one is going to keep our memory alive?”
Oliver’s eyes closed briefly, pain flashing across his face. The air felt thin and fragile, and Grace feared if she even breathed too loudly, it would shatter.
“She loved horses.” Oliver’s voice came thick, as a single tear trailed down his cheek. “She could outride any man in England or France.”
Grace soaked in his words, the small details giving human breath to the shadows of his grief. “She was French?”
“She was.”
“What happened to her?”
Oliver opened his eyes slowly. His gaze met hers, and the room seemed to shrink around them nearly suffocating.
Grace waited for him to answer, though she was unsure she even wanted to hear it. But if speaking the words out loud would give him even a portion of the peace he had offered her these past few weeks, she would take on whatever weight he was willing to give her.
“Either give me the glass,” he said, shaking off the vulnerability he wore so well a moment ago, “or I will take it by force.”
Grace sighed in defeat. “I’ve already come this far,” she muttered. “You might as well let me finish.”
Oliver forced out a laugh before standing to retrieve another glass from the cart. “If I am going to endure your drunken ramblings,” he said, “I will need some of this as well.”
He took the bottle from her hand, pouring it slowly into his glass. He slowly raised the glass to his lips, letting the drink rest in his mouth just for a moment before swallowing. His eyes fluttered closed as he raised the glass again.
Grace’s traitorous eyes couldn’t look away. She watched him as though she could memorize every detail in the seconds between his breaths.