CHAPTER 1
Mist lifted from the lawns as Lady Alice Pickford stepped down from her carriage and gazed at Oakford Hall’s pale stone, the sweep of its steps, and glittering windows. The scent of damp earth mingled with leather, horse sweat, and lavender. Alice adjusted her bonnet, lifted her chin, and resolved to cut a figure. 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 small porcelain posy-holder filled with fresh violets. Clara’s touch, of course. Alice tucked the blooms into her reticule and crossed thethreshold to the chatter and light of the great hall. Wax-polished floors reflected the 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 nonchalance that might have looked indolent on another man. On him it was calculation wrapped in charm. “Our house rules are strict,” he said gravely. “By order of Oakford Hall. Only minor mischief before luncheon. 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. The heady mix of plotting and opportunity that makes people rash. Boredom was her sworn enemy, so before thefortnight ended, she would find something to surprise 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.” Alice smirked.
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, measured the bustle. 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 sparked like a match struck in the dark.
Alice lifted her smile a notch. Bright, careless, a touch wicked. Her pulse quickened, aflicker of thrill she refused to admit. His expression did not alter, yet she had the distinct impression something behind it catalogued her. Dangerous. 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. Program forThursday 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 shuffled 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 wine—sharp and bright, with a sting one pretended not to like.
“Lady Alice,” a pleasant baritone came from behind.
