Chapter Eleven
Griff: "What do you think falling in love is like?"
Ben: "Nauseating."
(B & G conversation on love 4 years prior)
The next day Amy did not see or hear from Oliver, not that she had actively sought him out either. Not after what had happened the previous day in the park, the inadvertent meeting with Mrs Helena Abbot.
Presently, Lord Lionel Hollingsworth slammed his wicked looking knife into the roasted chicken before him on the table, the entirety of the dinner settings reverberating with the motion and startling Amy who was unfortunately right beside the voracious man as they gathered later that evening for dinner.
"The first thing one ought to do before skinning a beast," Lionel explained, pinning Amy with his intense green eyes to ensure that she was indeed paying him heed, "is to flip them belly up!" Emphatically, he whipped the charred bird's carcass over on the platter it was on with a noisy slap. "Then, you have to remove the genitals-"
"Lionel, really, we are at the dinner table," Arianna appealed. Her aggrieved pull of her lips was masked when she covered the gesture with a sip of her wine.
Amy grimaced as the earl began to demonstrate, with the ominously pointed tip of the weapon he had pilfered from somewhere, how to skin whatever animal he envisioned in his mind. Grateful that the chicken was already well and truly dead, she averted her gaze and pushed away her plate of vegetables.
"You have put our guests off their meal," Arianna said, lightly reprimanding.
The earl promptly slapped a hunk of flesh on Amy's recently abandoned dinner plate and then proceeded to do the same to Heather, who looked delighted. "I am quite alright," Amy's mother announced, tucking into her fare happily. "You needn't concern yourself, Arianna."
"Lionel, you should know that Amy does not eat meat," Oliver's mother said tightly with an apologetic look at Amy.
"No, really, it is quite alright-"
"I beg your pardon," Lionel said, hurriedly spearing the chicken breast from Amy's plate and dumping it with his own. "My apologies, my dear. Here, have some lamb with mint sauce instead."
Amy smiled patiently at Lionel as he proceeded to summon an awaiting footman. "I believe I am feeling out of sorts and wish to retire early this evening, if that is alright," she said before the man could serve her any of the food Lord Hollingsworth was almost forcefully feeding her himself.
"Of course, dear. You must be weary from all the excitement for the ball tomorrow," Arianna remarked kindly. Heather was content to concentrate on the plate of food and wine before her.
She retired quickly after that, rather put out that Oliver had not been in attendance yet again, and with the efforts of his father endeavouring to change years of commitment to a diet that suited her well, Amy simply wasn't feeling very much herself. Oh, she was fond of Oliver's parents and it was clear they were both very fond of each other, too, which made their odd relationship even more astounding. But Lionel was not known to be delicate in his speech and Arianna found her husband mostly too amusing to take umbrage with anything he may say or infer, though Amy firmly believed that Lionel never really intended to offend.
Her mother, on the other hand, had indulged in far too much wine at the dinner table and gleefully laughed at everything that had transpired, adding her most inappropriate comments to Lionel's own ramblings. The two of them were more familiar with each other than even Amy and Oliver were together, and soon she abandoned the lot of them, favouring the solace of her private rooms even while she inwardly missed her friend and found it mysteriously disconcerting to do so.
Oliver had seen fit to remain away from his family's townhouse and instead take up residence at his bachelor's apartment where he was no doubt indulging in many assignations with the beautiful Helena Abbot.
Ah, why did she have to be so nice? And she was simply lovely. So very beautiful, amiable and intelligent.
Amy felt quite dull in comparison. Not that she was comparing herself to Helena.
She had no reason to, after all.
In fact, she was happy for Oliver, truly she was. He suited someone worldly and beautiful, and Helena was sophisticated and clearly adept at city life.
Ugh, Amy couldn't lie to herself any more than she could lie to him. It had made her miserable knowing that he had spent all of his time and evenings with her in lieu of Amy and his family. It made her feel... lacking, somehow. Not jealous, more of a sadness, for Amy could not be jealous of a woman such as Helena Abbot.
