She was peeling off her riding gloves when Samuel emerged from the neighboring stall, arms full of wet wool and ruined linen that he carried toward a row of iron hooks near the stable entrance. Alice watched him arrange the sodden garments with the same precision he applied to everything. Coat hung just so, waistcoat smoothed before being draped, cravat wound carefully despite its bedraggled state. Even drenched and disheveled, he maintained his principles.
"You realize," she said, tugging at her secondglove where it had stuck to her cold-numbed fingers, "those won't dry for hours. Possibly days. The wool will smell of horse and disappointment."
"The wool already smells of horse and disappointment." He turned to face her, and she was surprised to see genuine humor in his expression—not the reluctant smile she had learned to recognize, but something fuller, less guarded. "I have resigned myself to the loss. My valet will weep, but sacrifices must be made."
Alice finally freed her hand from the glove and flexed her fingers, watching the blood return to them in painful pricks. Her bare skin felt vulnerable in the dim light, stripped of its usual protection. She set the gloves aside and reached for a brush hanging on the stall partition.
At that moment, Samuel reached for the same brush.
Their fingers collided, his still gloved, hers bare, and the contact sent a spark through Alice's chest, a jolt that had nothing to do with the storm outside. She felt the warmth of his hand through the leather, the slight pressure of his knuckles against her fingertips. Neither of them moved.
"Forgive me," he said, but his voice had gone rough, and he did not immediately withdraw.
"Nothing to forgive." Alice kept her tone light. "Though I believe the brush was hanging on my side of the partition."
"A compelling argument." His hand finally retreated, leaving hers suddenly cold despite the stable's warmth. "By all means."
She took the brush and returned to her mare, her movements feeling overly deliberate, too aware of his attention. The rain continued its percussion on the roof above them, a rhythm that matched her pulse—steady, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Behind her, Samuel found another brush and began working on his own mount. The sounds of their labor filled the space between them. The rasp of bristles against horsehair, the soft snorts of contented animals, and the occasional drip of water from their clothing onto the straw-covered floor. Alice grew keenly aware of his proximity, the way the wooden partition creaked when he shifted his weight, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
"You know," she said, breaking the heavy silence, "I have never seen your hair anything less than perfectly arranged. I believe I should commemorate this occasion. Perhaps a small ceremony."
"I shudder to imagine what that ceremony might entail."
"Nothing elaborate. A brief speech, perhaps a plaque. 'Here stands the spot where ViscountCrewe's standards finally surrendered to circumstance.'"
She heard him exhale—something not quite a laugh, but near enough. When she glanced over the partition, she found him watching her with an expression she could not quite categorize. His hair remained plastered to his forehead in dark waves, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, escaping the worst of the soaking. Without coat and waistcoat, without cravat and careful grooming, he looked almost ordinary.
No, not ordinary. Human.
"Your own standards seem remarkably intact," he observed, "considering you look as though you've been swimming in the lake fully clothed."
Alice pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. "Lord Crewe. Was that humor? Actual humor? I may need smelling salts."
"I am occasionally capable of levity." He stepped out of his stall and moved toward hers, ostensibly to return the brush to its hook, but coming close enough that she could see the water droplets still caught in his eyelashes. "You provide an unusual number of opportunities to practice."
"How fortunate for you. Consider it a service."
They stood facing each other in the narrow space between stalls, closer than propriety permitted,closer than either had intended. Alice felt her shoulder brush against his arm as she turned to hang her own brush, and the contact, slight, accidental, sent heat flooding through her despite her wet clothing. His breath stirred the damp hair at her temple.
The lantern flame flickered, casting light across his features and throwing shadows that softened the severity she had come to associate with him. In this light, he looked younger, less certain, more like the man who had spoken of roses and grief in the midnight library than the viscount who delivered pronouncements about propriety and purpose.
"You're shivering," he said, his voice dropping to something almost tender.
"It's rather cold when one is soaked through." Alice wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly aware of how thoroughly the rain had soaked her clothing. "A shocking development, I know. Who could have predicted such a consequence?"
"Your recklessness continues to astound me."
"As does your capacity for understatement."
He smiled, actually smiled, transforming his face in a way that made her breath catch. She had not known he was capable of such a warm smile that reached his gray eyes. Her own lips curved inresponse, helpless against the pull of his unexpected openness.
"There," she said softly. "That was worth drowning for."
"What was?"
"That smile." She tilted her head, studying him in the lantern's glow. "I had begun to think your face was incapable of producing one."
