And she did not know whether to feel grateful, furious, or something more complicated that she was not yet ready to name.
Her spine held the rigidity of a woman determined not to show her vulnerability.
Samuel watched as Alice rose from the table with movements so precise they seemed choreographed. The careful placement of her napkin beside her untouched plate, the measured gathering of her skirts, the lifted chin that dared anyone to offer pity. She murmured something about needing air—her voice light, too light—and then she was gone, a sweep of silk disappearing through the doorway while the others pretended not to notice.
The whispers began before the door had fully closed.
Samuel set down his fork deliberately, betraying nothing of the chaos beneath his waistcoat. He counted to thirty, long enough to suggest coincidence rather than pursuit, then excused himself with a murmur about correspondence that required attention.
No one believed him. He felt their speculation trailing him, the calculations hidden behind every carefully neutral expression. The Viscount Crewe, who had defended Lady Alice, was departing justmoments after her.
He found her in the corridor beyond the main hall, a dim passage where wall sconces cast shadows that softened everything but the fury in her eyes when she turned.
“Lady Alice?—”
“Do not.” The words sliced through the air, her usual wit replaced by something raw. “Do not follow me as though I need shepherding.”
Samuel stopped several feet away, respecting the distance propriety demanded. “I wanted to ensure?—”
“What?” Her laugh held no humor, only wounded pride. “That I had not collapsed into hysterics? I have survived five Seasons of such comments, Lord Crewe. I am quite capable of surviving one more breakfast.”
“I did not suggest otherwise.”
“Your actions suggested exactly that.” She stepped toward him, hands clenched at her sides, the firelight catching the flush on her cheeks. “I did not ask for your gallantry. I did not need rescue. And I certainly did not want to be the subject of drawing room speculation because you decided to play champion for an evening.”
The accusation struck beneath his ribs, in the soft place he had spent years learning to armor. Samuelclasped his hands behind his back—an automatic gesture, a soldier’s stance against unexpected assault.
“It was not gallantry,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt. “It was the truth.”
“Truth.” She tasted the word as if searching for its flaw. “You believe that?”
“I believe those women are cruel,” he said, refusing to retreat, “and cruelty should not go unchallenged.” His eyes held hers, unblinking. “I believe you deserve better than their judgment.”
Something flickered across her features—surprise, or perhaps hope—before she shuttered it away behind fresh defiance.
“What I deserve is not your concern.”
“And yet here I stand.”
The words escaped before he could stop them, carrying implications neither was prepared to examine. Alice’s breath caught; her anger faltered for a heartbeat. The space between them seemed to contract, compressed by something that had nothing to do with proximity.
Footsteps echoed from nearby.
They separated, Alice stepping back, Samuel turning toward the wall, both assuming postures of studied indifference that fooled neither. A housemaid appeared at the corridor’s end, bobbed a curtsy, and disappeared through a servants’ door, oblivious to the tension she had interrupted.
“I should return to the guests.” Alice’s voice regained a brittle lightness, though he heard the tremor beneath. “Thank you for your concern, Lord Crewe. Misguided though it was.”
She brushed past him without waiting for a reply. Her skirts whispered against his leg, and the contact stirred sensations that had no business responding so sharply.
Samuel waited until her footsteps faded—toward the terrace doors, he suspected, toward the rose garden where the air might cool the heat in her cheeks.
Then he turned and entered the library.
The room stretched before him in shades of leather and lamplight, its shelves observing him with the disapproval of accumulated wisdom. Samuel closed the door behind him harder than necessary and stood still, absorbing the silence and waiting for his heartbeat to resume its customary rhythm.
It refused.
He began to pace.