Whilst in her chambers, these thoughts convalesced in her fraught mind over and over again. The rooms at the Gravewood residence, which Amy had secretly begun to refer to as Grave House, were quite comfortable and probably larger than the first floor of her country cottage in Haventry. A huge, resplendently comfortable bed dominated room, a lush carpet of the finest, softest threading surrounding it to the extent that Amy adored walking over it barefoot. The fire had been lit already and she went over to her armoire. Lady Hollingsworth had assigned her a lady's maid to attend her however if the hour grew too late Amy would dismiss the girl, feeling silly since she had never had someone bestow her with such lavish rituals before now. She was quite capable of dressing herself- alright well that would soon be a lie considering the corset she was wearing was strung up the back which posed a problem, but she would listen for Heather's return and request her aid rather than waken the poor lass.
While she was sifting through the armoire in search of a nightgown, her fingers stilled on a small square of silk. She recognised it immediately as the handkerchief she had gifted Oliver for her name was embroidered in the corner- Griff- and Amy knew that she never used the set that he had given her, preferring to stow it safely to treasure later. Such finery was not for daily use, but she remembered that Oliver had used this one... and it had clearly been washed and misconstrued as hers.
She considered the fine piece of silk in her hands a moment and decided it was better off in his chambers than hers. Since he was not in residence currently, she could hardly find any fault with wandering to his side of the house and leaving it within his possession in the confines of his private chambers. She would deftly return it to its rightful ownership, relinquish it to his vanity or the very closest available service, and retreat once more to her own abode.
Amy did just that, leaving the sanctity of her room and weaving through the dark halls to where she knew his own chambers were for whenever, and the occasions seemed quite rare considering, Oliver was in residence.
It was easily deduced within Amy's mind that Oliver was certainly not in residence at Grave House, otherwise he would have attended his family that evening for dinner, or she would have seen him throughout the duration of her activities of the day, yet she had not. She believed wholeheartedly that Oliver would not be present which is why she pushed open the door with a confidence that deterred her from knocking prior to entering and strode inside. Amy's steps shuddered to an immediately halt and she knew at once that something was off.
Decidedly off.
There was a warm light from the hearth on her left which was her instantaneous clue that someone was, in fact, utilizing this chamber.
And that someone was indeed Oliver.
Normally, that would not warrant a sensation of alarm to enter Amy, but it was the action she had inadvertently stumbled upon that made her breath hitch within her chest and latch shut, entrapping it within her lungs until released.
Limbs frozen in place on the threshold, that fine silk handkerchief fell from fingers now slack from surprise, from the sensations coursing through her bloodstream.
He wore nothing but a loose linen shirt and dark trousers as he stood to one side of the hearth, gilded by the golden coals within and shadows meeting and dancing boldly along the planes of his body while his profile angled slightly towards her. One arm braced against the wall before him, straining against his weight as tension caught and built across the lines of his muscles visible through the sheer fabric of his attire. There was undulating strength and resistance in the way he was reposed, masculine virility in the way his skin stretched under the linen of his shirt as it pulled taut against his broad shoulders, his head bent slightly over the task he was applying rapturous attention to, almost to the extent that he failed to notice her entrance entirely.
But it wasn't Oliver's stance, as his skin bronzed by the flames of the hearth, that snagged her gaze and imprisoned it- it was what he was doing that made her heart jump, her skin fever, and something fiery and blazing settle and burn at the core of her being. With his trousers hanging loosely over his narrow hips, Amy could not tear her eyes away from the manner in which his wrist moved with a fluidity, as his fingers wrapped around the base of his very erect, very hard shaft and moved slowly upwards, flicking subtly over the swollen tip of him.
Oh...
She knew she should not bear witness to this incredibly private and solitary act... and it felt sinful and so very wanton of her to find the sight of him extraordinarily riveting, so incredibly sensual the way his strong hand moved over his length, the shifting of his shoulders as he staggered with his own laboured breathing.
