Chapter Fifteen
Ben: "Where are you going?"
Griff: "Home. My mother wants to wash my hair with vinegar and lard because of the lice infestation going about the village."
Ben, aggrieved: "I wish you had told me this before we spent the entire day lying on the same throw, watching the clouds!"
(B & G conversation about some of the benefits of friendship 10 years prior)
In the day and a half that had passed since the ball, Oliver had found himself immobilised temporarily from whatever task he had set out to accomplish and merely absorbed in a moment of simply observing Amy at whatever task she had been completing more than once.
Yesterday, when his parents and her mother had to leave London for Haventry, he had come about her in one of the damask-patterned sofas in the library that now boasted a jagged hole in its ceiling. He had been attempting to locate his father's prized hunting rifle, which Lionel refused to depart without, and the last occasion with which it had been used, unfortunately, was within the confines of the library. Oliver half suspected his mother had hid the weapon from his father after that day as the servants were considerably unhelpful to boot, which was suspect in itself, and Lionel had outright refused to climb aboard the carriage without the rifle in his possession.
At the insistence of both his parents and her mother, Amy would return to Haventry the following day with Oliver in order to allow her a day more to enjoy the city and acquaint herself further with her newly acquired friends while he attended a legal matter on behalf of them. It stood testament to their years of friendship, and possibly Amy's encroaching years of self-proclaimed spinsterhood, that they were willing to leave her unchaperoned with him, and if things were not as they currently stood between them, Oliver may have trusted them both to act with propriety in any given opportunity that they chanced to find themselves unabatedly alone.
If he hadn't have kissed her, he may have thought it possible.
She had been reposing indolently, in no manner in which a proper lady ought to on a settee, and he had paused on the threshold, grinning to himself at the picture she made. Her legs were thrown over the armrest as she lay on her back, cushioned by the dark curling mop of her tresses, as she held a heavy tome of literature up to her face that she was reading. Her calves swung happily back and forth, swishing the skirts of the cheerfully yellow day frock she was wearing, almost childlike in the innocence and abandonment of the gesture.
Upon noticing him observing her on the threshold, she had started, smiled, and clumsily dropped the book on her forehead.
Presently, while he was perusing the semantics of Nate's testimony and consulting other written references and transcriptions at the escritoire in the parlour room, his attention was once more diverted from the task at hand and he found himself studying her.
She had joined him some time ago with a book to consume some of her time before they departed, and they had continued in companionable silence, until a slight scuffle had diverted his concentration.
Oliver had also been tasked with travelling with Cecil and Millicent, who had earned themselves another conveyance entirely due to their sheer size alone so that Arianna would not be burdened with the task of tending to her husband's gigantic dogs, to Gravewood Manor, therefore the wolfhounds were still in residence with him and Amy.
She had vacated her perch on a chaise longue by the window and was tussling on the carpeted floor with the two hounds. The beasts were notoriously huge and dwarfed her considerably in her disadvantageous position as she kneeled on the carpet, currently rubbing Cecil's belly that he had presented to her while happily thumping his wiry tail on the floor, uncaring that the whiplike motion was causing pandemonium to the tea service neatly placed on the low table behind him. Millicent was leaping about, pawing at Amy's lovely mauve gown incessantly, yipping in appeal for her own turn.
And then the hound's gigantic pink tongue lolled out and promptly smeared up the side of Amy's face, slime and drool trailing over her skin and down her neck. She gasped in mock affront, laughed, and then slung her one arm over Millie's neck. The wolfhound quivered with poorly contained joy and accidentally pawed the front of Amy's shoulder, down the bodice of her gown.
Though clipped and groomed regularly, the dog's claws were still bound to leave some marking on her smooth skin and they did, irritated streaks appearing quickly across her bosom, but the manner in which the hound's nails had hooked on the sheer fabric of her bodice and sufficiently torn it asunder was the most damning, though not unpleasant, sight of all.
"Oh, drat," Amy lamented, though she hardly pushed the animals away from her.
Oliver, however, had been bequeathed with a rather lovely view of her cleavage only barely concealed by the sheer material of her chemise and corset.
"Millie," he clipped succinctly, "Cecil. Heel." The dogs complied immediately and came to sit behind him obediently... for the time being at least. Once they learned that no treat was forthcoming, they would continue their behaviour as before.
