Page 32 of Forever & Again
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 hadoccurred 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 Ineedis 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.
