She crossed the room and opened it to find Samuel in the corridor, morning coat impeccable, cravat precisely arranged, his gray eyes holding something that knocked her breath sideways despite all the words they had already exchanged.
He looked at her as though she were the first honest breath after weeks of holding oneself too tight.
“Lady Alice.” The formality arrived softly, almost playfully, a pretense maintained for servants within earshot. “Might you permit me to escort you downstairs?”
“How gallant.” Alice smiled, and for once the expression required no effort. “Though I confess I am uncertain whether your gallantry or your impatience drives the offer.”
“Can it not be both?”
“It may be anything you like, Lord Crewe.” She stepped into the corridor, pulling the door closed behind her. “I find myself remarkably accommodating this morning.”
His hand settled at the small of her back as they began walking. A touch that satisfied propriety yet carried an assurance words could not. He neither led nor followed; theymoved in concert.
The east wing stretched ahead in bands of morning light and shadow, portraits watching from walls that had witnessed generations of arrivals and departures, hope and heartbreak, beginnings and endings.
Alice remembered her first passage through these corridors. The tension between her and Clara, the uncertainty that colored every step, the performance she had clung to against the weight of her mother’s expectations.
That woman felt very far away.
“I should tell you,” Samuel murmured, low enough for only her to hear, “that I have been awake since four o’clock.”
“Anxiety?” Alice glanced at him, noting the faint shadows beneath his eyes. “Regret? Second thoughts about entangling yourself with a woman of excessive particularity?”
“Anticipation.” His thumb traced a small circle against her spine—so subtle it might have been imagined if it had not sent sensation quicksilvering down her nerves. “I found myself impatient for morning—for the moment when pretending indifference would no longer be required.”
They reached the main staircase, marble treads gleaming in the light pouring through tall windows. Below, guests gathered in the entrance hall, trunksbeing sorted and final embraces exchanged. The house thrummed with departure—bittersweet, anticipatory, full of promises to call and invitations to visit that might or might not be honored.
Alice paused at the top of the stairs, her hand finding his arm with an ease that startled her.
“Last night,” she said quietly, “I told you I was terrified.”
“I remember.”
“I am still terrified.” She met his gazeand let him see it—the lingering fear even as she chose forward motion. “I suspect I will be terrified for some time yet.”
Samuel covered her hand with his, fingers lacing with hers in a gesture that felt both promise and anchor. “Then we shall be terrified together,” he said. “I find the prospect less daunting when shared.”
Fear remained, but something firmer took its place beside it.
They descended together, finding the same pace without trying. Two people who had stopped bracing for impact.
The terrace of Oakford Hall glittered with departure. Silver trays caught the sun. Champagne flashed in crystal, Footmen stood as stillas sentinels while chairs beckoned guests to linger until their carriages were called. Sunlight danced across ladies’ bonnets and glinted off polished buckles and traveling cloaks.
Alice stepped through the terrace doors with Samuel at her side and felt the shift as their presence gathered attention. Heads turned. Conversations thinned for a moment. A fortnight ago, she would have donned her wit like armor.
Now, she simply smiled.
Guests clustered in loose knots, trading the customary vows that marked country-house farewells. Calling cards slipped into gloved hands. Invitations were offered with varying degrees of sincerity. As Alice moved through the crowd, snippets reached her—praise for Oakford’s cook, speculation about an autumn wedding arranged sometime between dinner and dessert, a baron extolling drainage improvements with earnest pride.
Near the balustrade, two sisters’ identical bonnets bobbed as they giggled over a private joke. Lieutenant Harrington, apparently cured of his pursuit, was engrossed in conversation with a young woman whose flushed cheeks suggested a more willing audience. Even Lady Harrington, peacock-feathered turban in place, stood rigidly beside a potted lemon tree with the wary expression ofsomeone who had discovered gossip occasionally bites.
Samuel’s hand rested at the small of Alice’s back. A reassuring pressure she had begun to accept as natural rather than improper.
Crispin emerged from the crowd, Clara on his arm, both wearing the pleased expressions of hosts who had enjoyed their own party immensely. Crispin carried himself with the satisfaction of a man convinced he had arranged everything perfectly. Yet when his gaze landed on Alice, genuine warmth threaded through the smugness.
“There you are,” he declared, as if they had been elusive rather than the subject of half the terrace’s attention. “We were beginning to think you’d decided to stay.”
“The hospitality has been tempting,” Alice replied, her voice flowing easily now that wit was no longer a shield. “Though I suspect prolonged exposure to your satisfaction might prove insufferable.”
