His cravat was immaculate, tied by himself that morning after dismissing his valet's assistance with an irritability he had not bothered to explain. The knot sat precisely where it should, neither too high nor too low, the white linen stark against his dark coat. His hair had been arranged with precision, each strand in its place, presenting the appearance of a man in control.
The windowsill creaked beneath his grip.
He had kissed her. The memory struck him again, unwelcome and vivid, making his carefully constructed defenses seem inadequate. He had kissed Lady Alice Pickford in a moonlit garden while guests murmured and laughed mere yards away, had seized her as if he were a character from a novel rather than a peer of the realm who prided himself on restraint.
But it had begun before that. In the stable, during the storm that had trapped them among the horses and hay, he had nearly done the same. Damp strands of her hair had escaped their arrangement, the flush on her cheeks from the cold, the way she had looked at him when their hands collided over that brush as if she could see through the mask he wore to the chaos beneath. He had reached for her face, the silkof her skin beneath his fingertips for one suspended moment before the groom's entrance shattered everything.
He had thought himself safe after that interruption. He walked back to the house in careful silence, convincing himself that the moment was an aberration, a temporary madness born of forced proximity. He rebuilt his walls, brick by careful brick, and congratulated himself on his narrow escape.
And then last night, Samuel's jaw clenched, pressure rising in his temples. He had watched her face across the dinner table, seen something crack behind her eyes when those women whispered their cruelties. He had seen Lady Alice Pickford, the most formidable woman he had ever encountered, flinch almost imperceptibly, and something in him had simply broken.
Perhaps the problem is that too few men are brave enough.
The words echoed in his memory, leaving him torn between the notions of heroism and folly. Perhaps it was both. He had stood up for her, aligning himself with her in front of their peers, inviting speculation that would follow them back to London.
Then he had followed her into the garden,kissing her as if propriety were a concept for those less consumed by desire.
She had tasted of champagne and roses. He recalled it vividly, the warmth of her mouth, the soft sound against his lips, the way her fingers gripped his lapels with an intensity that suggested she was either drawing him closer or preparing to push him away. She had kissed him back, a detail that looped endlessly in his mind. She had kissed him back with a hunger that matched his own, rising onto her toes, pressing closer, responding with a fervor that shattered every assumption he had held about her.
Then she had walked away without a word.
Samuel released the windowsill, flexing his fingers and watching the blood return with detached interest. Behind him, the library loomed in shadows and leather-bound silence, its shelves observing him with the disapproval of accumulated knowledge. He had sought refuge in the familiar, the scent of old paper, the weight of books containing solutions to problems long resolved, the orderly rows symbolizing everything his life was meant to be.
Instead, he stood at the window, watching rain drench the roses, recalling the taste of a woman who had unraveled every careful plan he had ever devised.
Footsteps approached from the door. Samuelstraightened automatically, arranging his features into their customary mask of controlled indifference. A footman appeared at the edge of his vision, bearing a silver tray with refreshments, tea presumably, and whatever small sustenance the household deemed appropriate for guests who had yet to emerge for breakfast.
"My lord," the footman began, "I thought you might?—"
"No." The word sliced through the air sharper than intended, cutting him off. Samuel did not turn from the window. "Leave me."
The footman retreated with the efficiency of a well-trained servant, his footsteps fading into the library's depths. Samuel listened until the door clicked shut, leaving him alone with his thoughts, his carefully maintained appearance, and the memory of Alice's mouth beneath his.
His hand moved to his waistcoat, straightening it. The buttons aligned perfectly, just as they had when he dressed that morning, and would continue to do so with proper attention.
He would maintain his distance. The resolution formed with the determination of a man building defenses against an approaching army. He would treat Lady Alice with the courtesy her station demanded and nothing more. He would speak to heronly when necessary, look at her only when unavoidable, and under no circumstances would he allow himself to be alone with her again.
The rain fell relentlessly, tracing patterns down the glass as Samuel stood at the window, trying to ignore the taste of her lingering on his lips.
Alice entered the drawing room in a gown the color of midnight seas, selected with care, though she would deny it if asked. The fabric caught the light as she moved, transforming her entrance into a theatrical display. She flashed her brightest smile, a weapon against anyone who might notice the shadows beneath her eyes.
Sleep had evaded her, but she would sooner confess to murder than admit it.
"Lady Alice!" One of the pink-muslin sisters, the younger one whose name Alice still could not recall, waved her toward a group of guests near the fireplace. "We were just discussing the new exhibits at the Royal Academy. Do you have an opinion on landscapes?"
"I have opinions on everything," Alice replied, settling into the circle with the practiced grace of a woman who had navigated drawing rooms since theage of seventeen. "It's one of my few reliable qualities."
Laughter rippled through the group, the warm laughter of those who found her entertaining. Alice accepted it as her due, even as part of her noted the hollow ring beneath the sound. Her laugh joined theirs, bright and crystalline, a touch too sharp to be entirely genuine.
She did not look for him immediately; that would have been too obvious. Instead, she listened to the baroness discuss the merits of Turner versus Constable, nodding at appropriate intervals and interjecting witty observations to maintain her reputation without requiring actual thought. Her mind wandered elsewhere, occupied with matters considerably more pressing than cloud formations in oil.
Only when the conversation shifted to the afternoon's planned activities did she allow herself a quick survey of the room.
The drawing room of Oakford Hall spread before her in shades of cream and gold, its tall windows letting in the grey light of the rainy morning. The furniture was arranged in conversational groupings that suggested intimacy while allowing for observation. Guests moved through the space in familiar patterns, the elderly baron dozing in hiscorner, Miss Winters attempting conversation with a particularly wooden young gentleman, and the dowagers gathered near the tea service.
Samuel was not among them.
A flicker of disappointment or irritation sparked within her, but she suppressed it efficiently. She had no reason to expect him, no right to look for him, certainly no cause to feel anything about his presence or absence. He was just another guest at another house party, significant only for the breach of propriety he had committed in the garden last night.
