Within the hour, she found herself alone with Samuel, racing across the countryside. The rest of the group and splintered off, riding toward the village. Alice could not say why she followed Samuel across the meadow, but she had no regrets.
By the time they crested the final hill on their way back to Oakford Hall, the sky had turned a deep grey and the first heavy drops of rain struck Alice’s cheek, warnings she chose to ignore. She glanced at Samuel. She had started thinking of him as Samuel, though she had not yet tested the name again in daylight. She noted how his gaze shifted from the darkening horizon to her face, calculating the distance to shelter and finding it lacking.
“We should hurry,” he said, urgent as ever, spoken like a man who valued punctuality and dry clothing in equal measure.
"How observant." Alice nudged her mare forward, feeling the animal's nervous energy as thunder rolled across the estate. "I thought we might pause for a picnic."
The rain did not wait for his response. It poured down. Not the gentle drizzle of an English spring but a heavy downpour, as if the sky had held back for weeks and chosen this moment to unleash its fury. Within seconds, water soaked through her riding habit, the fine wool absorbing it quickly, her chemise beneath becoming a cold second skin.
They rode hard toward the stables, and despite the circumstances, or perhaps because of them, Alice found herself laughing. There was something freeing about the storm’s intensity, stripping away pretenseand leaving only the essentials—cold rain, the warmth of the horse beneath her, the need for shelter. Beside her, Samuel hunched forward in his saddle, his perfect posture finally yielding to the demands of survival.
The stable loomed ahead, its wooden doors slightly ajar, promising refuge. Alice pulled up near the entrance and slid from her saddle before Samuel could protest or assist.
"The horses need checking," she said, already reaching for her mare's reins. "Jenkins may not have heard us return?—"
"You cannot be serious." Samuel dismounted with more grace than she had managed, his boots splashing into the forming puddle that had once been packed earth. "The grooms will take care of them. You are soaked."
"As are you." She grinned at him through the rain, watching water stream down his face, plastering his dark hair to his forehead, making him look younger and less certain. "And I have never left a horse untended when I could tend to it myself. It builds character.”
"Pneumonia also builds character, I am told. Those who survive it are notably resilient."
But he was already following her toward the stable doors, and a small thrill of triumph wentthrough Alice at his acquiescence. The Samuel of a week ago would have insisted she return to the house, delivering a lecture on propriety and health. This Samuel, the one who had spoken of grief and guilt in the firelight, followed her into the dimness of the stable without further protest.
The warmth hit her first, followed by the scent of hay, horses, and leather, with something earthy and alive beneath it all. Alice blinked water from her lashes as her eyes adjusted to the lantern-lit interior, watching dust motes drift through the golden air as if the storm outside were merely a rumor. Her mare nickered softly, and Alice felt the animal's relief at escaping the downpour.
Behind her, Samuel closed the doors against the rain. The sound dwindled to a steady drumming on the roof, punctuated by the occasional crack of thunder that made the horses stamp and shift in their stalls.
"Well." Alice turned to face him, pushing wet hair from her face with fingers numbed by the cold. "Here we are."
Samuel stood framed by the closed doors, water dripping from him onto the straw-strewn floor. His cravat hung in limp loops around his neck, entirely undone. His impeccably tailored coat clung to his shoulders, revealing their breadth more clearly thanany ballroom had allowed. Dark, wet strands of hair fell across his forehead, giving him an almost rakish appearance.
Laughter bubbled up before she could contain it, genuine laughter, not the bright social variety she used at dinner parties. "Lord Crewe," she gasped between chuckles, "I do believe you are disheveled."
He glanced down at himself, as if noticing his condition for the first time. When he looked up again, something shifted in his expression; the rigid mask of propriety cracked, warmth breaking through.
"I believe," he said slowly, "that 'disheveled' is a generous description. 'Drowned' might be more accurate."
“Drowned implies the end of all function.” Alice led her mare toward an empty stall, her boots squelching with each step. "You are clearly still functioning, albeit at reduced capacity."
"Reduced capacity." He followed, leading his own mount, and she watched him shake his head like a dog emerging from a pond—an undignified gesture that would have horrified the viscount she had met at the start of the Season. "I shall add that to the list of novel experiences this house party has provided."
The rain fell heavily overhead, reminding them of their situation. Alice found a dry cloth near thestall and began rubbing down her mare with brisk efficiency, grateful for something to occupy her hands. The work warmed her, sent blood flowing back to her frozen fingers, and provided an excuse to avoid looking directly at the man who had shifted from adversary to something more complex during their midnight conversation.
She heard Samuel moving behind her—the wet sound of his coat being removed, fabric being wrung out, and the soft murmur he offered to his horse. Ordinary sounds, familiar in their simplicity. The kind of sounds one might hear for years if one expected to hear them.
Lightning split the sky beyond the stable's small windows, and in its brief flash, Alice glimpsed their shadows on the wall, two figures bent to their work, closer than they should be, caught in circumstances neither had chosen but which felt, somehow, inevitable.
"You know," she said, not looking up from her mare's flank, "I thought you would insist on propriety. Demand that I return to the house while the grooms tended to the animals."
"I considered it." His voice came from closer than she expected; he had moved to the neighboring stall, separated from her by only a wooden partition. "Butmy concern for your safety has begun to override my concern for your reputation."
Alice paused in her brushing. The admission hung between them, weighted with meaning neither was ready to examine.
"How alarming for you," she finally said, keeping her voice light. "I imagine your principles are in revolt."
"They are, rather." She heard the hint of a smile in his words. "I shall have to have stern words with them later."
Thunder rumbled overhead, and Alice Pickford smiled at a stable wall, warmed by something unrelated to exertion and everything to do with the man on the other side of the partition who had, against all odds, learned to find amusement.
