Chapter Nine
Ben: "Consider this rock, Griff, and consider it well."
Griff: "What exactly is your point?"
Ben: "My point is that you'd be better off marrying this rock than one of my peers for this rock has more sense and intelligence than all of them combined."
(B & G conversation on the suitability of marriageable gentlemen of his acquaintance 5 years prior)
For the most part, Amy endured Blanche and Nicola waxing poetic on all of Oliver's personable qualities for the entirety of their lengthy shopping expedition the next day with a patience worthy of a saint.
She knew what they were about and clearly in the time since she had departed their company the previous day, they had contrived some poorly concealed plan to inspire affection within Amy for one of their friends. She could hardly fault them but really, they were beginning to sound a bit ridiculous.
"Oliver has remarkably nice teeth," Blanche was saying as she held up a swatch of mustard colour fabric to Penelope's flank and studied it with a curious frown.
"If one requires one's beau to have a full set of teeth," Nicola added, perusing a nearby rail that was brimming with frothy lace and satins and silks of all colours and patterns. "Certainly, many in our set have settled for far less in one's intended."
Heather, mercifully, exploded from a room round the back of the modiste's shop they were frequenting. She was dressed in an astonishingly pink lacy gown that positively glowed and almost turned her skin puce. Her excitement however at wearing such finery compensated for the ridiculousness of the design and colour on her. "Amy! What do you think? Isn't it marvellous?"
Amy thought no such thing but she bit back her smile and agreed, loathe to dampen her mother's eager spirits. "It is spectacular. Is that the one you wish to purchase?"
Heather smoothed the skirts over her thighs. "Perhaps the colour is a bit too young-"
"Nonsense," Blanche admonished playfully. "The colour is perfect for those who embody certain joie de vivre, don't you agree?"
Heather beamed at the young lady. "Aren't you the sweetest- very well, I shall acquire this one." Then she bustled back into the room from which she came to continue her harassment of the officiously studious modiste. Amy had chosen and measured for alterations her required frocks within the first hour- the other ladies, including her mother, were intent to draw out the excursion for as long as possible, it seemed. In the interim, both girls had insisted that Amy don one of the new day frocks right then and there in lieu of the respectable drab grey dress she had on that was not nearly as exciting or fetching as the one she currently wore- soft and white, patterned with pretty yellow daisies and a matching pelisse to endure the bracing wind that was inflicting the weather currently.
"Not to mention his green eyes," Nicola continued blithely once Heather was out of earshot.
"And he is superbly intelligent," Blanche added happily.
"Incredibly so," Nicola agreed.
"And the dimple in the middle of his chin is rather endearing," Blanche remarked.
"His hair is such a unique hue, I should think it quite a rarity-"
"Thick too, and if his father is anything to go by, there shan't be a bald Earl of Gravewood in the near future."
"And his fingernails are neat-"
"Ladies," Amy interrupted with an amused dryness that was bordering on a slight impatience, "would either of you like to marry him? Your admiration of his qualities is somewhat specific."
"Oh, dear," Nicola laughed slightly, a faint blush reddening her cheeks. "We are being far too obvious, aren't we?"
"Quite." Amy smiled however. It was not the first time a person of her acquaintance had insinuated that her and Oliver would make the perfect matrimonial match, though never with so much enthusiasm as Blanche and Nicola.
The smaller woman made a slight scoffing sound. "I shan't stop, you know," she admitted enthusiastically. "You are perfect for Oliver, I have no idea how the two of you have maintained a friendship for so long and not, well... you know."
"Compromised each other?" Nicola asked innocently.
Amy coughed slightly, feeling insurmountably uncomfortable at that. She glanced about the modiste shop but the chattering from her mother in the other room and the beleaguered modiste's grunts of agreement or protest were the only sounds being heeded currently. They were very much alone which was a good thing because Blanche promptly barked: "He's compromised you!"
"Oh, God, no-"
"Blanche, lower your voice," Nicola whispered, though she was laughing.
"But he has, hasn't he?" Wide grey eyes turned to Amy demandingly. "Go on, admit it. If you do then we can force him to-"
"You are both being ridiculous," Amy told them succinctly. "You must let this topic drop at once, I can assure you nothing of the sort has transpired." She felt her cheeks and neck burn with the lie though she comforted herself in the knowledge that it wasn't entirely a fib. It had been years ago and hardly mattered, a moment of ludicrous impetuousness on her part that ended with the both of them mutually agreeing on their incompatibility as anything more than friends.
