"They started the final night. Something was seen, a kiss, perhaps more. The details varied depending on who was telling the tale, growing more salacious with each repetition." His jaw tightened. "By the time the carriages left, Charlotte's reputation was in tatters. And the gentleman who had pursued her declared himself shocked. Shocked that she had thrown herself at him so brazenly. He emerged unscathed, of course. They always do."
Anger flared—familiar—not at Crewe, but at the system that destroyed women for the same behaviors it celebrated in men. She thought of her mother, trapped in a different cage but trapped nonetheless, her spirit worn down by expectations she had never chosen.
"I could have stopped it," Crewe said, his voice heavy with regret. "A word to her brother. A warning to her chaperone. Even a pointed comment to the gentleman might have changed things. But I was too focused on my own pleasure to notice until it was too late."
The clock in the corner began to chime again,three notes falling into the quiet like stones into water. Alice started, startled by how much time had passed. The fire dwindled to embers, the candles flickered in their holders, and beyond the windows, the darkness began to thin toward dawn.
"It grows late," she said, though the words felt inadequate. "Or early, depending on one's perspective."
"Indeed." Crewe rose from his chair with less than his usual rigidity, the movement hinting at the vulnerability their conversation had unearthed. "We should?—"
"Yes." Alice stood as well, her wrapper falling around her. She was suddenly, keenly aware, of the impropriety of their situation, of all the rules they had bent and broken by sitting together in the firelight and speaking truth.
They moved toward the door in a silence that felt different, not charged, not challenging, but weighted with awareness. At the threshold, they both paused, neither willing to be the first to step into the corridor and whatever normalcy awaited beyond.
"Lady Alice…” Crewe said.
"Alice," she corrected again, her voice warm rather than challenging.
"Alice." He said her name carefully. "I find myself uncertain how to conclude this evening."
"Must it be concluded?" She tilted her head, regarding him in the dim light from the library behind them. "Perhaps some conversations simply continue."
He considered this, his grey eyes searching her face. She could not decipher what he discovered there, but something shifted in his expression.
"Perhaps we have both misjudged," Alice said carefully. "Each other, and ourselves."
"Perhaps we have." He inclined his head, and when he straightened, warmth returned to his gaze, tentative yet unmistakably present. "Good night, Alice. Or good morning, as the case may be."
"Good night, Samuel."
The use of his Christian name surprised them both for he had not given her leave to do so. Color rose to Alice’s cheeks, and she was grateful for the darkness. He blinked, his composure flickering before he recovered with a small smile that softened his features.
They parted at the doorway, she toward the east wing, he toward the west. Alice made it ten paces before she turned to look back.
He stood where she had left him, watching her go.
Their eyes met across the corridor, but neither spoke. Then Crewe turned and disappearedinto the darkness, his footsteps fading until the house swallowed all sound.
Alice continued to her chamber, her feet silent on the carpet, her mind crowded with everything they had shared and everything still unspoken. The connection she had felt during the treasure hunt paled in comparison to this, the midnight revelation, the discovery that the man she had dismissed as rigid and disapproving carried wounds as deep as her own.
She reached her door and paused, one hand on the handle.
Somewhere in the house, Samuel was also returning to his room, also processing, also uncertain about what the morning would bring. She imagined him moving through the darkness with that controlled stride, his mind turning over the same questions that churned in hers.
Tomorrow would bring breakfast, company, and the careful restoration of proper distance. Society would reassert its claims, and they would both retreat behind their respective defenses, leaving the fragile connection that had grown between them to wither in the harsh light of propriety.
But tonight they had spoken truth.
Alice entered her chamber and closed the door softly behind her. Through the window, the firstgray light of dawn began to touch the horizon, promising a day she was no longer certain how to face.
She climbed into bed and pulled the covers close, but sleep, when it finally came, was filled with firelight and quiet confessions, and the echo of her name spoken by Samuel.
CHAPTER 8
By midmorning, the house had returned to its usual rhythms. Breakfast served on time, polite conversation in the drawing room, and a careful pretense that nothing unusual ever happened in the small hours. Alice and Samuel maintained that pretense with practiced skill. He was unerringly formal, and she was unerringly bright. Yet every glance felt weighted, every pause too long.
When he suggested a ride, Alice accepted at once. Better open air and movement than another hour trapped beneath chandeliers with her thoughts.
