Chapter 11 #2
Laughter erupted. The pink-muslin sisters exchanged glances, suggesting they found her either unconventional or peculiar; Alice could not determine which and did not care. She had been performing this role for five years; she could continue for five more if necessary.
"Speaking of surprises," the younger muslin sister ventured, "Viscount Crewe's defense of you at dinner last night was quite the spectacle. I don't believe anyone expected him to speak so forcefully."
Alice's fingers tightened around her fan.
The movement was involuntary, brief enough that she might have hidden it if she had been prepared. But she had not been prepared. Had not expected anyone to mention him so directly. Had not anticipated how his name would land in her chest like a stone.
"Lord Crewe," she said, her voice steady, "takes himself remarkably seriously. I suspect he viewed those women's comments as an assault on courtesy rather than any real concern for my well-being."
"You think his defense was merely principled?"
"I think," Alice said, snapping her fan shut, "that men who arrange their cravats with such precision rarely act from personal feeling. Viscount Crewe seems the type who would defend a lamppost with equal vigor if he believed it was being unfairly maligned."
The comparison was unkind, and she knew it. She had meant it to be unkind; needed to diminish him somehow, to transform last night's passionate kiss into something manageable, something that did not challenge her assumptions about her own heart.
He had called her a flame. He had said he could not bear to see her light diminished. He had kissed her with a desperation that stripped away every layer of his careful control, and then he had apologized as if the kiss were a crime rather than—
Rather than what?
Alice did not know. That was the problem. She had walked away without speaking because she had no words for what had happened, no framework for understanding a man who defended her publicly, kissed her privately, and looked at her as if she were something precious rather than something problematic.
"I believe I shall investigate those eggs after all," she announced, rising from her seat with a rustle of blue silk. "The conversation has given me quite an appetite."
She glided toward the refreshment table, grateful for the escape, her gaze sweeping the room once more with an automaticity she could not quite control.
Still no Samuel.
And Alice, who had never waited for any man, found herself waiting nonetheless.
Lieutenant Harrington stood near the tall windows, where the grey light flattered him.
If she was going to distract herself, she might as well choose an attractive stage.
He towered like many military men. Years of standing at attention had shaped him, with dark hair that curled slightly at his temples and eyes the color of good brandy.
His uniform fit well, his smile came easily, and his gaze followed her approach, warm like the sun breaking through clouds.
"Lieutenant." Alice positioned herself beside him with the precision of a chess piece advancing across the board. "I understand you arrived only yesterday. How fortunate that the weather has given us an excuse to remain indoors and become acquainted."
"Fortune indeed, Lady Alice." His bow was perfect, a gesture so practiced it flowed naturally. "Though I confess I had hoped to demonstrate my horsemanship. Now I must rely on conversation alone to make an impression."
"Conversation can be its own form of horsemanship." She tilted her head, the light catching the sapphire drops at her ears. "A skilled practitioner knows when to gallop and when to proceed at a more measured pace."
His eyebrows rose with delight. "And which pace do you prefer, my lady?"
"That depends entirely on the terrain." She smiled, a smile perfected over five seasons, warm enough to encourage, mysterious enough to intrigue. "Tell me about the Peninsula. I am told the cavalry charges are quite spectacular."
He required little encouragement. Lieutenant Harrington launched into an animated account of his regiment's recent engagements, his hands gesturing with enthusiasm, his voice carrying the cadence of a man accustomed to commanding attention.
Alice listened, her responses perfectly timed—a laugh here, a widening of the eyes there, a touch to his arm when he described a particularly harrowing moment.
The touch lingered longer than necessary. She felt him register the contact and sensed his posture shift toward her, drawn in by her interest.
"You must think us terribly provincial," she said, her voice pitched just loud enough for nearby listeners. "Here we sit discussing landscape paintings while you have witnessed actual battles."
"Provincial?" He caught her hand, ostensibly to examine the ring on her finger—a modest sapphire surrounded by small diamonds that had belonged to her grandmother. "I think nothing of the sort. I believe this house party contains treasures far more valuable than any military victory."