"Bee, perhaps it is not our place to interfere," Nicola said with a softly appeasing voice.
"Oh, what do you know," Blanche muttered, peeved. But then she tossed her head and rolled her eyes and moved to the next swatch of fabric that she matched against Penelope's pelt. "Oliver has scarcely left her side the entire day, clearly he's besotted and doesn't even realise it. She certainly doesn't either. They are being deliberately ignorant. I half believe that if he could see this far he would be looking at her right now."
"You know that he wears spectacles?" Amy asked, surprised.
"What?" Nicola practically barked in alarm.
"Yes, of course," Blanche said smoothly and her smile was sly. "Clearly you do too. See? Another reason why you are perfect for each other. You know everything about him."
"Good Lord, I am never to hear the end of this, am I?"
"Oliver wears what now? Spectacles? Oh, I have to see him-"
"It's a secret, though I hardly know why," Blanche told Nicola quickly before the other woman ran outside to pester the man standing among his peers lingering near the modiste with an increasing edge of frustration the longer the ladies remained inside.
"Oh, I think they would enhance his appeal," Nicola mused to Amy, "do they?"
And that made her consider Oliver and consider what his spectacles did to his overall appeal and... she had to admit she did enjoy seeing him wear them. They added an element of sophistication, of boyish innocence, to his overall roguish, hard-edged face. And Oliver was quite devastatingly handsome and cheerful and bitingly intelligent, a deadly combination alone... then to add spectacles to all that... It was probably better that he did not wear them publicly.
"No, no," the modiste said now emerging with Amy's mother from the room towards the back of the shop, her gaze fixing to Blanche who was holding up another blue swatch of fabric against Penelope. "I beg your pardon, my lady, but I simply cannot tailor any more attire for your dog. One wardrobe is enough, surely-"
"Pfft," Blanche dismissed her with a haughty tilt of her pert nose, "you needn't worry, madam. I have acquired the services of a vastly more talented modiste who has no qualms working with my Penelope."
"Would she be susceptible to making attire for chickens, I wonder?" Amy added, much to the horror of the comely modiste, and Blanche shouted with laughter.
"Oh, I do adore you. You simply have to remain with us, even if you aren't smart enough to accept Oliver-"
"Haventry is hardly far out the city," Amy interrupted quickly.
"It's not the same," Blanche whined. "Oliver shall simply have to bring you along whenever he visits, otherwise we merely won't welcome him inside."
"You are too much." Amy was laughing softly as she lingered by the modiste's service counter, intending to settle the amount owed for her own newly acquired attire and her mother's gowns, opening the reticule she had brought along with her.
"Oh, no, madam," the woman said hurriedly, waving her hand in a motion of refute. "Your purchases have been instructed to be placed on the credit of Lord Hollingsworth."
"I beg your pardon?" There was no small about of shock that ripped through Amy at those words, as well as some mild annoyance. Oliver knew that she would never accept such an extravagant gift and it was quite clear it had been contrived with prior arrangement to her arrival in the store. "I cannot accept, please allow me to-"
Blanche hastened to her side and hooked her arm through Amy's. "Best settle this in private with the man himself, dear," she murmured, then bid the modiste a firm adieu and guided Amy forcefully away from the shop. "Perhaps it was not Oliver who suggested the gesture, but his mother. In which case, should you not accept it, would seem quite, well, off-putting for your hostess, would it not?"
"I am not comfortable with it," Amy admitted, "but perhaps I will have a word with Oliver in private."
"Good, and when you do you should take note of the way he looks at you-"
"Blanche, really-"
She stopped then and pinned Amy with one of the most serious looks she'd seen on her countenance since having met her the day before. Penelope was wiggling in her arm in an attempt to leap into Amy's embrace or the excitement at the knowledge that they were finally about to step outside onto the airy sidewalk once more. "An honest observation," Blanche told her firmly. "Nicola agrees with me- we have never witnessed Oliver hold someone with esteem and admiration before you, and it is there, plainly writ upon his face when he looks at you, Amy. Observe now, once we exit, what you shall see and recognise it."
