Something warm and dangerous stirred in her chest.
"And of course the horses are everything," the lieutenant was saying. "Without a good mount, even the finest saber means nothing."
"How fortunate that you are an excellent judge of horseflesh," Alice said kindly, even as her attention remained divided.
When she finally excused herself, citing the treasure hunt and promising to continue their conversation at dinner, the lieutenant called after her about the waltz. She laughed in response and turned back toward the lily pond.
Crewe was waiting. His expression had turned cooler, the warmth of their earlier exchange replaced by distance.
"If you have finished your social obligations," he said, "we have a challenge to complete."
Alice’s smile faltered, caught off guard by the edge in his voice. Something had changed in the minutes she was gone, and that something stood before her with flinty eyes and a jaw tight enough to crack walnuts.
"Why, Lord Crewe." She recovered quickly, tilting her chin in challenge. "One might almost think you cared."
The words landed between them like a stone instill water. She watched the ripples move across his features—surprise, followed by something darker, and then the careful blankness that served as his armor.
"I care about winning," he said flatly. "Nothing more."
"Of course." Alice took the riddle from his hands, her fingers brushing against his lightly. "Shall we? The Grecian urns await, and I would hate to keep them waiting."
She walked toward the terrace without waiting for his response, and his gaze followed, heavy and complex, carrying the weight of unspoken words. The lieutenant's attention had been pleasant and easily managed. Crewe's was not.
It was, she realized, precisely what she had wanted.
The thought was inconvenient. She filed it away for later and focused on the terrace ahead, where ornamental urns stood on marble columns, one of them surely holding their final prize.
The game was almost over. But something else, she suspected, had only just begun.
The terrace stretched before them, lined with marble columns crowned with urns in various classical designs. Some were modest, knee-height and easily searched, while others reached heights thatsuggested their designers had prioritized aesthetics over practicality. Alice scanned them, aware of the stakes and the man walking beside her in tense silence.
"Grecian forms," she murmured. "Highest reaches."
Her gaze landed on a column at the far end, taller than the others, its urn adorned with carved acanthus leaves that caught the afternoon light. The vessel was positioned at just the right height to be visible from the garden below but nearly impossible to reach from the terrace.
"That one." She pointed, already moving. "It has to be."
Crewe followed, his stride matching hers. The tension between them had not dissipated. Instead, it had solidified into a palpable presence that accompanied them.
They reached the column and stood looking up at the urn, some seven feet above them. The marble was smooth, offering no handholds. The column's base was too narrow to climb. The brass glint Alice spotted at the urn's lip confirmed her suspicion. The final token waited just beyond reach.
"Impractical design," Crewe observed, his tone neutral.
"Deliberate challenge." Alice circled the column,searching for alternatives. "Clara wanted this one to require cooperation."
"Then we must cooperate."
She looked at him, surprised by his directness. His expression remained closed, but something in his posture had shifted, the rigid reluctance softening into acceptance.
"How do you propose we manage it?" she asked.
In response, Crewe stepped forward, cupping his hands together, palms up, fingers interlaced. The gesture was practical. A boost for riders mounting horses, or children reaching for high shelves. But the look in his eyes was different.
"My hands are steady," he said quietly. "You have shown that heights hold no fear for you."
Alice felt her heart quicken as a rush of memories flooded her mind. The stone bench, the tree hollow, his reluctant admiration pressing against her ribs.
She gathered her skirts in one hand, aware of the impropriety yet equally conscious of the token waiting above them. "Very well."
