Chapter 1
M ist lifted from the lawns as Lady Alice Pickford stepped down from her carriage and gazed at Oakford Hall’s pale stone, sweep of steps, and glittering windows.
The scent of damp earth mingled with horses and lavender.
Alice adjusted her bonnet, lifted her chin, and resolved to cut a figure.
Yet behind her easy bravado, she reminded herself this fortnight mattered.
Too many eyes would be watching, and she had no wish to be penned into an unwelcome match—or overlooked. Adventure was wanted, not shackles.
A footman whisked away her cloak. Another offered a porcelain posy of violets—Clara’s touch, of course.
Alice tucked the blooms into her reticule and crossed the threshold to the chatter and light of the great hall.
Wax-polished floors reflected chandeliers.
The air smelled faintly of roses, and the hum of arrivals echoed against the high ceiling.
“Alice!” Clara, now the Countess of Oakford, came forward with warm composure, eyes alight. “We are so glad you could come.”
“I would not have missed it,” Alice said, kissing her cheek. “Rumor insists your house parties are little storms of delight.”
Behind Clara, Crispin lounged with a host’s ease that might have looked indolent on another man. On him it was calculation wrapped in charm. “Our house rules are strict,” he said gravely. “Only minor mischief before luncheon. The improprieties must wait until dusk.”
Alice laughed. “Then I shall nap at noon and cause trouble at four.”
Trunks thumped. Ladies exclaimed over flowers.
Gentlemen exchanged dry remarks. The air carried the rustle of silk and the faint tang of carriage dust. Alice, who could navigate a crowded drawing room as a captain reads a change in wind, felt the current of expectation, matchmaking, and the heady mix of plotting and opportunity that makes people rash.
Boredom was her sworn enemy—so she resolved that before the fortnight was over, she would find something to surprise even herself.
“You will settle in the east wing,” Clara said, linking their arms. “Dinner at eight. We have a little musicale after. Nothing too cruel.”
“I refuse to sing,” Alice said cheerfully. “For the well-being of all.”
“We will make you tell a story instead,” Crispin murmured, already turning away to greet a marquess’s wife, then glancing back with mischief. “And do try not to steal any horses before the second course.”
“No promises.”
They were nearly at the staircase when Alice saw him.
He stood near the blue salon doors. Tall, spare—the sort of man who wore sobriety as thoroughly as he wore his coat.
Viscount Crewe, Samuel Baldwin. His eyes, grey as tempered steel, surveyed the bustle with steady assessment.
He looked like a man who liked a plan, ordered steps to execute it, and a locked drawer for anything that did not fit.
He noticed her at the same moment she noticed him. Their gazes struck like flint.
Alice lifted her smile a notch—bright, careless, a touch wicked.
Her pulse quickened, a flicker of thrill she refused to admit.
His expression did not alter, yet she had the distinct impression something behind it catalogued her.
Dangerous, and perhaps tempting. And worse—it suggested a man who might be capable of astonishing her.
“Come, my dear,” Clara said gently. “Let us spare you the crush.”
They climbed to the gallery, where a long table displayed cards for the morrow’s diversions. Archery on the south lawn, a ride to the folly, a country drive with luncheon baskets, cards for those who wilted at sunshine. Alice’s gaze flicked to the board where place cards for dinner were pinned.
Clara followed her glance, amusement glimmering. “You and Mr. Davenant are together on the viscount’s left,” she said, with a whisper of apology. “Proximity only. I promise no ambush.”
“Clara,” Alice said sweetly, “if you mean to ambush me, at least sound a trumpet first.”
“Consider this the trumpet.” Clara squeezed her hand. “And… enjoy it, Alice. Do not outpace your own pleasure.”
That earned a genuine laugh. “I shall endeavor to keep step.”
A footman placed a folded notice on a silver tray beside them. Alice reached and took it, the paper thick enough to feel important. Programme for Thursday in elegant hand, followed by the line that made her pulse hitch:
Country Drive—pairings to be drawn by lot at breakfast.
Of course, fate disguised as hospitality, Crispin’s hand shuffling people like cards to see what game might fall out.
She set the paper back. “I do hope the lots are honest,” she said.
“Honest enough,” Clara replied, a dimple flashing.
“Which is to say not at all,” Alice murmured.
They moved toward the east corridor. Sunlight rained through long windows, turning motes to gilt. Below, the forecourt bustled with more carriages and laughter. Alice could have drunk the day like a glass of cold white wine—sharp and bright, with a sting one pretended not to enjoy.
“Lady Alice,” a pleasant baritone came from behind.
She turned. Viscount Crewe stood a polite distance away, bowing with economy.
Up close, he was handsomer than he ought to be, with a straight nose and decisive mouth.
The air of a man who had learned to master himself and now applied the lesson to the world.
The faint smell of tobacco clung to his coat, sharpened by starch and soap.
“Lord Crewe,” she returned, the curtsy effortless. “Have you come to ensure I do not rearrange the seating to suit my improprieties?”
“I had assumed,” he said dryly, “that your purposes required no assistance.”
Alice felt her smile sharpen. “How comforting to be understood so quickly.”
Clara interrupted them with hostess ease.
“I must leave you to each other’s mercies.
Alice, send for anything you wish. Lord Crewe, would you be so good as to show Lady Alice the painting at the end of the gallery.
Crispin’s grandfather in hunting pink? We have tried to hide it for years, yet it refuses. ”
Crewe inclined his head. “With pleasure.”
Clara drifted away, a pleased general leaving two scouts to study opposing maps.
Alice and Crewe fell into step. The portrait proved impossible to ignore—Crispin’s grandsire in full pomp, a pheasant under one arm, triumph painted into the set of his jaw. Alice laughed, and Crewe glanced at her as though laughter were a code he meant to decipher.
“Do you enjoy house parties, Lord Crewe?” she asked, idly examining the gilded frame.
“I enjoy the hours before they begin,” he said. “And the hours after they end.”
“How you suffer,” she murmured. “Two entire weeks forced to endure conversation and civilization.”
“Civilization I can bear,” he said. “It is conversation that proves treacherous.”
She tilted her head. “You prefer silence?”
“I prefer purpose.”
“Purpose,” she repeated, tasting it. “How exhausting. Mine is pleasure.”
There it was—the flicker of heat, quickly banked. “I had heard as much,” he said coolly.
“From whom?” Her tone stayed sweet, her gaze intent.
He did not look away. “From everyone.”
“Then everyone needs a hobby,” Alice said lightly, and for the first time his composure shifted as if the ground were not quite as firm as he preferred.
A footman appeared with a cough. “Lady Alice, your chamber is prepared. If you require a maid?—”
“Thank you.” She twined the violets from her reticule between her fingers and faced Crewe once more. “Until dinner, my lord.”
“Until dinner,” he echoed.
Alice walked toward the east corridor with the sense of stepping into a dance whose steps she did not yet know. Behind her, the gallery hummed; below, a groom called; outside, the last of the mist burned off the parkland until everything shone.
At the landing, she paused to look down over the hall. Place cards gleamed like invitations to temptation. And on a tray beneath the portrait, the morrow’s program lay where she had left it—the line about pairings catching the light.
She smiled to herself. Let fate draw lots. Let hosts meddle. Let Viscount Crewe wrap himself in his armor of purpose, gleaming and blinding to all but her own amused eyes.
Still, beneath her brightness stirred the faintest pulse of apprehension, an awareness that the fortnight ahead might test more than her wit.
She pushed a loosecurl behind her ear. Better peril at dinner than the slow death of tedium—and Crewe looked perilous indeed.