Chapter Sixteen
Grace stirred her tea slowly; each clink of the spoon felt like a tiny hammer in her skull.
Her head throbbed with every agonizing breath.
The sunlight filtering through the windows was far too aggressive, and even the birds outside seemed to have a personal vendetta against her.
She lifted her teacup to her lips in her very best attempt to give off a composed appearance—but judging by Matthew’s curious glances, she was doing a very poor job.
Oliver sat at the far end of the table, alarmingly quiet. For the first time in days, Grace was unable to read his expression, and he seemed far more interested in the food he was pushing around his plate than in making conversation.
Bits of memory from the night before flickered through her mind like shadows peaking from behind a curtain: Matthew’s desk, Oliver’s voice, a woman’s name, something about horses…
and then nothing. But whatever it was that she couldn’t remember was causing her cheeks to flush and her heart to stutter.
Sarah hummed under her breath as she spread marmalade on her toast, completely oblivious to the quiet tension at the other end of the table. “I must say,” she began lightly, pointing her knife in Grace and Oliver’s direction. “You two certainly know how to exit a party.”
Oliver’s fork fell to his plate with a loud clatter, and Grace nearly cursed under her breath as the sound seemed to echo through the room.
“What do you mean?” he asked, failing to hide the panic in his voice.
“One minute you were both there, and the next you were gone,” Sarah said, turning back to her plate. “We had to assure half of the guests that you were not planning a grand elopement.”
Grace lowered her head to the table. Maybe if she stayed very still, they would forget she was even in the room.
“We did not leave together,” Oliver said quickly.
“I know,” Sarah replied with a breezy wave of her hand. “But you disappeared suspiciously close together. The timing was unhelpful.”
Matthew grinned behind his cup, “It is always the timing.”
Grace stole a glance at Oliver just in time to see him look away from her. Her stomach twisted in a tight knot. She wasn’t sure what he was remembering, but judging by the far-off look in his eye, and the slight flush peeking above his cravat, he remembered much more than she did.
“Whatever happened,” Sarah continued, her tone far too bright for the early hour, “I hope it was worth the scandal.”
“Nothing happened,” Oliver declared, but the tightness in his jaw—and the fact that he was still refusing to make eye contact with anyone at the table—suggested otherwise.
Grace stared at him, silently hoping that the very sight of him would shed light on the shadows flickering through her mind.
The longer she looked at him, the more the broken fragments pressed at the edges of her memory: the scent of brandy, the heat of his breath too close to hers, whispered words that had no right following her into the light of the morning.
Grace startled at the sound of her own teacup rattling against the saucer. The minty liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim before a few drops splattered onto the white linen tablecloth. She steadied it quickly before pressing her palms together in her lap to stop them from shaking.
She looked up to find everyone’s eyes on her, but the weight of Oliver’s gaze caused her heart to press hard against her chest, stealing the breath from her lungs.
“Are you alright, Gracie?” Grace looked up to find Matthew watching her with equal parts concern and amusement.
“I am fine,” she said too quickly, her voice a shade too thin. Matthew’s brows lifted. “You have not touched your toast.”
“I do not want toast.”
“You always want toast.” His tone was light and teasing, but his eyes searched her face.
“I am full.”
“You haven’t eaten anything.”
Grace exhaled slowly, pinching her palms tighter in her lap. “Honestly, Matthew, you are a married man now. Is tormenting Sarah not enough that you must extend the favor to me as well?”
Matthew leaned back in his chair, eyes twinkling. “Sarah hardly ever fights back anymore. You, on the other hand, make it sport.”
Grace scoffed, but color rose in her cheeks. “If you are looking for sport, then perhaps you should challenge me to fencing, rather than badgering me at breakfast.”
“I would,” Matthew said, an infuriating smirk spreading across his face, “But I would hate to compete with any private lessons you may have been enjoying this summer.”
Grace froze, her eyes widening. While fencing hadn’t been part of their secret games, she knew perfectly well that Matthew was hinting at the stolen hours she and Oliver had spent together over the summer.
“I am sure Oliver is a wonderful instructor—” He cut off with a sharp grunt as Sarah jabbed her elbow into his ribs, though her eyes also sparkled with amusement.
Grace felt her face flame, but Oliver managed to remain unnervingly calm as he continued to rearrange the eggs on his plate.
Grace pressed a cool hand to her cheek. Her head still pounded, her stomach still churned, but if eating was the only way to escape Matthew’s line of questioning, she would find a way to force down a few bites of toast and jam.
She reached for the jar of preserves across the table, but the sudden movement sent the room spinning. “Ollie,” she called, trying to keep her voice steady. “Would you please hand me those?”
Oliver’s eyes snapped to hers, and the sudden silence that had fallen over the room was deafening.
The name had rolled off her tongue too easily, like it was familiar. The moment it hit the air she had realized her mistake. Perhaps no one else had heard it.
Matthew’s hand hung suspended in the air, the steam rising from his tea in curly wisps. Sarah’s eyes flittered between Grace and Oliver, who silently slid the jar of strawberry preserves across the table.
