Clara, radiant at the foot of the table, lifted a glass to welcome her guests. Crispin, at the head,added a promise of “music that will not demand heroism.” Laughter skated the silver. The soup arrived like clockwork.
“Country drives and archery,” Mr. Davenant observed. “Lord Oakford is determined to have us all healthy.”
“An alarming trend,” Alice murmured. “I had meant to be languid.”
Across Mr. Davenant’s shoulder, Crewe’s profile stayed composed. He did not look at her. The slight pricked her pride more than she expected, sparking a childish urge to win his notice. His stillness seemed too exact, as if he held himself in check. Did he mean to ignore her? Or was that, in its way, its own kind of notice? She resolved to be entertained without him as she took a deliberate sip of her wine.
To her right, conversation turned to hunting. A gentleman extolled the virtues of rising at an hour that sounded punitive to Alice’s ears.
“I prefer pursuits that reward curiosity rather than endurance,” she said lightly. “Libraries. Gardens. People.”
“People seldom reward curiosity,” someone remarked.
“They do,” Alice said, “if one asks better questions.” She savored the stir her answer provoked. Torisk standing apart was a gamble, but it thrilled her nonetheless.
Over Mr. Davenant’s recollection of a bishop and a terrier, Alice caught the slightest shift in Crewe, his attention sharpening. Lady Alice’s voice carried. Not loudly, but clearly, the way a single note lifts above the rest. Earlier that day, he’d told her, Purpose. Not bravery, nor foolishness. Curiosity had its own discipline. Still, his hand tightened on the stem of his glass, just enough for her to notice.
“Your view on questions, my lady?” Mr. Davenant prompted.
“They ought to be honest,” she said, offering a wicked smile. “And inconvenient.”
A few gentlemen laughed. One matron pursed her lips as if confronted with a lemon.
The fish course followed, delicate and perfectly sauced. Clara, reading the air with her usual mastery, steered talk toward poetry.
“Mr. Wordsworth,” declared a gentleman, “is all very well for lakes and clouds, but I prefer sense to sentiment.”
“Perhaps he would say your sense lacks sentiment,” Alice returned, quick as a flick of a fan. “A pity to miss half the world for love of the other.”
A ripple of amusement went through the room. Crewe’s glass paused, then continued to thetablecloth. She wondered at that hesitation. Had she touched a nerve, or did he simply dislike revealing himself in company?
“And you, Lord Crewe?” Clara asked. “Do you vote for sense or sentiment?”
“Neither,” he said, and conversation thinned to a hush. “I vote for order. It makes room for both.”
Alice met his gaze. “Order seems so proud of itself.”
“Pride is an untidy word,” he replied. “I prefer necessity.”
“Necessity is the refuge of dull men,” she said with a slight tilt to her chin.
“Then allow me to be dull,” he said, pleasant. “It keeps the world from tipping.”
Clara laughed lightly, easing the edge, and turned the talk to Oakford’s pear that refused instruction. Alice let herself breathe. She had not meant to spar, she had only meant to dance. Beneath her satisfaction came a flicker of doubt. Had she pressed too far? She caught what might have been the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth, quickly suppressed. Was that irritation, or amusement?
When the roast arrived, the volume rose with the wine. Alice slipped between topics with her usual agility. Amused by a tale of an eloping groom. Moved,unexpectedly, by a widow’s reminiscence. She did not perform delight. She selected it. And when his eyes strayed back to her, she caught the faintest pause, as if he had nearly smiled and thought better of it.
At the far end, a whisper tried to pass as silence. “Too much,” said Lady Harrowby, famed for policing every laugh that rose above a whisper. “Always too much.”
Lord Crewe set down his knife and fork with care, as though weighing his words. “Lady Alice’s conversation,” he said, “is precisely measured. It keeps the rest of us from dozing.”
A chuckle ran around the table. The matron colored. Lady Alice did not look at him, but she felt the acknowledgement as distinctly as warmth from a fire.
It was nothing, a mild remark, but it landed with a weight that startled her. She had not asked for a champion. She had never wanted one. Yet the courtesy steadied something she had not admitted was unsteady. Gratitude warred with irritation at needing defense at all, leaving her oddly exposed.
When the sweets had made their procession and the gentlemen had done pretending they did not prefer them, Clara rose with a smile and the universal rustle followed. The drawing room doorsopened to a tasteful invasion of chairs, footstools, and a pianoforte glimmering with expectation.
Crispin arranged the flow with a conjuror’s ease. “Something simple,” he announced. “No heroics. We have a harp for those inclined, and if anyone threatens an aria, I shall feign a fainting fit.”
