Chapter 9
The dining room of Oakford Hall glowed with a hundred candles, their flames dancing in crystal and silver. At the threshold, Alice paused, drawn by the warmth.
She had chosen a deep sapphire silk gown that shimmered in the candlelight, the bodice daringly low. Her hair, styled in what her maid had called ‘classical,’ felt more like ‘defensive architecture’ to Alice. The sapphire drops at her ears swayed gently as she lifted her chin and stepped inside.
The long table sprawled before her, adorned with damask and porcelain.
Guests mingled, glancing at the small cards directing them to their assigned seats.
Alice observed several women casting sidelong looks at their placements, their faces a mix of delight and barely concealed dismay.
She spotted her own card at once and followed the footman's gesture toward the table's midpoint.
Her fingers brushed the card, her gaze landing on the name beside hers.
Viscount Crewe.
Of course. Crispin had orchestrated this.
She could almost hear his satisfied chuckle.
A tremor of unease rippled through her, but she steadied herself with sheer will.
She refused to let anyone glimpse her discomfort.
She had endured worse than sharing a meal with a man whose almost-kiss still lingered on her lips like a brand.
Samuel was already seated when she arrived, rising with practiced courtesy as she approached.
His formal attire was impeccable, the black coat smooth and unwrinkled, the white cravat perfectly arranged, every button aligned with precision.
Yet there was a tightness in his jaw and a deliberate avoidance of her gaze that hinted his composure was as carefully crafted as her own.
"Lady Alice." His voice held a neutral chill.
"Lord Crewe." She mirrored his tone and settled into her chair with the grace her mother had instilled in her. "How fortunate we should find ourselves neighbors once again."
"Fortune," he replied, a slight edge to his voice, "seems intent on arranging our proximity."
"Or our host is." Alice accepted her napkin from a footman, spreading it across her lap with deliberate care. "Crispin has always fancied himself a patron of unlikely pairings."
Samuel made a sound that could have been agreement or protest; she could not tell which. As they both reached for their water glasses, their elbows brushed, sending an unexpected spark up her arm. They both recoiled as if stung.
"Forgive me," he murmured.
"Nothing to forgive." The words slipped from her lips, the same phrase she had used in the stable. She caught the flicker of recognition in his eyes before he masked it.
The first course arrived—a soup of asparagus and cream—and Alice focused on her bowl, relieved to have something to occupy her hands.
Around them, conversation ebbed and flowed, guests exchanging notes on the afternoon's activities, the morning's correspondence, and the evening's entertainment to come.
She chimed in when necessary, her observations sharp enough to amuse but dulled of their usual bite.
Samuel was beside her with every breath.
The subtle lift of his shoulder as he raised his spoon, the way his fingers curled around the stem of his wine glass with practiced ease, the warmth radiating from him despite his cool demeanor.
The memory of their time in the stable flickered.
She could nearly feel his hand against her face, his breath mingling with hers, the heartbeat before the door had crashed open and changed everything.
"The soup," Samuel said, breaking into her thoughts, "is excellent."
"Is it?" Alice glanced down at her bowl, which she had been stirring without actually tasting. "I confess I had not noticed."
"You seem distracted."
"Do I?" She met his gaze for the first time since sitting down and immediately regretted it. His grey eyes held an emotion she could not quite name—concern, perhaps caution. "I am merely contemplating the complexities of asparagus."
"A demanding vegetable."
"You have no idea."
Across the table, the baroness observed them with curiosity, her lorgnette raised as if they were specimens in an exhibit.
Two seats down, the twin sisters whispered behind their fans, eager for potential scandal.
Even Miss Winters, seated near the far end beside the elderly baron, glanced their way, her expression a mix of sympathy and fascination.
Alice felt herself becoming a spectacle, the last thing she desired, something she had spent years learning to control. She straightened her spine and summoned her brightest smile.
"Tell me, Lord Crewe," she said, raising her voice to reach nearby listeners, "have you formed an opinion on the asparagus's philosophical implications? I wonder if it represents the triumph of civilization over nature or merely the hubris of man attempting to impose order on chaos."