“I was not aware you two were on such familiar terms.” Sarah’s voice broke the silence. Oliver’s jaw tensed, and Grace grasped the jar with trembling fingers. “We’re not.” She insisted. “It simply slipped out.” Her face burned, and her stomach knotted.
Oliver remained silent, his gaze flicking briefly to Grace before returning to his plate, as if the past few minutes had simply never happened. He moved with deliberate calm as he slid his chair back from the table, excusing himself for an early morning ride.
“I think I will join you,” Matthew added, springing from his seat and following Oliver through the door. Grace watched them go, her hands still trembling around the jar.
Oliver guided Champion along the orchard trails, his hooves stirring up tiny clouds of dust with every step.
The morning sun should have felt warm and inviting, but instead, it was suffocating.
He had shed his coat the moment he had stepped into the barn, but even now, with his sleeves rolled and waistcoat unbuttoned, he couldn’t shake the tightening feeling that spread across his chest.
The birds were chirping brightly, and the soft breeze fluttered through the trees, but all Oliver could hear was Grace’s voice.
“Ollie…”
And it wasn’t only that morning, but she had let the name slip multiple times in Matthew’s study. Every time she said it, it broke something loose in him, daring him to feel things he didn’t even allow himself to dream of anymore.
No one had called him Ollie in years—no one save Benjamin, Matthew, and The Duke’s youngest sister Charlotte, and they usually kept it reserved for when they were about to put him in his place.
The way it slipped off of Grace’s lips was warm and sweet—like she was talking to the version of him that no one else was able to see.
No one had spoken to him or looked at him that way since Odette. The only woman who had seen him as someone she could trust. He had loved her so completely, but it had cost her everything.
And now Grace had come waltzing into his life, and he was selfish enough to want something again—and he hated himself for it.
He hated the way his heart leapt when she smiled, and how it ached when she looked away.
He hated how he was fully aware of the moment she walked into a room, and how he couldn’t think of anything other than being close to her.
He had sworn he would never endanger another woman’s future by wrapping it up in his own wreckage—but he wanted her, broken heart and all.
The sound of hooves crunched behind him.“You are riding like a man being chased by his conscience,” Matthew said, falling alongside him. “I thought this was going to be a leisurely ride.”
Oliver exhaled, the sound harsh in the morning air. “I lost my conscience a long time ago, Matty.” He tried to force his voice to sound light, but the edge in his tone betrayed him. “I suppose it is you I am trying to outrun.”
Matthew gave him a sidelong look. “Is this about last night?”
Oliver turned back to the path in front of them, loosening the reins and allowing Champion to pick up the pace and choose his own course.
“Well, that is not a no.” Matthew spurred his own horse to match. “Oliver, were you with Grace last night?” Gone was the gentle teasing from breakfast that morning.
Oliver’s hands tightened around the reins, but he didn’t dare turn to face Matthew. “Yes,” he said carefully. “But it was not what you think.”
He could feel Matthew’s gaze burning a hole in the side of his head as he waited for him to explain.
“I found her in your study, knee deep in a bottle of brandy,” Oliver continued. “I simply stayed to ensure she was alright.”
“Did you kiss her?”
Oliver swallowed. “No.”
“Did you want to?”
Oliver forced Champion to halt, sliding from the saddle. He heard Matthew’s feet hit the ground behind him as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the thoughts of study from his mind.
All he wanted was to kiss her. To tilt her face toward his and lose himself in the warmth of her, and forget every oath that he had ever made about keeping his heart closed.
But instead, he had kept his fingers curled tightly around his glass of brandy, because he knew if he kissed her, he would never want to stop.
“Oliver,” Matthew’s voice broke through his thoughts. Though Oliver had not answered his question, and it was obvious that his silence had told Matthew everything he needed to hear.
“It is not my place to interfere in her affairs—not that she needs me to—but if you go down this path, you need to be sure.”
Oliver’s gaze dropped. “I am sure,” he said quietly. “That is what terrifies me.”
“Because of Odette?”
“Because it was my fault!” Oliver’s voice broke. “Love made me reckless, and she paid the cost.”
“You were young.”
“I was a fool.” Oliver took in a deep breath,
“Maybe,” Matthew allowed. “But you’re not the same man now.”
“No, I’m worse,” Oliver muttered. “Because now I know exactly how much there is to lose and I still want her.” His eyes closed against the weight of the confession. “I want her, Matty. The fire, the sharp edges—I want all of her.”
Matthew was quiet for a long moment. Then he laid a hand on Oliver’s shoulder, anchoring him in the strength Oliver wished he could summon for himself.
“The kind of pain you endured changes a man. But it does not make you unworthy of happiness. You can not live your whole life fearing the future. And if you close yourself off from love completely…” His voice gentled. “I do not know what kind of future that would leave you at all.”
Oliver’s throat tightened. He had buried so much, for so long, but Grace—with her laughter, her fury, her sparks—made him feel alive again. He was no longer sure if he could deny it—or if he even wanted to.
Oliver took a deep breath, prepared to force a smile back on his face, but found it came much easier than expected. He slung an arm around Matthew’s shoulder as they started back toward their horses. “So tell me—when did you start sounding so much like Benjamin?”
Matthew threw his head back and laughed. “I have been spending a lot of time with his sister recently.”