Chapter Twelve
Ben: "Do you regret it?"
Griff: "Of course not! I am glad it happened with you. I trust you more than any other person. I am worried, however... maybe your opinion has changed of me, or you do not hold me in high regard any longer-"
Ben: "There is nothing that could ever happen between us that would change my regard for you."
(B & G conversation on the topic of 'That' day 9 years prior)
Helena Abbot's eyes had been depthless with an innate sadness, though by no means condemning, when Oliver had said he no longer desired to prolong their relationship. He knew that she wouldn't rage, or tantrum, or make demands of him as some had done in the past, and if she did he would have acquiesced to whatever she asked of him- within reason.
Helena's sadness stemmed differently and he realised it for what it was only after the encounter with her. She had known the time would come when he would end their arrangement, that there was never to be a future longer than the affair he had sustained with her. And her parting words to him had shown him how vastly astute and intuitive she had been from the outset, and he respected her endlessly for it, though it had also bestow him with small twinges of guilt at the prospect that she had been aware of this knowledge from the outset.
They had parted amiably after sharing a companionable drink together in the parlour of his bachelor's apartment, and he had offered her a truthful explanation of his aversion to continue their arrangement, and Helena had smiled softly, voiced little protest, murmured her ascent at times. He had seen her out and she had poised on the steps leading from the residence, the street quiet and damp on the cool threshold of night, and turned her head to him. Her eyes reflected his sentiment of before, that her sadness had been borne from an expectancy that he had met.
"There will never be another woman, Ollie," she had told him, her voice soft and lilting as it stirred the shadows of her face. "You have set me up against the standard of her, you have set us all up, and none of us will ever be able to attain it."
"Who?" he had asked, but he suspected he knew. He suspected he had known it for perhaps longer than he wanted to ever admit it.
Her smile was tight, though not unwelcoming. "I shall expect an invitation to the nuptials."
He had watched her disappear for a moment before flagging the next available hackney, ending his emotional turmoil in a few bottles of brandy from Nate's stock at The Den, though the company there had been as dismal as any he had encountered before since the club was temporarily closed and his companions decidedly sober.
Mercifully a distraction had arisen the next day in the form of legal jargon and jurisdiction which required his interpretation and involvement on the behalf of his companions, which Oliver gladly accepted and set about with a keen avidness. He had spent most of the morning at Newgate Prison shifting through testimonies and proposals with the magistrates and constables involved, before employing the services of a barrister he trusted to handle the proceedings further. It was a task he took pleasure from for the simple reason he was good at it. His mind worked quickly, deftly, as his eyes scanned records, charges, anything pertaining to legal jurisdiction- though sadly, with his failing eyesight, it would be a pleasure short-lived and on borrowed time.
He didn't allow the prospect of the gradual deterioration of his vision to affect his temperament- Oliver had long ago accepted his fate, preordained by more than one physician, surgeon or doctor that there was simply nothing they could do other than adjust his spectacles upon each visit. But it was inevitable, it seemed, that within several years the probability that he would scarcely be able to see at all was a possibility that he anticipated.
As it was his world was strained, edges blurred, his temples building with tension as he endeavoured to focus on a page.
Which was what finally compelled him to wear the damn spectacles that evening in attendance for Lady Blackwood's season closing ball.
When Amy did finally arrive to the damn event, he wanted to be able to see her since she was so keenly avoiding him due to the previous evening's disastrous encounter. At the recollection he stifled the urge to cringe with embarrassment, simultaneously flaring with the desire that stirred through him as he recalled her enraptured gaze, the peaks of colour on her cheeks and her eyes... Lord, her eyes. She had seemed so confused as she brazenly examined the way his hand had been gripping his cock, and therein he had seen her own desire mirrored against his, her own flickering arousal a curious dichotomy against a myriad of other emotions that flashed across her face- panic, horror, frustration.
And why wouldn't there be?
Twenty years of friendship, companionship, suddenly reaching a volatile precipice of awareness of the other as something more, something vastly significant that began to charge the very air between them. She would not willingly leap from that edge in fear of jeopardising the relationship that they had nurtured for years when in the space of two days and one licentious encounter it was already threatening to be torn asunder... and if he was honest with himself, neither was he. But Oliver was vastly more experienced and attune to the desire that was burgeoning between them, and he could navigate it with the caution it deserved.
"I do not believe I have made your acquaintance," Jason Blackwood quipped as he joined Oliver in the sparsely crowded ballroom of his family's townhouse residence. The Marquis of Northwick gave him a crooked smile before extending his hand. "Blackwood, Jason-"
"Ha ha."