Oh, God, he was so large- she could not remember the size of him before, that one time so very long ago she had that part of him inside her and the memory seemed so distant, so impossibly far removed from the male specimen before her now, embodied with a masculine sensuousness that positively rendered her nerves asunder with surges of need as she watched his hand move up his member once more, the curious curl of his wrist again once he reached the very top- his softly serrated groan of pleasure that reached her ears.
She must have moved then, or perhaps he had sensed her avid attention on his person, but for whatever reason Oliver turned his head and his eyes widened with surprise to see her standing there, on the threshold of his chambers, witnessing something she was never meant to see.
Amy's mouth dropped open in shock, in fright, her eyes darting from his crotch to his face as if she couldn't quite figure out which was more mortifying to look at right then. Finally, she clapped her hand to her mouth and realised that she did in fact have functioning limbs.
She pivoted and bolted, horror filling her at her bold behaviour to consider him for as long as she had, but her forehead collided directly into the hard, unrelenting doorframe of his chambers in her desperation and panic to flee. Spurred on by her utter humiliation, however, she quickly stumbled backwards, ignored the way her head began to throb, and ran for her life.
"Amy!"
She prayed he wouldn't follow her, but if she knew Oliver, and she did, he would be persistent until he either had an excuse from her, an explanation, or a suitable reasoning of what had transpired with which they could both move forward. Pragmatically intelligent to a fault, he would want to rectify this moment and she couldn't stomach it, not right then, not until she could determine what had inflicted her so monumentally as she witnessed his licentious act of self-pleasure. She was in the middle of slamming her own door closed when he interrupted the motion with his shoulder-
"Amy, you are being rash-"
"I hardly saw a thing," she blurted hysterically, "you needn't worry-"
"We should talk about this," he snarled, thrusting hard against the door so that she was forced to stumble backwards.
Relenting, her heart racing with the memory of what she had witnessed, her body vibrated with its reaction to him so ardently she rather feared he could feel it himself as he came into her chambers and stood before her.
Then and there she realised how big he was, how infinitely male he seemed. They were so intrinsically different it was almost laughable how they had remained friends for as long as they had because at that moment she hardly recognised the man before her. Her body, traitorous at that moment, almost lurched with the eagerness of that knowledge, at how she perceived him now.
"Don't look at me like that, Griff," he ordered, his voice rough-edged from whatever pleasure he had been feeling earlier and she couldn't help it- her eyes dropped to front of his trousers.
His arousal was still edged against the fabric of the garment. Her mouth went dry.
"We do not need to talk about it," she said, tearing her eyes back up to his and his gaze was penetrating, hot. She did not recognise this man, transformed with the power of his arousal, his eyes dark and his mouth a hard, unrelenting line against the coarseness of his unshaven jaw. The way he was looking at her, staring into the depths of her soul with eyes so verdantly green she almost groaned at the intimacy of it alone, was not the way Ben had ever looked at her before. "Oh, Oliver, please let us not talk about it!" She was begging now as the truth of the matter began to surface. She could very well lose her best friend because of what she had witnessed and they had no need to make it any more uncomfortable than it already was. There was nothing Amy would not do to save her friendship with the only person who understood her, who knew every secret of her soul and more. "Ben, please... We can say that it is just another secret we will never speak of again and forget about it, laugh about it tomorrow maybe..."
He frowned at her then and ran his hand through his hair. A ragged breath left him and the way he was looking at her, his expression harshened with a need that was almost desperate and pleading, but it was fleeting, momentary, and she rather thought she had imagined the entire thing. "Please, Ben," she whispered raggedly, and a part of her heart broke as she wondered if they would ever recover from her mistake that evening.
Then he shook his head and his arm lowered from where his long fingers were carding his hair, running over the coarseness of his firm jaw. "Damn it all, Amy," he muttered and then he left her, slamming the door on his way out.