Kensworth cast a glance around the dark, dusty room. Oliver followed his friend’s gaze to the paper on the walls that was peeling at the top and to the chairs that looked as if no one had ever sat in them despite being decades out of date. A cloud of dust would certainly be released if anyone were to sit on the aged fabric. There was a fire in the grate, not because the temperature was cold, but because he needed something to make him feel comfortable in that house—and the bleak décor just wasn’t filling that need.
Kensworth leaned against the mantle. “Homey,” he said with a smirk.
“What are you doing here, Kenny?” Oliver asked, sorting through the papers on his desk and feeling annoyed at every aspect of his life.
Apparently his friend sensed it because for once he did not try to engage in banter. “I came to tell you that Hastings asked for my blessing to marry Elizabeth.”
“I know.”
Kensworth raised a brow. “You do? And how would you know that?”
Oliver leaned back in his chair, putting the papers aside for a minute. “I saw Lizzie earlier.”
“When?”
“She was on a walk. Her hair was caught in a tree.”
“And I’m guessing you helped her untangle it?”
“Yes.”
“And you two…talked?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
Oliver looked up at Kensworth, leery of the string of questions. “Yes,” he admitted slowly.
Kensworth crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder against the mantle with a look of boring disinterest. However, it was the nothing-in-the-world-could-ever-affect-me sort of look people put on when they are trying very hard to cover up the fact that they are very interested in the answer to whatever they are about to ask. “And…did anything fruitful come from this talk?”
Oliver narrowed his eyes. “All right, cut line. What is this? What are these questions?”
“Nothing.” Kensworth looked offended that Oliver would even suspect something. Which meant he had ample reason to suspect something. Oliver let his look grow more accusatory, which finally broke his friend down. Kensworth released his arms with a huff. “Fine. I suppose I might have been hoping that you learning of Hastings's intentions would have finally forced you to declare yourself to Elizabeth.”
Oliver ran a hand over his face. “How many times do I need to tell you that I do not love Elizabeth?”
“It doesn’t matter the number, I always know when you’re lying. It’s plain to see that you love her as much as you love your right hand. She’s a part of you. You need her.”
“I do not need her,” Oliver growled out. “And besides, I’m left-handed.”
“I don’t see why you’re being so stubborn about this.”
“It’s not stubbornness. I simply do not love Elizabeth.”
Now Kensworth looked angry. He crossed the room and bent down to rest his large hands on the desk, calloused knuckles on display, leveling Oliver a glare.
“Trying to intimidate me, darling? It won’t work. I know you adore me,” said Oliver, deflecting the tension as best he could. He was taking a page out of Kensworth’s own book.
His friend didn’t smile. “Why are you lying to me? There’s more to this but I haven’t figured it out yet.”
Oliver rolled his eyes and hoped to God Kensworth didn’t really see what was going on. “You’re trying to see too much into things. Believe it or not, a man and woman may be friends without falling in love.”
This time Kensworth let out one short laugh—loud and full. “That’s the biggest load of nonsense I’ve ever heard. Of course a man and woman cannot be close friends without developing feelings. And in yours and Elizabeth’s case, falling in love.”
Oliver’s mind grabbed on to one very important word. “Did you say, ‘and Elizabeth’s case?’”
Kensworth smiled a devilish smile. “You only get to be informed of such details after you’ve admitted your love for my sister.”