"You are both impossible," Amy grumbled under her breath but whether Blanche, or anyone for that matter, heard her was unlikely for they had stepped out into the street. Though for the most part the traffic on the street, both foot and carriage, was lessened by the closing of the season, there was still a considerable onslaught of movement and the favourable weather had drawn out more customers and sellers than if it were cooler.
Three incredibly different yet handsome men turned upon seeing the ladies' presence finally exit the modiste, equal looks of relief flashing across their faces. Clearly it had become an exercise in tedium while they waited for the women to complete their endeavours within each store respectively and Amy felt a shared amount of pity and amusement at their pained expressions.
She did wonder, however, if it were not for Blanche's softly worded commands whether she would have actively sort out his gaze, a subconscious action probably instilled by the conversation she had moments before. His verdant eyes seemed homed on her from the moment her presence had been noted leaving the store and though Amy would credit absolutely nothing but friendly familiarity in the way Oliver was regarding her, she felt his gaze rake over her body with a boldness that caused an unwarranted heat to uncurl across her skin.
A wide smile broke his face, deepening the grooves of his shaven cheeks, and- damn the both of them!- he did have rather nice teeth- straight, though there was a slight crookedness to his bottom incisors, and clean- and his grin embodied every element of indulgent, sinful male. It was a smile given to a woman who was beckoned to him and was willingly obeying a command.
There was an imperceptible moment that passed that caused Amy to look elsewhere but not before she noticed the vibrant hues of his hair as it swept carelessly to its favoured side, caught and gilded resplendently in the afternoon sun.
Heaven help her, she should not find him appealing, definitely not so as of this moment, and she compelled the longings and curiosity of him to dissipate. It was surely a response to the meddlesome women implanting notions of such ludicrous nature in her mind that she was taking note of them now. Before, he had been nothing more than her dearest, closest friend. She'd never entertained notions of intimacy with him since that day long, long ago, never once found him attractive or appealing and now that she did so while he stood among his peers dressed in bespoke gentleman's finery with a devil-may-care smile on his face...
They weren't compatible as lovers, they both knew this and the improbability of it happening again was made as a promise between them to ensure it did not, to ensure they were never faced with the prospect of jeopardising the closeness of their friendship as it stood.
And then, should that inconceivable line ever be crossed, the prospect of her ever being a suitable countess was a laughable notion if ever there was one. They were cut from a different cloth entirely and Amy knew, even though she was enjoying her short time in London, that she did not belong in this world, in this sort of finery. She was better suited to fending off Henivieve and Mr Stuart's guard geese in quiet country lanes than taking tea in refined London drawing rooms.
Even now, as she had stood on the sidewalk considering Oliver, one of the large draught horses had stopped mere feet from her where it was hitched to a carriage and nuzzled her enquiringly. Thankfully the press of his snout was enough to shake her free of her confounding musings and she laughed at the insistence of the animal quite fervently hoping for a treat. Amy turned to briefly stroke his nose while the coachman apologised to her for the creature's encroaching presence.
"Aw, you're not at all bothersome," Amy told the horse affectionately as she stroked along his neck. "You remind me of Chomper."
"Ostensibly more friendly and less mouthy, I believe," Oliver quipped, coming to stand beside her.
"He merely doesn't like you." Amy grinned at him. "You are always borrowing him and sending him back the same day. I would also be quite put out by that behaviour."
"Why the devil did you name him Chomper then?"
She shrugged and moved away from the horse she had been stroking, realising that she was ruining gloves she had only purchased but minutes before. Well, that was not entirely correct- that Oliver had purchased for her, which reminded her of what had happened in the modiste. "I have a bone to pick with you," she told him direly, ignoring his other question.
"Uh oh."
"Privately, of course," Amy added, noting how their present company were scattered along the side of the street.
"Have I done something terrible again?" Oliver lamented, beginning to guide her towards the carriage they would be sharing with her mother, though a smile was lingering at the corners of his lips.
"Is there a day that passes where you have not?"
"Assuredly not." Once they had bid their farewells to the others in the merry group, Oliver assisted Heather into the carriage first and when his hand reached for Amy's, guiding her inside so that she passed by him closely, and he murmured softly in her ear, "I'll seek you out later for a word."
She chose not to acknowledge the way his warm breath against the curve of her neck felt or how her skin stirred with the whispering intimacy of that near caress.