"Thank you," Amy said as she rolled to her feet, fiddling with the fabric of her gown. It appeared that she was more upset at the destruction of her pretty frock than the fact that she was quite eloquently exposed to him. Not that Oliver minded in the least. "I suppose," she mused, tugging the two ends of fabric that been rendered apart close together, successfully elevating her breasts to globe tantalisingly above her clothes, "this should be simple enough to darn and sew back together."
"You must know I will replace your dress with another, Griff."
She glanced up at him sharply, her hands cupping her breasts over the ruined bodice, and he rather believed that she had forgotten about propriety in the matter of time they had been together in the room entirely and had only just realised what she was about. Oliver raised his brows, grinned languidly, and reclined back in his chair in anticipation to see what she did next.
She blushed quite furiously but she bit her lip to quell the laughter he saw trembling there. "I believe that will not be necessary," she told him after a composing moment and began to leave. "I suppose I had better change into more appropriate attire before we travel."
"If you must," Oliver teased, allowing an edge of sultriness to linger in his voice which caused her to pin him with startled look, and blush even more if that were at all possible.
"You can be terrible when you want to be," she quipped and fled.
"Oh, I want to be, Miss Griffiths," he called after her and thought he heard her possibly trip on the stairs outside.
It had been easy enough to resume their normal relationship after the explicitness of their shared kiss at the ball and they had both exerted a concerted effort to fall into their normal roles once more. And when he wasn't remembering what her lips felt like against his, or the softness and warmth of her breasts pressed into his chest, he rather thought he was capable of maintaining some semblance of composure that he had always exhibited throughout their relationship.
It was more often, in the stolen moments that he had been allotted to uninhibitedly study her, as in the library when she had unceremoniously dropped the book on her face in her indecorous position, and presently as she innocently clutched her breasts in a gesture that was unintentionally provocative, he felt himself crack and his restraint wither.
It was brittle thread, his control, and though he was confident of his knowledge that he desired Amy, he wasn't confident in the belief that the nature of their friendship wasn't jeopardised. For now, he would try and unless she chose otherwise, he could pretend that the sight of her didn't fill him with an all-consuming longing and a strange mingling of contentment. Even if he could not run his fingers through her hair, pull her body against his, kiss her senseless, he found himself craving her company and simply marvelling at her presence.
And perhaps that was at least worth trying to sustain.
A short while later, they entered Nate's club in passing farewell and partly to relinquish the important documents he had in his possession for his friend's impending trial. Amy simultaneously wanted to extend a personal invite to her newfound friends (Lord help him) to partake in the Haventry Apple Harvest Festival, or whatever name it went by, that was to occur within the next week.
"Oh, look," Blanche said drolly as she emerged from the stairs to join Oliver where he grouped with Nate and Jason in the heavily foliaged courtyard of the club, "if it isn't The Captain with his two henchmen, Brawn and Brains, in attendance once more."
Jason threw her a glare. "Do you need a snack? Or a sound beating?"
"Did you bring any? Snacks, that is, since you are intent to deplete our larder while you stay with us."
"As riveting as this interchange is," Oliver said dryly, "we cannot tarry. Weather looms and we should return to Gravewood before it inhibits our journey."
"Oh no!" Blanche looked at him as if he were her worst enemy while she snuck under her husband's arm and sidled against his flank. "You mustn't leave so soon! Amy, you surely do not wish me to suffer these two louts on my own, do you? Nicola is incapacitated mostly all the time-"
"I am awake, dear, though hardly alert," Nicola said then, smothering a yawn as she emerged from a room on the side. Dutifully, Jason attended her and with a gentle caress, guided her into their midst, his arm lingering against her waist with a protectiveness that was quite endearing.
"Well, that is partly why Oliver has kindly brought me today," Amy said with a smile. She had the attention of all his friends right then and she hardly quivered or shied away from it, but then he realised she wouldn't. In Haventry, she had an active role in the parish as a leader, an organiser, coordinating tasks when others could not. Assertiveness had always been one of her stronger qualities... though, as he recalled her furious blush and the way she cupped her breasts earlier, perhaps in some areas it was lacking. "You must simply join us and attend the cider harvest-" Ha, Oliver thought, she'd even forgotten the name- "festival in five days from hence."
Blanche immediately turned to Nate, clutching his shirt tails and tugging emphatically, "Oh, can we plea-"
"Oh, Christ."
"You have the time," Oliver said, hammering that final nail into the coffin and earning himself a quelling look from Nate.
"It would allow us a reprieve from Wilhelmina," Nicola murmured thoughtfully to Jason. "She is due a visitation this week."
