Chapter 6 #3
The terrace stretched before them, lined with marble columns crowned with urns in various classical designs.
Some were modest, knee-height and easily searched, while others reached heights that suggested their designers had prioritized aesthetics over practicality.
Alice scanned them, aware of the stakes and the man walking beside her in tense silence.
"Grecian forms," she murmured. "Highest reaches."
Her gaze landed on a column at the far end, taller than the others, its urn adorned with carved acanthus leaves that caught the afternoon light. The vessel was positioned at just the right height to be visible from the garden below but nearly impossible to reach from the terrace.
"That one." She pointed, already moving. "It has to be."
Crewe followed, his stride matching hers. The tension between them had not dissipated. Instead, it had solidified into a palpable presence that accompanied them.
They reached the column and stood looking up at the urn, some seven feet above them. The marble was smooth, offering no handholds. The column's base was too narrow to climb. The brass glint Alice spotted at the urn's lip confirmed her suspicion. The final token waited just beyond reach.
"Impractical design," Crewe observed, his tone neutral.
"Deliberate challenge." Alice circled the column, searching for alternatives. "Clara wanted this one to require cooperation."
"Then we must cooperate."
She looked at him, surprised by his directness. His expression remained closed, but something in his posture had shifted, the rigid reluctance softening into acceptance.
"How do you propose we manage it?" she asked.
In response, Crewe stepped forward, cupping his hands together, palms up, fingers interlaced. The gesture was practical. A boost for riders mounting horses, or children reaching for high shelves. But the look in his eyes was different.
"My hands are steady," he said quietly. "You have shown that heights hold no fear for you."
Alice felt her heart quicken as a rush of memories flooded her mind. The stone bench, the tree hollow, his reluctant admiration pressing against her ribs.
She gathered her skirts in one hand, aware of the impropriety yet equally conscious of the token waiting above them. "Very well."
She placed her boot in his cupped palms.
The contact sent an electric thrill through her, even through layers of leather and fabric, she felt the strength of his grip and the controlled power of his forearms as he steadied her weight. His hands were warm, his breath measured, as if he too sensed the charge between them.
"Ready?" His voice was rougher than before.
“For an adventure. Always.”
He lifted her in one smooth motion, extending his arms as her balance shifted to reach the urn. Alice grasped the column's capital for stability, her free hand diving into the vessel's shadowy interior. Her fingers closed around cold brass.
"Got it!"
She pulled the token free, clutching it tightly, and looked down to find Crewe's face turned toward hers. For a moment, their eyes locked. His gray, hers bright with triumph, both caught in something significant.
"Excellent," he said, lowering her slowly, his hands sliding from beneath her boot as her feet found the terrace floor.
She should step back. Every rule of propriety demanded distance, restoring the appropriate space between unmarried persons. But Alice found she could not move, held in place by his proximity, by the heat radiating from him, and by the question neither was prepared to voice aloud.
"Lord Crewe! Lady Alice!"
The voice came from the garden below, and Alice turned to see Crispin striding toward them with Clara on his arm, his expression bright with satisfaction. Behind them, Mr. Davenant and his partner were just emerging from the hedge maze, still searching.
"Victory, I presume?" Crispin called up to them.
Alice held up the token, and a cheer rose from the scattered guests who had gathered to watch the competition's conclusion. The sound broke whatever spell had held her frozen, and she stepped back from Crewe, almost stumbling.
"We have all five," she confirmed, her voice steadier than she felt. "Though I cannot speak to the condition of my dignity."
Laughter rippled through the onlookers as Alice descended the terrace steps to where Clara waited. Crewe followed, his footsteps measured behind her.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Crispin announced, his voice carrying across the lawn, "I present our victors. Lady Alice Pickford and Viscount Crewe. They have earned the honor of leading tonight's first dance."
Applause scattered like birds taking flight. The baroness clapped, her relief palpable now that the competition had ended. Near the fountain, Miss Winters smiled shyly. The lieutenant, whose attention Alice had entertained, stood with his jaw clenched, disappointment etched across his face.
Alice turned toward Crewe, triumph bubbling through her. Without thought, without the careful calculation that usually governed her actions, she reached out and grasped his hand.
His fingers closed around hers.
For one heartbeat, two, three, they stood connected, her palm against his. She felt a pulse racing beneath the skin, but was it his or her own? His grip tightened slightly, an involuntary response that spoke volumes.
Then propriety reasserted itself.
They released each other simultaneously, the separation sharp. Alice tugged at her gloves with trembling fingers, while Crewe clasped his hands behind his back, his posture snapping back to its usual stiffness.
Yet an unspoken connection lingered between them.
Clara watched with a satisfied expression, her smile revealing a knowingness that Alice preferred to ignore. Crispin, ever the showman, moved on to announce the evening's schedule, his voice a comfortable blur in the background.
"We should go in for refreshments," Alice said brightly. "I believe I have earned several sandwiches."
"Indeed." Crewe's reply was equally measured. "After you, Lady Alice."
They walked toward the house together, yet not quite together, a careful distance between them. Other guests drifted around, conversations resuming, the afternoon settling back into its ordinary rhythms.
Still, Alice found herself stealing glances at him. Each time she looked, his gaze slipped away, as if he too had been caught watching.
The treasure hunt was over. But whatever game they were playing now, whatever challenge they had set for themselves without meaning to, had merely begun.
Alice counted the hours until she could place her hand in his again.