She laughed softly. “Then you and I are allies. Temporarily. I prefer my mischief crisp.”
“Allies,” he repeated, tasting the word. “Parlor alliances reshuffle when the games change.”
“Do they?” She turned, eyes sharp. “I make it a point to win regardless of the game.”
“Winning,” he said, “is not always the point.”
Her head tipped. “No?”
“Sometimes it’s finishing with dignity intact.” He allowed a fractional smile. “An underrated sport.”
She considered him with interest devoid of coquetry, which he found more dangerous than flirtation. “You are a surprising man to be so devoted to order. Though I suspect you make room for more of the world than you admit.”
He did not answer. The admission would have been too much like surrender.
From the drawing room came a burst of applause, then the lilting close of a country dance. The doors opened, spilling light and talk into the corridor. Clara slipped through with the easy air of a hostess who could be everywhere at once.
“Do rejoin us,” she said warmly, though her glance was sharp. “I sent for lemonade. Oakford claims the air is cool, which means he is either impervious or teasing.”
“Both,” Samuel said dryly.
Clara laughed. “You see through him. Good. Then you will forgive him when he meddles.” She lowered her voice. “Tomorrow we have the country drive. Pairings by lot at breakfast. Crispin insists it is the fairest method.”
“Fairness,” Alice murmured, “is a cousin to mischief when Oakford is in charge.”
“Quite,” Clara said. “But it keeps guests guessing, and guessing keeps them entertained.” She touched Alice’s sleeve. “Do not stay in the cool too long. I should like you in excellent voice for teasing my husband later.” With a smile she vanished back into the warmth.
Silence returned. Samuel was aware of the faint citrus Clara left behind, and more heady, the violets at Alice’s wrist.
“You dislike lots,” Alice said.
“I dislike ceding control to chance,” he replied. “It tends to collect interest.”
“And yet,” she said, glancing down the corridor where a footman placed a lacquered bowl on a table, “chance throws the liveliest parties.”
The footman arranged slips of cut ribbon, pale blue and black. Two clung in the dry air, then fell apart. Samuel watched longer than he should, unease prickling at the back of his neck.
“Do you mean to request an alternative?” she asked, laughter in her voice but interest beneath.
He considered a lie and declined it. “I did.”
“And now?”
He looked again at the ribbons, foolish in their symbolism. “Now I shall submit to the experiment.”
She nodded, as if granting him credit for courage in a theatre that did not value it. “I lookforward to seeing which sort of experiment you are.”
“Controlled,” he said. “When I can manage it.”
“And when you cannot?”
“Then I endeavor to fail gracefully.”
“That,” she said, “I should like to see.” The words were light. The look she gave him was not. It carried assessment, invitation, and wary respect.
The doors opened again and sound spilled. Alice straightened. “If I linger, someone will fetch me and insist I sing ‘Black-eyed Susan,’ which will sour me for a week.”
“I will take the blame,” he said. “Tell them I detained you with a discourse on necessity.”