"We'll be in attendance, Hollingsworth," Jason said quickly.
"I will not stop asking!" Blanche had turned and was clearly trying to climb up her husband's body in her enthusiasm. "Oh, please, Nate, I have never even been to Haventry before-"
"Who has?" he growled, catching her swiftly and depositing her firmly at his side. He glanced down at her and his face softened before he nuzzled the top of her head with a great deal of affection. "I can deny you nothing. We shall go."
Her smile was marvellous.
Oliver almost sighed with an annoyance that was partly stemmed from a mild tremor of jealousy. His peers had married and were truly in love, and he had been privy for each of their trials and tribulations for each match. If he had believed a man was unable to change, for whatever reason, he had been profoundly assured of that capability in the manner in which his closest friends coordinated their actions to the desires of the women they adored, and who were probably far more contained and respectable than any of them combined.
He knew that he was pragmatic, almost to a fault as Amy so often liked to point out, but Oliver also knew he was taken with a romantical nature. Genuinely, he was happy for his friends, and he rather found himself longing for similar intimacies when before such yearnings hadn't been quite so prevalent. After all, he was young yet, soon to be nine and twenty in December and he had never felt compelled to settle down, despite the ever-looming insinuation that he was the only Gravewood heir and certain responsibilities had to be met... yet his parents were patient, mostly because theirs was a love-match too, though not at first. Arianna and Lionel were as different as night and day and it had taken years of mutual respect and acceptance for their affectations to develop into love, but it had and it had afforded him the same liberties to choose his own wife.
Shortly, Oliver found himself ensconced within the carriage that was to take them on to Haventry with Amy once more and he almost immediately found himself vexed as the prospect of spending two hours with the woman became blatantly evident.
She fidgeted for the first half hour incessantly. Every movement, every shift, every position change, was felt as the carriage dipped and swayed with any small irritation. Normally, he was able to while away the time with a hardy nap and had intended to do so to stave himself from the arousal caused at just looking at her, stuffing his coat under his neck and propping his feet on the seat opposite.
Amy had other ideas.
First, she had sat opposite him with her book. Shortly, she had mumbled something to herself about feeling nauseous and changed position, joining him on his bench. Not a moment later, she had shifted and placed her back against the side, then again shifted to the opposite bench once more.
He pried open an eye and looked at her from where he reposed with his arms folded over his chest, a beleaguered sigh escaping him.
"I am sorry," she said contritely, genuinely apologetic as she shifted against the cushions opposite him. "I can't seem to get comfortable."
"Would you like my coat?"
She shook her head and clutched her book in her lap. "It will not help, do not concern yourself."
On occasion, the motion of the carriage as it moved steadily along tended to upset her stomach. Though the sensation seemed to have lessened within time, Oliver was still aware that it could afflict her and the experience was an unpleasant one. He lowered his legs from the opposite bench and gestured to it. "Make yourself comfortable, Griff. I had forgotten about it, truly."
She shook her head, the curls framing her cheeks bobbing daintily. "It won't help. Please I feel terrible disturbing you, I shan't be any bother further."
Oliver smiled at her. "We can converse, if you like. To take your mind off it."
She returned his smile politely and crossed her hands daintily over the book in her lap, and he noted that she wasn't wearing any gloves. "What would you like to converse about?" she asked, innocently enough, and surely with little to no provocation his thoughts veered to lewdness, especially as he considered how fetching she looked in the frock she had changed into from the incident earlier. This one had precious little patterns of lavender and delicate green thread embroidered as leaves upon the bodice and skirts. She looked whimsical in it, especially as the fabric tautened over her hips and waist now as she sat upon the bench opposite and to the side of him.
"Ben." There was a hitch of warning in her voice and he realised she must have read something in his expression, or monitored the way his eyes had tracked her body, possibly mirroring the desire that had begun to thrum through him at her close proximity.
"Honestly, Griff, I am sorry," he said, mostly grunted, and tore his eyes away from her to focus out the window instead.
She was silent for a long moment and then, "Do... do you regret kissing me?"
It drew his attention faster than lightning and he witnessed her stiffen slightly at the intensity with which he looked at her. "No, of course not," he said firmly. "Whyever would you come to that conclusion?"
