She began walking, drawing Miss Winters along with her, not looking back at the two fashionable ladies whose faces had gone rigid with thwarted malice.
“I…I would be honored," Miss Winters managed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Lady Alice, I don’t… you needn't?—"
"Needn't what? Enjoy intelligent company?" Alice patted her arm. "My dear, I have spent the better part of three days surrounded by people who think literature means the scandal sheets and education means knowing which fork to use for fish. You are a welcome change."
They reached a stone bench near the lily pond, and Alice guided her companion to sit. The young woman's hands trembled around her book. A botanical text, its spine creased from use. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Alice settled beside her and produced a handkerchief from her sleeve. It was fine linen embroideredwith violets, exactly what one needed for such emergencies.
"Here," she said, her voice gentler now. "Take a moment. Those two peaked at their first Season and have been declining ever since. Their opinions are worth precisely what they paid for them. Nothing.”
Miss Winters accepted the handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes. "You are very kind, Lady Alice. I am not accustomed to…well, I don't usually?—"
"Find yourself ambushed by overdressed vultures?" Alice leaned back against the bench, letting the morning sun warm her face. "It happens to the best of us. The trick is learning to fight back."
"I am…afraid I do not know how." The admission was small, broken.
"You will." Alice looked at her properly then, at the intelligence in those watery brown eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw despite the trembling lip. "What are you reading?"
Miss Winters glanced down at her book as if she had forgotten she was holding it. "Linnaeus," she said. "His taxonomy of British wildflowers. It's dry, but the illustrations are beautiful."
"Linnaeus." Alice smiled, and there was nothing sharp in it now. "Tell me about the roses. I want to know their proper names, the Latin ones. It will drive my mother mad when I use them at dinner."
The young woman blinked, then slowly smiled back.
They sat together in the morning garden while Miss Winters explained the classification ofRosa centifoliaandRosa gallica, her voice growing steadier with each Latin syllable. The thrush continued its song. The dew slowly dried from the grass. And Alice listened, all the while feeling something uncoil in her chest that she had not known was so tight.
When Miss Winters finally rose to leave, there was color in her cheeks, and her shoulders had straightened.
"Thank you, Lady Alice. I shall not forget this kindness."
"It was not kindness," Alice said, rising with her. "It was the pleasure of good company. Do come find me if you wish to discussDigitalis purpurea. I have a fascination with poisonous plants."
The young woman laughed, surprised and bright, then departed with something that almost looked like confidence.
Alice remained by the lily pond, watching her go.
Samuel had not intended to eavesdrop.
He had come to the gardens forthe same reason he visited gardens at any house party—to escape. The morning room had been filled with chatter about the previous evening's events, voices overlapping in a constant stream of opinions on the weather, the wine, and the surprising revelation that Mr. Davenant had once owned a parrot. Samuel had lasted precisely fifteen minutes before his temples began to throb, prompting him to slip out the terrace doors.
The boxwood hedge offered cover while he walked the perimeter path, his boots crunching softly on the gravel. He had been contemplating the roses, their arrangement pleasing him, the careful symmetry of the beds, the evidence of a gardener who valued structure, when the voices reached him.
Cruel laughter pierced the air, followed by words that sliced through the silence.
He edged closer, positioning himself behind the clipped hedge, his eyes fixed on the scene before him. Two young women stood with haughty postures, their elegant gowns signaling wealth, while their expressions revealed a hollow cruelty born of boredom. Before them, a slight figure in serviceable brown clutched a book like a shield, her shoulders hunched against their onslaught.
His jaw tightened. He had witnessed this scene countless times. The leading actresses changed, butthe script remained the same. Disgust washed over him, followed by the familiar calculation that intervening would spark a scene, draw unwanted attention, and demand an explanation.
Then Lady Alice swept through the archway, and his calculations shattered.
He watched her approach, each step deliberate and unhurried, as if the world had molded itself to her presence. Her spine straightened, chin lifted, and something in her posture shifted from casual to predatory, causing his breath to catch.
She ismagnificent.
The realization jolted him. Over the past two days, he had cataloged Lady Alice with precision. Her bright smile that served as armor, her sharp wit wielded like a dueling blade, the relentless pursuit of pleasure that animated her every gesture. She was a woman who thrived on the surface, sparkling but insubstantial, like champagne. Delightful in moderation, a headache if taken in excess.
Yet the woman before him defied that assessment.
