Chapter 8 #2
She took the brush and returned to her mare, her movements feeling overly deliberate, too aware of his attention. The rain continued its percussion on the roof above them, a rhythm that matched her pulse—steady, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Behind her, Samuel found another brush and began working on his own mount.
The sounds of their labor filled the space between them.
The rasp of bristles against horsehair, the soft snorts of contented animals, and the occasional drip of water from their clothing onto the straw-covered floor.
Alice grew keenly aware of his proximity, the way the wooden partition creaked when he shifted his weight, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
"You know," she said, breaking the heavy silence, "I have never seen your hair anything less than perfectly arranged. I believe I should commemorate this occasion. Perhaps a small ceremony."
"I shudder to imagine what that ceremony might entail."
"Nothing elaborate. A brief speech, perhaps a plaque. 'Here stands the spot where Viscount Crewe's standards finally surrendered to circumstance.'"
She heard him exhale—something not quite a laugh, but near enough.
When she glanced over the partition, she found him watching her with an expression she could not quite categorize.
His hair remained plastered to his forehead in dark waves, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, escaping the worst of the soaking.
Without coat and waistcoat, without cravat and careful grooming, he looked almost ordinary.
No, not ordinary. Human.
"Your own standards seem remarkably intact," he observed, "considering you look as though you've been swimming in the lake fully clothed."
Alice pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. "Lord Crewe. Was that humor? Actual humor? I may need smelling salts."
"I am occasionally capable of levity." He stepped out of his stall and moved toward hers, ostensibly to return the brush to its hook, but coming close enough that she could see the water droplets still caught in his eyelashes. "You provide an unusual number of opportunities to practice."
"How fortunate for you. Consider it a service."
They stood facing each other in the narrow space between stalls, closer than propriety permitted, closer than either had intended.
Alice felt her shoulder brush against his arm as she turned to hang her own brush, and the contact, slight, accidental, sent heat flooding through her despite her wet clothing.
His breath stirred the damp hair at her temple.
The lantern flame flickered, casting light across his features and throwing shadows that softened the severity she had come to associate with him.
In this light, he looked younger, less certain, more like the man who had spoken of roses and grief in the midnight library than the viscount who delivered pronouncements about propriety and purpose.
"You're shivering," he said, his voice dropping to something almost tender.
"It's rather cold when one is soaked through." Alice wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly aware of how thoroughly the rain had soaked her clothing. "A shocking development, I know. Who could have predicted such a consequence?"
"Your recklessness continues to astound me."
"As does your capacity for understatement."
He smiled, actually smiled, transforming his face in a way that made her breath catch. She had not known he was capable of such a warm smile that reached his gray eyes. Her own lips curved in response, helpless against the pull of his unexpected openness.
"There," she said softly. "That was worth drowning for."
"What was?"
"That smile." She tilted her head, studying him in the lantern's glow. "I had begun to think your face was incapable of producing one."
His smile faded slightly, not into displeasure, but into something more complex. "I smile," he said, "under the right circumstances."
"And what circumstances might those be?"
The question hung between them, weighted with implications neither had meant to voice. The rain thundered against the roof, and somewhere in the stable, a horse whickered softly, but Alice was aware of nothing except the man before her and the charged current that seemed to flow between them.
"Unexpected ones," Samuel said at last. "Circumstances I had not anticipated."
Alice felt her pulse quicken. "You have a talent for anticipation."
"I had thought so." His gaze moved across her face, her dripping hair, flushed cheeks, and slightly parted lips. "I find I am revising my assessment."
The stable felt smaller than it had moments ago, the space between them reduced to inches rather than feet. Water dripped from Alice's hair onto the straw below, each drop marking time. Outside, thunder rolled across the estate, leaving her uncertain whether it was a promise or a warning.
The storm reached its peak with a crack of thunder that shook the stable walls.
In the lightning flash that followed, Alice saw Samuel's face illuminated, every line and shadow revealing the composure that had begun to slip.
His eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch, the gray of his irises turning silver in the flashes of light.
Then darkness returned, leaving only the lantern's glow and the sound of rain against the roof.
Neither of them moved.
In the sudden quiet between thunderclaps, Alice’s heartbeat became loud. Her wet clothes clung to her skin, and a dark, dripping strand of hair fell across her face, obscuring her vision on one side. She started to reach for it.
Samuel's hand was there first.
His fingers brushed her temple as he swept the hair aside, the touch so gentle it barely registered.
But he did not withdraw. His hand lingered at the edge of her face, fingertips resting against her cheekbone, thumb brushing away a drop of water from the corner of her eye.
The leather of his glove felt cold, yet beneath it, warmth radiated.
