Her lips tingled at the memory, but she ignored the sensation.
"Lady Alice." The baroness fixed her with an expression of curiosity. "You seem distracted this morning. Thoughts of the Season ahead, perhaps?"
"Thoughts of breakfast, more likely." Alice deployed her fan with an elegant gesture to keep her hands busy. "I wonder if I might request eggs at this hour without scandalizing the kitchen."
"The Season begins in less than a month," the baroness pressed, undeterred by Alice's deflection. "I understand this will be your sixth. Have you any particular hopes?"
The question carried layers of meaning that Alice could easily unpack. Six Seasons. The number hungbetween them, reflecting society's judgment and speculation about why Lady Alice remained unwed despite her wit, beauty, and acceptable dowry.
Too wild to wed.The phrase surfaced unbidden, a remnant from yesterday's dinner.
"My hopes are what they have always been," Alice replied, her voice light. "To be entertained, moderately scandalized, and occasionally surprised. I find that lowered expectations lead to heightened satisfaction."
Laughter erupted. The pink-muslin sisters exchanged glances, suggesting they found her either unconventional or peculiar; Alice could not determine which and did not care. She had been performing this role for five years; she could continue for five more if necessary.
"Speaking of surprises," the younger muslin sister ventured, "Viscount Crewe's defense of you at dinner last night was quite the spectacle. I don't believe anyone expected him to speak so forcefully."
Alice's fingers tightened around her fan.
The movement was involuntary, brief enough that she might have hidden it if she had been prepared. But she had not been prepared. Had not expected anyone to mention him so directly. Had not anticipated how his name would land in her chest like a stone.
"Lord Crewe," she said, her voice steady, "takes himself remarkably seriously. I suspect he viewed those women's comments as an assault on courtesy rather than any real concern for my well-being."
"You think his defense was merely principled?"
"I think," Alice said, snapping her fan shut, "that men who arrange their cravats with such precision rarely act from personal feeling. Viscount Crewe seems the type who would defend a lamppost with equal vigor if he believed it was being unfairly maligned."
The comparison was unkind, and she knew it. She had meant it to be unkind; needed to diminish him somehow, to transform last night's passionate kiss into something manageable, something that did not challenge her assumptions about her own heart.
He had called her a flame. He had said he could not bear to see her light diminished. He had kissed her with a desperation that stripped away every layer of his careful control, and then he had apologized as if the kiss were a crime rather than?—
Rather than what?
Alice did not know. That was the problem. She had walked away without speaking because she had no words for what had happened, no framework for understanding a man who defended her publicly, kissed her privately, and looked at her as if she weresomething precious rather than something problematic.
"I believe I shall investigate those eggs after all," she announced, rising from her seat with a rustle of blue silk. "The conversation has given me quite an appetite."
She glided toward the refreshment table, grateful for the escape, her gaze sweeping the room once more with an automaticity she could not quite control.
Still no Samuel.
And Alice, who had never waited for any man, found herself waiting nonetheless.
Lieutenant Harrington stood near the tall windows, where the grey light flattered him. If she was going to distract herself, she might as well choose an attractive stage. He towered like many military men. Years of standing at attention had shaped him, with dark hair that curled slightly at his temples and eyes the color of good brandy. His uniform fit well, his smile came easily, and his gaze followed her approach, warm like the sun breaking through clouds.
"Lieutenant." Alice positioned herself beside him with the precision of a chess piece advancing across the board. "I understand you arrived only yesterday. How fortunate that the weather hasgiven us an excuse to remain indoors and become acquainted."
"Fortune indeed, Lady Alice." His bow was perfect, a gesture so practiced it flowed naturally. "Though I confess I had hoped to demonstrate my horsemanship. Now I must rely on conversation alone to make an impression."
"Conversation can be its own form of horsemanship." She tilted her head, the light catching the sapphire drops at her ears. "A skilled practitioner knows when to gallop and when to proceed at a more measured pace."
His eyebrows rose with delight. "And which pace do you prefer, my lady?"
"That depends entirely on the terrain." She smiled, a smile perfected over five seasons, warm enough to encourage, mysterious enough to intrigue. "Tell me about the Peninsula. I am told the cavalry charges are quite spectacular."
He required little encouragement. Lieutenant Harrington launched into an animated account of his regiment's recent engagements, his hands gesturing with enthusiasm, his voice carrying the cadence of a man accustomed to commanding attention. Alice listened, her responses perfectly timed—a laugh here, a widening of the eyes there, a touch tohis arm when he described a particularly harrowing moment.
The touch lingered longer than necessary. She felt him register the contact and sensed his posture shift toward her, drawn in by her interest.