This was the reason why he never wanted to wear the damn spectacles in public- his peers were veritable asses and would never let him hear the end of it. As if he hadn't had enough ribbing in his formative years.
"I jest, Hollingsworth. When did this come about in any event?" Jason asked, genuinely curious.
There were few guests in attendance and only those in close acquaintanceship with the Blackwood's considering their family name had come under a fair share of scandal the season past to do with Blanche, Jason's youngest sister, and her husband, Nathaniel Southill. Even so, Lady Kathleen Blackwood had ensured, in her usual capacity as a renowned hostess, that the ballroom simply flourished in scopes of tasteful decoration and opulence. Ribbons draped in artful coils from the ceiling and crystal chandeliers, entwined with daisies and other colourful blooms, to create an air of wistfulness. Outside the four small, privately enclosed terraces that led from the French doors, which were draped with curtains of gauze that caught and glittered the light like thousands of gemstones, were similarly adorned, along with a dimly lit oil lamps that clung to the balustrades. Oliver was currently standing close to one of these open terraces to allow the cool breeze to hopefully ease his tensed ardour.
"Years," Oliver said in response to Jason's question. "I can't remember a time I wasn't required to wear them, I merely chose not to when I am in polite company. However, it has come to a point where I find myself struggling not to walk into walls without them and I have concluded that would appear more embarrassing that a slight deterrent to my overall appearance." Though a crooked smile tilted his lips, he hardly felt the confidence and flippancy with which he spoke to Jason.
Blackwood made a slight snorting noise before signalling a footman carrying a tray of crystal flutes. He plucked two from the service and pressed one into Oliver's hand shortly before Nate loped casually into their midst.
"I would have thought," Southill grunted unhappily, "that by marrying one of your kind I would no longer be obliged to attend these events."
It was clear that he hadn't noticed Oliver's change in appearance and for his part Nate leaned against the nearest wall, folded his arms across his broad chest, and simply glowered unwelcomingly at any person who deigned to linger nearby. "Unfortunately, the role of dutiful and doting husband comes with being married to my sister," Jason remarked dryly. "Besides, it's not so bad. Hardly anyone is in attendance."
Nate chose not to respond, glanced at Oliver shortly, then resumed his previous glower to ensure no one approached him.
Oliver shared a perplexed look with Jason.
"Er, Southill," Jason began, gesturing to Oliver briefly, "do you notice anything unusual about Hollingsworth tonight?"
Nate looked as if he thought Jason was one card short of a full deck. "I suppose," he began with a heavy note sarcasm, "he does look rather fetching in his black evening coat."
"He is wearing spectacles."
The other man studied Oliver's face blankly. "He always wears those."
"No he doesn't!" Jason rolled his eyes. "A rock is more observant."
With a motion of his hand, Nate dismissed the topic. "Hollingsworth is the scholarly type. I am hardly keeping track of what the two of you do and do not wear, unless it is the blatant disregard for my own personal boundaries and wardrobe. Please, kindly do not indulge me with the particulars of your day-to-day lordly attires if I am required to remark on every nuance of fashionable change between the two of you."
Oliver laughed at that, as did Jason, and they both realised how absurdly vain they must seem to their friend, who was not titled and barely a gentleman. Nate often held the role, among the three of them, of rationale, grounding them whenever Jason and Oliver lauded their rank a bit too highly, and both of them appreciated him for it.
"No wagers tonight, Hollingsworth?" Southill muttered once the two of them had settled.
"Scarcely anything exciting happening presently to wager on," Oliver retorted nonchalantly and at that Jason glanced over at Nate and they shared a rather speaking look which made Oliver very aware of whatever insinuation was about to transpire. "Oh, for God's-"
"A hundred pounds," Jason interrupted quickly, talking over Oliver and directing his words at Nate, "says Hollingsworth will be married come December."
But Nate had transfixed his hard, amber gaze at the other end of the ballroom, towards the entrance doorways, and his lips quirked wryly to the side. "Two hundred," Nate countered, his eyes never leaving whatever he had fixated on with an intensity that was almost unnerving, compelling Oliver to follow his gaze, "says he'll be wed by the end of October."
"Done."
But Oliver, though he was pressed to argue with his companions considering he was the subject of their rather lewd wager, found the source of Nate's enraptured attention, and their conversation soon fell on deaf ears entirely.