The heat of his skin and the slight tremor in his touch suggested he was not as composed as his expression implied.
"Alice," he said, his voice weaving her name into a question, a warning, an invitation she had not known she was waiting for.
Her usual quips and deflections fled. She stood in the lantern light, heart pounding, watching the emotions flit across his face—uncertainty, desire, perhaps fear.
The control he maintained had cracked, revealing the man she had glimpsed in the library, the one with old wounds hidden beneath his armor.
Their breathing matched, or perhaps it always had, and she was only now aware of it. Each inhale and exhale moved in harmony, as if their bodies had reached an agreement their minds had yet to acknowledge.
"Samuel." The name slipped from her lips, filling the charged silence, the space between them shrinking to something impossibly intimate, his hand still warm against her face, and she did not want it to move.
He leaned forward.
The movement was slow, hesitant. Unlike his usual decisive precision, the pause ached in Alice’s chest. She watched him close the distance, his grey eyes darkening, lips parting slightly as his breath mingled with hers.
She caught the scent of rain, something warmer beneath it, and the hay-and-horse aroma of the stable, which had become the most romantic fragrance she had ever encountered.
Their lips hovered a breath apart. Less than a breath—a whisper, a heartbeat, the width of a promise about to be made.
The stable door crashed open.
Alice sprang backward, nearly colliding with her mare, her composure snapping into place. Samuel straightened with a rigid grace that spoke of years of near-disasters, his hand dropping to his side as if it had never touched her face, as if they had been standing at appropriate distances all along.
A groom stood in the doorway, arms laden with towels, his expression cheerful and oblivious to the moment he had just interrupted.
"Begging your pardon, my lord, my lady," he said, stepping inside and shaking water from his cap.
"Mrs. Henderson sent me with these. She thought you might need them, caught out in this weather.
" He set the towels on a nearby barrel and reached for the lantern he'd brought.
"The storm should pass within the hour, or so the head gardener reckons. He’s rarely wrong about such things. "
"How thoughtful," Alice heard herself say, her voice surprisingly light and pleasant. "Please thank Mrs. Henderson for her consideration."
"Aye, my lady. Will you be wanting an escort back to the house when it clears? I can have a footman with umbrellas ready at the main entrance."
"That would be most welcome." Samuel's voice held a composed facade, but Alice sensed the faintest roughness at its edges. "Thank you for your attention."
The groom nodded, pleased to have fulfilled his duty, and began checking on the horses with the easy efficiency of a man in his element.
Alice reached for one of the towels and pressed it to her hair, grateful for something to occupy her hands—anything to distract from the man standing three careful feet away.
She risked a glance at Samuel. He studied the wall, his jaw set and posture rigid. A muscle twitched in his cheek.
"The weather," Alice ventured, breaking the silence, "has been remarkably dramatic this week."
"Indeed." Samuel's response was clipped and formal, devoid of warmth. "Country weather can be unpredictable."
"Unlike London weather, which announces its intentions with notice."
"Precisely."
The conversation stumbled forward, each exchange more stilted than the last, while the groom continued his tasks and rain pounded on the roof. Alice dried her hair with mechanical movements, watching droplets fall onto the straw below, painfully aware of Samuel’s presence beside her.
They had not looked directly at each other since the interruption. An unspoken agreement kept their gazes averted. The almost kiss lingered between them, unacknowledged and impossible to forget, a moment suspended in time that neither could touch without risking everything it contained.
"The rain is lessening," Samuel remarked after a silence that stretched uncomfortably.
"So it appears." Alice folded the towel with unnecessary care. "We should return to the house. There will be questions about our absence. We have been gone far too long, and in a storm at that.”
"Of course."
They moved toward the door, maintaining the careful distance of strangers rather than two people who had just been breathing the same air. The groom offered a cheerful farewell, promising to see to the horses personally, blissfully unaware of the moment he had disrupted.
Outside, the rain had softened to a steady drizzle. Alice stepped into the damp air, feeling it cool against her flushed cheeks, both welcome and unwelcome.
Samuel fell into step beside her, his stride measured and hands clasped behind his back. They walked toward the house in silence, their shoulders nearly touching, their gazes fixed firmly ahead.
"Lady Alice," he said as the house loomed before them, his voice regaining its formal tone.
"Lord Crewe."
They did not speak again until they reached the terrace doors, where they parted with the briefest of nods, two acquaintances who had weathered an inconvenient storm, nothing more.
But as Alice climbed the stairs toward her chamber, she felt the ghost of his fingers at her temple, the heat of his breath against her lips, the weight of the kiss that lingered in the air, unfulfilled yet undeniable.
The weight of it pressed against her ribs like a second heartbeat.