Suddenly, she looked very embarrassed and her fingers clenched around the spine of the book cradled against her thighs. "I am hardly experienced," she admitted, a bit timidly, "and I am sure Helena is vastly more pleasurable-"
Oliver leaned forward very quickly at that and clasped her fingers within his own, squeezing gently. "Griff, you must know the relationship I had with Helena is no more," he told her quickly, wondering if that was the source of her insecurities from the outset and cursing himself a fool for not divulging her of the information sooner. "I had intended to do so for some time prior to returning to London, it was unfortunate that you happened to meet her as you did-"
"I do not mind in the least," she affirmed quickly, "I thought she was rather lovely, as you know. I do not regret making her acquaintance in the least."
He considered her with narrowed eyes and half a smile. "Where does your concern stem from then?"
He heard her swallow loudly in the swaying and dipping of the carriage, the noise from outside diminishing slightly as the air became thick with only awareness of her to carry him forward. "Merely my own inadequacy," she admitted after a small pause. Then, inexplicably, she removed her fingers from his grasp so that only his hands were resting on the book in her lap. "Perhaps, for the benefit of our continued relationship, we need to refrain from... touching."
Oliver removed his hands from her slowly, unable to help the question reflect on his countenance.
Amy blushed and glanced out the window briefly, then she steeled her shoulders and met his gaze confidently. "Presently, when you touch me, Ben, no matter how innocently, I..."
When she seemed unable to finish her sentence, something akin to pride bloomed within him and he settled back into his seat, biting back a grin. "Feel aroused?" he opted to finish for her.
Amy swallowed again, the only evidence that perhaps she was nervous, otherwise she stared at him confidently, with open honesty, which is what they had both agreed upon in the first place. She nodded slowly.
"And you are still unsure about the nature of the progression of our relationship?" he pressed gently.
Another long, long moment passed where she simply gazed at him and though Oliver thought he was well-versed at reading people, for the life of him he was unable to discern her expression right then. He was, however, able to decipher the moment it changed, as if she had made a small decision within her mind. Her upper lip relaxed, flexed slightly in the most seductive manner, and her eyes warmed. "Yes," she said, "so I think it is best that we refrain from touching each other."
If it wasn't for the warmth in her eyes, or the gentle, teasing lilt of her lip, he would not have posed the next, bold, question that he had. "But I can touch myself, and you can touch yourself?"
Again, she held herself entirely impassive. Her eyes were large and unreadable as they met his gaze unwaveringly charging the air between them with a ripe, heavy tension. There was an underlying implication of his words he had laid down as if a gauntlet and he wondered whether she would take up the challenge. "Yes." Her voice was deliberately slow, assessing. Taunting.
"Just not each other," he clarified, raising his brows slightly.
Her lips quirked slightly upwards and she shook her head, slowly.
"Do you think about that night, Griff?" he pressed softly, examining the small flicker of recognition and understanding in her own face at his words. "When you saw me, touching myself?"
A tiny muscle flexed in her jaw, just under her ear, half covered in her curls. "Yes," she breathed, a tremulous sound that quivered with a thinly veiled yearning.
He was achingly hard. His cock had been hard and straining against the fabric of his trousers the moment she had started squirming within this damn carriage, but the trajectory of this conversation was making his abdomen clench with his need of her.
"What were you thinking about?" she asked suddenly, surprising him. Oliver's body almost jerked in response to her query, the small shiver of innocence in her tone that was also curiously laced the boldness of her words.
In all things, they had agreed upon honesty, so he answered her truthfully. "You."
Her breath hitched slightly, the only tell being the sudden rise of her breasts against the fabric of her gown. It snagged his gaze suddenly, evidence of her own desire at his words, and he couldn't help the indulgent smile that moved his lips. "And you, Griff? What do you think about when you touch yourself?" The question was spurred on by the memory of her inadvertent confession the night of the ball and it had plagued him since imagining her with her thighs spread, her hand pressed between her legs, her body straining-
"You."
Jesus. A strangled sound that he stifled harshly rumbled low in his chest and, unable to quell the motion, he pressed his palm against his straining cock, adjusting the ache pulsating insistently against the restrictive barrier of his trousers. "Amy," his voice was jagged with his desire and he needed to cut this hazardous, fraying tether they were dangling upon. "I am-"
He meant to apologise, he meant to deter this from anything more than words, but his voice caught in his throat as he found her heated gaze pinned to his groin, almost fascinated by the sight of his blatantly huge arousal ridged against the fabric of his trousers, and then she lifted her eyes.
"Will you..." She licked her lips, her small pink tongue darting out and catching his attention as if a guiding star, "Will you show me?"