The question startled him. She watched his composure falter, a flicker of amusement surfacing in his eyes before he suppressed it.
"I believe," he said carefully, "that asparagus is simply asparagus. Though I admire your determination to find deeper meaning in soup."
"Meaning must be sought everywhere, Lord Crewe. Otherwise, dinner becomes merely the consumption of nutrients, and where is the poetry in that?"
"Where indeed."
At the head of the table, Crispin caught her eye and smiled, a man who had shuffled his cards precisely as intended and was now relishing the outcome. Alice felt a flash of irritation, quickly masked. She would have words with him later about the seating charts and acceptable interference.
For now, she was seated beside Samuel Baldwin, Viscount Crewe, with three more courses to go and an entire evening ahead of them.
His shoulder brushed hers again as he reached for the salt cellar. This time, neither of them apologized.
The fish course arrived with the efficiency of well-trained footmen, and Alice turned her attention to the arrangement of sole and sauce, relief washing over her.
Conversation settled into the familiar rhythms of a country house dinner in the form of weather, horses, the latest London scandal shared with delight.
She found herself melting into the patterns, her wit sharpening as the wine warmed her.
"The gardens here are quite remarkable," she said to Samuel, gesturing with her fork. "I understand the late Earl designed the hedge maze himself. Apparently, he believed that confusion builds character."
"A philosophy that explains much about his grandson," Samuel replied, glancing toward Crispin with dry humor.
Alice felt her lips curve into a genuine smile. "You wound our host."
"I merely observe. Observation is not the same as injury."
"A distinction that lawyers appreciate."
The exchange felt almost natural; the careful fencing of their early acquaintance softened by everything that had passed between them. Alice allowed herself to hope that the rest of the evening might go smoothly, that they might navigate this forced proximity with grace.
Then she heard the whispers.
They came from her left, two seats down, where a pair of matrons had been talking quietly throughout the meal.
Alice had paid them little attention; they were the type who appeared at every house party, comfortable in their judgments, secure in their positions, dispensing opinions casually.
Their voices had been a background murmur, no more significant than the clink of silver against porcelain.
Until she heard her name.
"Lady Alice, of course," one said, her tone dripping with false sympathy. "Such a pity about her prospects. Five Seasons and still unmarried."
"One does wonder," her companion replied, "whether she is simply too particular or whether the gentlemen have noticed what we have all noticed."
"Which is?"
The pause that followed drew attention. Alice felt her spine stiffen, her fingers tightening around the stem of her wine glass. She should not listen—she knew better—but the words came anyway. But the words came anyway, slicing through the dinner chatter.
"Lady Alice is quite a lost cause, I'm afraid."
The words struck Alice beneath her ribs, echoing against older wounds, the accumulated cruelty of five Seasons spent being measured and found wanting by women who had never risked anything themselves.
She set down her glass, afraid her hand might tremble.
Her smile remained fixed and brittle, a mask she had learned to wear so thoroughly that it had become impossible to remove.
But something had shifted in her expression; some light had dimmed, and she knew anyone watching closely would see the change.
"The sole is rather overcooked," she said to no one in particular, her voice bright and empty. "I had expected better from the Oakford kitchens."
Around her, conversation flowed, steady as a stream.
The matrons had shifted to dissecting a new target's failures; there was always another woman to critique, an endless supply of those who had not married well enough or quickly enough.
Alice prodded at her fish, her thoughts drifting to her mother, who had conformed to society's demands only to vanish into a life that never suited her.
A lost cause. A battle already surrendered.
Beside her, Samuel had gone rigid.
She felt his attention shift, following her gaze toward the whispering matrons. His jaw tightened, a subtle clenching that hinted at anger carefully contained. When she glanced at his face, she found him watching her, an expression that made her chest ache.
He saw. He understood. This man, once her adversary, had learned to read her well enough to glimpse the hurt beneath her fixed smile.
"Lady Alice," he said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual formality. "The fish is perfectly adequate. I suspect the problem lies elsewhere."