"You must think us terribly provincial," she said, her voice pitched just loud enough for nearby listeners. "Here we sit discussing landscape paintings while you have witnessed actual battles."
"Provincial?" He caught her hand, ostensibly to examine the ring on her finger—a modest sapphire surrounded by small diamonds that had belonged to her grandmother. "I think nothing of the sort. I believe this house party contains treasures far more valuable than any military victory."
It was the compliment she had been angling for, flattering and sincere, from a man who had yet to learn that flattery could be a double-edged sword. Alice let her fingers rest in his palm a moment longer than propriety permitted.
"You have a poet's tongue, Lieutenant."
"Only when inspired by worthy subjects." His thumb brushed across her knuckles, and Alice noted the gesture with the detachment of an actress evaluating her co-star's technique. Adequate, she decided. Enthusiastic but uncomplicated.
Nothing like the precision of another man's touch in a moonlit garden.
She pushed the thought aside.
"Tell me more about the horses," she said, withdrawing her hand with a coy smile that suggested reluctance rather than relief. "I confess I am passionate about riding. There is something liberating about speed, don't you find? The sensation of moving faster than prudence would recommend?"
Lieutenant Harrington leaned closer. "I find that many activities benefit from exceeding prudent recommendations."
"How delightfully scandalous of you." Alice laughed, the sound bright and musical, designed to carry across the room. "I begin to think you may be the most interesting man at this party."
"You're the most refreshing woman I've met this Season," he replied, admiration clear on his face. "I cannot recall the last time I spoke with someone so unconstrained by convention."
"How fortunate that we have nearly two weeks to explore that refreshment."
The words flowed easily, each syllable deliberate. Alice watched the lieutenant's expression shift from delight to hope, saw him lean closer, and noticed his hand move toward hers as if proximity were a destination he was determined to reach.
She should have felt something. That thought arose, unwelcome and inconvenient. Here was an attractive man, an officer of good family and better prospects, making his interest in her clear. He was precisely the distraction she had set out to create, evidence that she was not pining for anyone, proof that her options remained open, and ammunition against the whispers that followed her.
Yet.
Her smile remained bright but brittle. Her laughter punctuated his comments with timed appreciation. Her gestures grew more animated, her responses flirtatious, her attention intensely focused on the man before her.
But there was something hollow at the center of it all, a void where genuine feeling should have been, an emptiness that no amount of clever repartee could fill. She was playing Alice Pickford, the vivacious lady who attracted admirers, and the performance was flawless.
It was also, she suspected, entirely transparent to anyone who knew how to see.
Lieutenant Harrington did not know how to look. He saw only what she showed him, the sparkling eyes, the inviting smile, the woman who leaned toward him as if he were the most fascinating person in existence. He responded exactly as sheintended, growing bolder with each exchange, his confidence swelling.
Across the room, the door opened.
Alice did not glance away. Her gaze was locked on the lieutenant, determination etched into her features as if nothing else in the room merited her attention.
Yet she felt it, an undeniable awareness of who had just entered.
She laughed again, a bright, hollow sound, as if joy were an endless resource at her disposal.
Samuel entered the drawing room expecting ease, having steeled himself for the closeness of Lady Alice. He rehearsed his composure a warrior preparing for battle, but as he crossed the threshold, he discovered that no amount of preparation could shield him from the sight of her laughing beside another man.
Not beside, exactly. That felt too simple for what was unfolding. She stood by the windows, her deep blue gown catching the grey light and transforming it into something radiant, her head tilted just so, showcasing her throat. Lieutenant Harrington leaned toward her, while her hand rested on his arm.
Samuel halted.
The stillness lasted only a heartbeat, brief enough that most wouldn’t notice, fleeting enough that he could later insist it had not occurred. Yet in that moment, something cold and sharp pierced beneath his ribs, shattering the resolution he had so painstakingly built.
His face remained a mask of impassivity. Years of practice had honed this skill, standing before mirrors until his features revealed nothing, using it as armor against a world eager to exploit any hint of vulnerability. Yet his body betrayed him; his shoulders tensed, his breath quickened, and his left hand curled into a fist before he could rein it in.
Her laughter rang out again, bright and clear, slicing through the room. He recalled how that same sound had drifted from her lips in the moonlit garden, transforming into something small and fragile just before he had kissed her.
Samuel forced his feet to move.
