"How fortunate for your ledgers."
They reached a fork in the path. One branch curved back toward the house, its white walls visible through a gap in the trees. The other led deeper into the gardens, toward a rose arbor draped in crimson blooms.
He hesitated.
Sense pointed him toward the house where one could find structure in other guests and the comfortable mediocrity of obligation. He could bow, make his excuses, retreat to the morning room and its safe predictability.
Instead, he turned toward the rose arbor.
Lady Alice made no comment, but he saw the flicker of surprise cross her features.She fell into step beside him as they moved along the longer path, her skirts brushing against the low boxwood borders.
"The arbor is quite spectacular this time of year," she said casually. "Lady Oakford takes pride in it."
"As she should." He paused beside a bush with blooms of such a deep red that they appeared almost black. "My mother was fond of roses. She kept a garden at our country house, smaller than this, but she tended it herself."
The words slipped out, a piece of himself offered without calculation. He felt exposed in a way that should have been uncomfortable but somehow wasn’t.
Lady Alice looked at him, her expression unreadable. "Was?"
"She died when I was fourteen."
“I am sorry."
Her words were simple, stripped of embellishment. He appreciated their economy and the absence of meaningless platitudes. She did not ask questions or press for details. She merely walked beside him as if grief were something to accompany rather than resolve.
"It was a long time ago," he said.
"Time makes loss bearable," she replied. "It does not make it less."
They walked through the rose arbor, its crimson blooms forming a tunnel of color that smelled sweet and sun-warmed. He found himself breathing more deeply, his shoulders relaxing into a semblance of ease. The rigid control he maintained out of habit felt less urgent here.
When they emerged on the other side, the terrace steps led up to the house, where the morning room's windows reflected the activity inside. Guests moved behind the glass, engaged in conversation.
They stopped at the foot of the steps.
He turned to face her. The morning light illuminated her features, highlighting the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the slight flush on her cheeks, and the loose curl at her temple that the breeze had tousled.
She was beautiful. He had recognized this from their first encounter, noting it as a fact. But beauty had not seemed dangerous then. It had been merely aesthetic, irrelevant to his assessment of her character.
Now it felt different.
He bowed, a formal gesture, precise and practiced. When he straightened, his eyes met hers, and whatever she saw there made her breath catch slightly.
"Thank you for the walk, Lady Alice."
"Thank you for the company, Lord Crewe." She smiled, but it was not her usual bright smile. It was softer. "I confess I did not expect to enjoy it."
"Nor did I."
They stood for a moment longer, the terrace steps between them and whatever awaited inside. He inclined his head and began to climb, feeling her gaze on his back like warmth from a fire.
He did not look back. He was not sure he could look away again if he did.
CHAPTER 6
The south lawn of Oakford Hall buzzed with anticipation. Chairs were arranged in semicircles, servants glided by with trays of lemonade, and at the center, Crispin stood beside a small table, a silver bowl glinting in the afternoon sun. Alice took a glass from a passing footman and settled near the ornamental hedge, watching the gathering unfold from a careful remove.
The morning's encounter in the garden would not quit her mind, leaving her unsettled in ways she wasn’t ready to confront. She had retreated to her room for lunch, citing a headache, and since then, she had struggled to reclaim her usual calm. The effort had yielded only modest success.
