"Then your expectations are too low."
She made a sound—neither a laugh nor a sob, but something between the two—that struck him with devastating accuracy. "And you are too much, Lord Crewe. Too rigid, too righteous, too certain of your own moral superiority to see that your rescue was not kindness but condescension."
He reached for her.
The decision was no decisionat all; it was the absence of one, the collapse of every careful wall he had constructed. His hand found the back of her neck, fingers sliding into her hair, pulling her toward him with a desperation that should have horrified him but did not.
Their lips met.
The world narrowed to that point of contact. Her mouth, the small sound that escaped her lips, the way her body tensed with shock before softening. She tasted of champagne and something sweeter, reminiscent of summer and every wild impulse he had spent his life suppressing. His other hand found her waist, drawing her closer as he kissed her, hoping to communicate everything he had failed to express in words.
Alice froze for a moment, long enough for terror to spike through his chest, for the reality of what he had done to sink in. Then her hands came up, gripping the lapels of his coat with a fierceness that sent sensation through him, and she kissed him back.
Her response was not gentle. It was hungry and desperate, a counterargument without words, challenging everything he had assumed about her, about himself, and about the categories in which he had arranged his understanding of the world. She rose onto her toes, pressing closer, and Samuel feltsomething shift in his chest, a wall crumble that could never be rebuilt.
The distant sounds of the house party—laughter, music, the murmur of guests—faded to insignificance. The roses surrounded them, petals heavy with dew, fragrance thick in the air. Moonlight fell across them both; Samuel could not determine if it was a blessing or an accusation. He was aware of nothing except the woman in his arms, the taste of her, the sounds she made against his mouth, the way her fingers tightened in his lapels as if she feared he might disappear.
Time suspended itself. The moment stretched and contracted in ways that had nothing to do with clocks or calendars, and Samuel Baldwin, Viscount Crewe, who had spent his adult life constructing systems and schedules, felt lost.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathing heavily.
Samuel stepped back first. The separation startling, as if something vital had been connected and was now severed, leaving raw edges that stung. He watched Alice's face in the moonlight, trying to read her expression and understand what had just transpired.
Her lips were swollen, and her hair had come partially undone, dark strands curling against herflushed cheeks. Her sharp blue eyes, which had challenged him from their first meeting, were wide and unreadable, revealing nothing of the woman behind them.
"Forgive me," he said, his voice rough and scraped raw by emotions he could not control. "That was... inexcusable."
The word felt inadequate. Everything felt inadequate. Every phrase his mind supplied, every attempt at explanation or apology. He had kissed her, Lady Alice Pickford, in a garden while the rest of the house party entertained themselves nearby, without permission, warning, or any of the careful negotiations that should precede such intimacies. He had behaved exactly as he had always feared he might. Recklessly, impulsively, driven by feeling rather than reason.
He had become the very thing he had spent his life guarding against.
Alice said nothing. Her fingers brushed her lips, a gesture so small and fleeting that he might have imagined it. Her expression remained unreadable, offering neither condemnation nor absolution, neither encouragement nor rejection. She simply looked at him for a long moment while the roses dripped their dew and the moon observed them both with indifference.
Then she turned and walked away.
Her footsteps crunched against the gravel path, steady and unhurried, carrying her toward the lights of the house without a backward glance. Samuel watched her go, the pale gleam of her gown disappearing into shadow until the darkness swallowed her as completely as if she had never been there at all.
He stood alone among the roses.
The taste of her lingered on his lips. The scent of her perfume clung to his coat. His hands, which had held her moments ago, hung empty at his sides, trembling with the aftermath of something he did not yet have words for.
He had kissed her. And she had kissed him back.
And then she had walked away without a word, leaving him to stand in the garden with nothing but questions and the echo of her silence.
Samuel remained there for a long time, watching the house, the windows where shadows moved against candlelight, wondering which of those shadows was hers. The roses released their fragrance around him; he could not determine if it was a reproach or a promise. His carefully constructed world had cracked open, and through the fissure, something new and terrifying began to emerge.
Tomorrow would bring consequences.Tomorrow would bring conversations and complications, the endless navigation of what this meant for both of them. Tomorrow, propriety would reassert its claims, and they would have to decide what to do with the wreckage of their defenses.
But tonight, the taste of Alice lingered on his lips, and Samuel felt no regret.
CHAPTER 11
Samuel's hands gripped the windowsill, knuckles white against the grey morning light. Rain streaked the library's tall windows, droplets racing each other toward the sill. Beyond the glass, the gardens of Oakford Hall lay sodden and still, roses beaten down by the weather, paths turned to mud that would ruin any shoe foolish enough to venture out.
He had not slept.
The admission surfaced in his mind like an accusation, dismissed with the ruthlessness he applied to all inconvenient truths. Sleep was a function of the body, manageable through discipline. What he had experienced last night, the hours spent staring at his chamber ceiling, replaying every moment, every touch, every lapse in judgment, had been an anomaly,a temporary disturbance in the carefully maintained machinery of his life.