It was the compliment she had been angling for, flattering and sincere, from a man who had yet to learn that flattery could be a double-edged sword. Alice let her fingers rest in his palm a moment longer than propriety permitted.
"You have a poet's tongue, Lieutenant."
"Only when inspired by worthy subjects." His thumb brushed across her knuckles, and Alice noted the gesture with the detachment of an actress evaluating her co-star's technique. Adequate, she decided. Enthusiastic but uncomplicated.
Nothing like the precision of another man's touch in a moonlit garden.
She pushed the thought aside.
"Tell me more about the horses," she said, withdrawing her hand with a coy smile that suggested reluctance rather than relief. "I confess I am passionate about riding. There is something liberating about speed, don't you find? The sensation of moving faster than prudence would recommend?"
Lieutenant Harrington leaned closer. "I find that many activities benefit from exceeding prudent recommendations."
"How delightfully scandalous of you." Alice laughed, the sound bright and musical, designed to carry across the room. "I begin to think you may be the most interesting man at this party."
"You're the most refreshing woman I've met this Season," he replied, admiration clear on his face. "I cannot recall the last time I spoke with someone so unconstrained by convention."
"How fortunate that we have nearly two weeks to explore that refreshment."
The words flowed easily, each syllable deliberate. Alice watched the lieutenant's expression shift from delight to hope, saw him lean closer, and noticed his hand move toward hers as if proximity were a destination he was determined to reach.
She should have felt something. That thought arose, unwelcome and inconvenient.
Here was an attractive man, an officer of good family and better prospects, making his interest in her clear.
He was precisely the distraction she had set out to create, evidence that she was not pining for anyone, proof that her options remained open, and ammunition against the whispers that followed her.
Yet.
Her smile remained bright but brittle. Her laughter punctuated his comments with timed appreciation. Her gestures grew more animated, her responses flirtatious, her attention intensely focused on the man before her.
But there was something hollow at the center of it all, a void where genuine feeling should have been, an emptiness that no amount of clever repartee could fill. She was playing Alice Pickford, the vivacious lady who attracted admirers, and the performance was flawless.
It was also, she suspected, entirely transparent to anyone who knew how to see.
Lieutenant Harrington did not know how to look.
He saw only what she showed him, the sparkling eyes, the inviting smile, the woman who leaned toward him as if he were the most fascinating person in existence.
He responded exactly as she intended, growing bolder with each exchange, his confidence swelling.
Across the room, the door opened.
Alice did not glance away. Her gaze was locked on the lieutenant, determination etched into her features as if nothing else in the room merited her attention.
Yet she felt it, an undeniable awareness of who had just entered.
She laughed again, a bright, hollow sound, as if joy were an endless resource at her disposal.
Samuel entered the drawing room expecting ease, having steeled himself for the closeness of Lady Alice.
He rehearsed his composure a warrior preparing for battle, but as he crossed the threshold, he discovered that no amount of preparation could shield him from the sight of her laughing beside another man.
Not beside, exactly. That felt too simple for what was unfolding.
She stood by the windows, her deep blue gown catching the grey light and transforming it into something radiant, her head tilted just so, showcasing her throat.
Lieutenant Harrington leaned toward her, while her hand rested on his arm.
Samuel halted.
The stillness lasted only a heartbeat, brief enough that most wouldn’t notice, fleeting enough that he could later insist it had not occurred. Yet in that moment, something cold and sharp pierced beneath his ribs, shattering the resolution he had so painstakingly built.
His face remained a mask of impassivity.
Years of practice had honed this skill, standing before mirrors until his features revealed nothing, using it as armor against a world eager to exploit any hint of vulnerability.
Yet his body betrayed him; his shoulders tensed, his breath quickened, and his left hand curled into a fist before he could rein it in.
Her laughter rang out again, bright and clear, slicing through the room. He recalled how that same sound had drifted from her lips in the moonlit garden, transforming into something small and fragile just before he had kissed her.