She belonged in a ballroom. It was the first thought that ripped through his mind when his eyes fell on Amy. Normally, he would construe her as pretty, fetching, and mostly adorably, yet tonight her transformation was simply and resplendently complete- she was beautiful. The cut and fit of the cobalt blue gown she wore was perfectly contoured to flatter and accentuate her curves rather than hide them, the material layered with an overskirt of translucent gauze that shimmered and swayed as if embedded with stars as it caught and held the light of the chandeliers and gilded sconces interspersed against the walls. Her dark curls were corded and entwined with silver ribbons and artfully arrayed so that tresses draped over her back, framed her temples and her soft cheeks, crowned with a delicate crystal tiara of leaves and tiny flowers. The neckline of her bodice scooped low, but not immodest by any means, and her breasts globed enticingly above the satin edges, cinched at the waist with a shimmering ribbon of silver.
Jason shoved him forward slightly and Oliver stumbled, the champagne in his hand spilling slightly over the edge and onto his gloved knuckles. At his glower, the Marquis of Northwick raised his brow. "She's here at your behest, Hollingsworth," Jason said drolly. "Best you start wooing her before someone else does."
"Please, God," Nate growled, "if I hear Blanche talk anymore of her I will send my wife to stay with you to sort this out once and for all."
Oliver gave both of them a very put out glare, handing Jason the champagne he had almost dropped entirely. "You know, since the both of you have married, I find myself-"
"Go!" Nate and Jason said in unison.
"Fine!" He began to weave across the ballroom and encountered the unpleasant and scathing dowager marchioness of Northwick on his way, which he informed most dutifully that her grandson-in-law and grandson were so very eager to hold counsel with her and pointed her in their direct location, before he continued towards Amy.
She was among her newly acquired companions, Lady Nicola Blackwood and Blanche Southill, her face positively glowing with mirth as they conversed together, and then the queerest thing happened to Oliver... something he hadn't felt in years, not since he was but an awkward youth with very little appeal or sensibility in any regard... he felt shy.
And he realised he needed to add to the wager his friends made against him.
"Oliver!" Blanche exclaimed, scampering forward to meet him and practically latching onto his arm and dragging him the rest of the distance separating them. She quite deliberately pressed him beside Amy. "Oh, so formal among friends! Stop it at once! Look, Nicki, he is wearing the spectacles!"
Christ.
Nicola squinted at him as if she had never seen him in her life before. Out the corner of his eye he noted that Amy was biting her lip to keep from smiling in amusement. "Oh, I think they are rather... attractive, don't you, Bee?"
"Certainly improves his reputation!"
"Blanche!"
"What? It does! Maybe we should acquire a set for Nate and Jason, too."
Oliver cleared his throat politely. "Ladies, I am here to offer a dance, though I reserve a waltz specifically for Miss Griffiths," he said and was immensely pleased to note the smoothness of his voice belied the way his nerves pricked and his skin came alive with the awareness of her gaze. "Your husbands have of course bestowed me with the honour to mention that they too shall be more than happy to oblige, especially Southill who did so spout endearments about how he would be remiss to not partake of the gavotte."
Blanche grinned up at him wickedly. "Now I know you are lying but I shall happily pretend you are not," she teased. "Nate hates dancing, particularly that one," she explained to Amy and, emboldened, scribbled his name on her dance card that dangled from her wrist.
"I am going to steal away Amy for a turn about the room," Oliver told Nicola and Blanche as he offered his arm to Amy, "if you have no objections-"
"No!"
"None!"
"But-"
The last from Amy, but he bit back a grin and looked at her meaningfully, finding confidence as his interactions with her lengthened. They were both feeling awkward, unsure, and though he would love nothing more than to approach the subject of the discordance between them right then and there, he knew she would not welcome it... and he had brought her to London for a ball, for the enjoyment and lavishness of her first ball.
So Oliver did what he knew how to do best- to woo, to utilize the charm and wits he had always used at his disposal, and he would ensure that by the end of their encounter, Amy would at least feel comfortable.
When she didn't immediately take his arm, Nicola nudged her meaningfully. "Go on," she whispered loudly.
Their friends were as subtle as a herd of rampaging elephants.
Her fingers slipped against his arm and he nodded to Blanche and Nicola, beginning to lead her away. "Griff-"
"Oliver-"
She huffed a little breath as they both stilled their words at the same time, and he stared down at her and watched as she steeled her shoulders, deciding to let her voice her sentiments first. "Ben," she began again, slowly as she listened for an impending interruption from him. When none was forthcoming, she continued, "I must apologise for the evening prior, I did not realise you were in residence, and-"
"And you wanted to return the handkerchief that had found its way into your belongings," Oliver finished for her and when she glanced up at him, her brows furrowed.
