Page 45 of Forever & Again
“And what would that be?”
“That I am going to marry you.”
Grace felt the warmth creep into her cheeks, as she fought the smile tugging on her lips. “I think you are getting ahead of yourself,” she murmured, her eyes flicking toward the partiallyopen door. “We should simply tell them that we have an understanding.”
Oliver’s grin widened as he leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “We both understand how much I thoroughly enjoy kissing you.”
Grace’s hand shot up to swat him in the arm, but before she could scold him further, he dipped his head and pressed a quick, infuriatingly perfect kiss to her lips. Her breath hitched; the world seemed to stand still.
“Oliver Blackburn!” she whispered in mortification.
The door to the breakfast room swung open, and Grace quickly tried to push Oliver away, but he remained unmoved.
“Are we interrupting something?” Matthew asked. Sarah stood right behind him, her eyes brimming with hope.
“Yes,” Oliver waved them off with a playful grin. “Could you return in a few minutes?”
Matthew laughed as Sarah rushed forward to wrap Grace in her arms. Grace felt herself melt into her embrace.
“I am so happy for you both,” Sarah whispered into her ear.
Grace remembered when she had whispered those very same words into Sarah’s ear the day she and Matthew announced their engagement. Tears had been flowing down both of their cheeks, as Benjamin’s absence had sat beside them like a shadow she thought would never lift.
She pulled back from Sarah, and her eyes instinctively rose to lock with Oliver’s. Matthew and Sarah’s voices swirled around her in a haze of teasing, laughter, and congratulations. But all she could see was Oliver, who still hadn’t stopped smiling at her like she was the only person in the room. He slipped his hand into hers, as if to remind her that he wasn’t going anywhere.
His love had not erased Benjamin, but he had shown her she was not defined by her greatest loss. She had loved Benjamin—and she loved the man standing beside her now, whose ownheartbreak had made him capable of loving so fiercely that it made her brave enough to believe in forever again.
Epilogue
January 1857
Mayfair - London, England
There were far too many feathers.Oliver sipped his champagne and watched as one particularly enthusiastic peacock of a gentleman bowed so deeply to a young debutante that he nearly toppled into her.
Every year was the same—the first ball of the Season was where every eligible heir and eager mother came out of hibernation with fresh gowns, sharp smiles, and the quiet desperation of people who were determined to marry off their children before the first spring flower pushed through the frozen ground.
And Oliver Blackburn, newly returned from the country and properly seated in the House of Lords, was expected to behave. Unfortunately, Oliver lived to defy expectations.
“Stop glaring at that poor man,” came a soft voice at his side. Oliver turned to find Grace—the greatest delight and disruption of his life—threading her arm through his with the kind of casual affection that still made his heart skip a beat.
“I was not glaring,” he said. “I was scrutinizing. There is a difference.”
Grace gave him a look that would have tempered most men. “And here I thought the House of Lords would temper you.”
“Oh no,” he said cheerfully, sipping his champagne again. “It has only sharpened my skills. Now I’m insufferable with influence.”
Grace sighed, but her smile betrayed her amusement. Over a year into their marriage, and she still left him breathless. She was beautiful, fierce, and undeniably his. She was the grounding force he had never known he needed until she appeared in his life. And if occasionally that grounding involved a firm squeeze of his hand whenever he veered towards mischief—well, love demanded sacrifice.
They moved together through the crowd, stopping to greet the familiar faces. Oliver charmed, Grace enchanted, and together, they wove through the glittering ballroom like two stars who had finally found their place in orbit.
“Blackburn!” A familiar voice called from behind them.
“Kenswick!” Oliver straightened, resisting the urge to pull his oldest friend into a public embrace. The Duke of Kenswick, dark-haired and impeccably poised, was the picture of inherited grace. Oliver’s tongue, however, lost the battle with restraint.
“Tell me your Grace,” he drawled. “Is that frown your new permanent expression, or are we simply getting a preview of the speech you are going to bore the House with at our next session?”
“Ollie.” Oliver smiled through the sharp jab his wife delivered to his ribs.