"Yes," she said and then, "I should hate for it to affect our relationship, I have been fretting-"
Oliver nudged her playfully. "This is your first ball," he told her pointedly. "I'd rather you enjoy it than fret over... an unfortunate incident. It was not your fault."
"Oh, but it was not yours either," she said quickly, smoothly transitioning into the comfortable rapport with which they normally conversed. Her eyes were shining slightly with the familiarity he was used to once more as she stared up at him. "I mean, it is entirely natural, nothing to feel embarrassed about, at all! Doesn't everybody do it at some point? Even I have-"
And just like that, she had managed to land a blow that felt like he had been punched in the gut. "Griff, what-" But it was almost too late as the horror and embarrassment began to flood her countenance and he only just caught himself. Oliver tore his gaze away from her face, resting his other hand atop hers and squeezing her fingers in what he hoped would register to her as comfort. But the image that had surged to the forefront of his mind at her words, of her fingers pressed between her thighs as she spread before him- "For the time being, we are going to pretend that nothing is amiss, and I am instead going to tell you that Hamletta would have a lot of competition at this year's kissing booth at the Apple Festival were you to pose as her competition or in her stead wearing that gown."
It took her a moment and she gently pressed her fingers into his arms in recognition of his endeavour, letting him know that for now, at least, they would fare well as friends, as best friends. "Perhaps we ought to acquire Hamletta a similar outfit," Amy said cheerfully, "Blanche told me that she has a modiste-"
"I am going to draw the line right now, Griff. I'll not debase myself and measure a pig simply for a dress fitting."
Her laugh warmed him and he found himself glancing at her again, helpless to smile along with her. Amy didn't giggle, well sometimes she did depending on the level of her amusement, she laughed with good-natured embodiment. If it was funny, she positively shouted with it, shrieked sometimes- once he had thrown a rotten apple at her in the Stuart's orchard and it had ricocheted off the nearest branch and landed squarely between his eyes and she had buckled over with her laughter then, howling for all she was worth, until he ploughed into her and smeared the debris of his misfired crime against her in retaliation- snorted if she couldn't get her breath, and once even... well no, he couldn't even bring himself to recall it the embarrassment had been so severe (on her account, not his- he found it bloody funny).
They promptly passed a footman bearing a tray of champagne flutes and he snatched a glass for her, and himself. "Though I am not well-versed on deportment," Amy admitted as she took a sip, "I think I once read that a lady should never have more than one glass of champagne when in company?"
How the hell was he supposed to know? "Ten, I believe, is the agreed upon proper amount," Oliver told her, earning himself a firm nudge in that particularly sensitive part of his ribs that made him lurch, almost doubling over. He gave her a playful glower. "It is considered poor form to harass a gentleman's ticklish parts to one's advantage."
"A gentleman? Is that what you are?"
If they were anywhere else other than a formally proper, opulent ballroom, he'd be very tempted to attack her most ticklish spots which just so happened to be right under her arm, and the side of her knees. "You do not think I am?" Oliver retorted, wondering what her response would be. They were veering about the other end of the room now, where Nate and Jason were leering at him suggestively.
"I have known you long enough to form an opinion on that regard, my lord."
"Very well." Oliver diverted his gaze to the flute glass in Amy's hand as they neared his friends. "If you hold any admiration for me at all, you will deftly pretend to trip over say, your own skirts, and manage to spill your champagne over our incorrigible friends we are about to pass."
"Is this how you behave at most parties, sir?"
"Deplorably worse, and you know this. Humour me."
She looked at him skeptically and for a moment he thought that she would refute the challenge, but just as they passed Jason she stumbled and, with a dramatic flair that was abhorrently exaggerated, managed to tilt most of the contents of her glass on both gentlemen taunting him silently.
"Oh dear, so sorry!" Amy trilled apologetically, with a laughing tremor to her voice even as he continued to guide her along.
"Apologies, no time to tarry," Oliver said guilelessly, "have a ballroom to traverse, you know."
And Griff giggled shamelessly, pressing her now empty flute glass against her mouth in a candid gesture of beguiling humour, as her eyes, the colour of warm cinnamon, sparkled up at him from under a heavy feathering of sultry lashes.
"You have set me up against the standard of her, you have set us all up, and none of us will ever be able to attain it."
It was her.
It had always been her.
"You are bloody well made for each other," he heard Jason grumble from behind him as he blotted his evening coat with a handkerchief.
But whatever he was feeling for Amy, Oliver knew he would have to suppress it, at least for the time being. Because he would rather endure years of unrequited desire than lose her friendship, her trust... her.