"I was merely?—"
"Samuel." She stopped walking, turning to face him with a mock-serious expression. "If you check that watch one more time, I shall conclude that you find the passage of time more interesting than my company."
His gray eyes warmed with a light that still knocked her breath sideways despite their months of familiarity. "An impossible conclusion," he said. "Given that your company is the only reason time holds any interest for me."
"Flatterer."
"Merely truthful." His thumb foundthe inside of her wrist, tracing a small circle against her pulse point that sent sensation through her nerves. "I confess the flattery comes easily. You have made it so."
Alice felt the warmth spread through her chest. That improbable contentment that had become her constant companion since they had departed Oakford Hall. She had learned fear did not vanish simply because one chose courage. It merely became smaller, more manageable, a voice that whispered rather than shouted.
And Samuel had learned to hear those whispers and respond with steady hands, patient words, and a kind of love that did not demand disappearance.
They resumed their walk along the promenade, where fashionable London had gathered to see and be seen. Carriages rolled past in procession, their occupants nodding acknowledgment to acquaintances and pretending indifference to rivals. Birds sang from overhanging branches, their melodies competing with the distant sound of children's laughter near the water's edge. The air smelled of grass, flowers, and the familiar scent of summer in the city—coal smoke softened by greenery, horse sweat and leather, and the sweetness of blooming roses.
“You have stopped flinching," Samuel said quietly, his observation arriving without preamble, as she had come to expect from him.
"Flinching?"
"When people look at us," he nodded toward a passing couple whose eyes lingered with curiosity on the Viscount Crewe and his unconventional bride, "you used to brace yourself as if expecting an attack."
Alice considered his observation. He was right, of course. He usually was when it came to her. A skill that had once terrified her, but now felt like a blessing.
"I suppose I have grown accustomed to being stared at for more pleasant reasons," she replied. "One does adjust."
"One does." His hand rose to her temple, where a curl had escaped its pins, defying the efforts of civilization. His fingers brushed the wayward strand back into place, the gesture so natural that she nearly missed its significance, almost forgetting a time when such casual intimacy would have been impossible between them.
“You have stopped asking permission," she observed.
"Permission?"
"To touch me. You used to hesitate, assess whether contact was warranted." She smiled, letting him see the pleasure his growth had given her. "Now you simply reach."
Samuel's expression softened into something resembling wonder. “I have learned," he said, "that the reaching is the point. Walls serve their purpose, until they become the very thing in the way between oneself and everything worth having."
A swan glided past on the Serpentine, its reflection doubling its grace in the still water. Alice watched it move with the confidence of a creature that had never questioned its right to beauty. She thought of all the years she had spent questioning her own, not her appearance, but her worth, her right to want things, and her permission to be unapologetically herself.
Samuel had given her that permission—not through granting it, as she had never needed his approval for her own existence, but through loving her in ways that made self-doubt seem absurd. He loved her wit, her wildness, her occasional disobedience, and her frequent tenderness. He loved her as she was, not as she might become, and in that love, he had taught her something she had not known she needed to learn.
That disappearing was not the only option. That love, real love, made room instead of devouring it.
“I have been thinking," she said as they rounded a bend in the path and the full expanse of the park opened before them.
"A dangerous pastime."
"That we might host a dinner party. Something intimate. A few friends, good wine, and the opportunity for conversation that does not require shouting across a ballroom."
Samuel's eyebrow rose. "You despise dinner parties."
"I despise tedious dinner parties. I have come to believe that tedium is not mandatory." She squeezed his arm, feeling the strength of him beneath layers of perfectly tailored wool. "Besides, I want to show you off. To let our friends see what kind of man I've secured."
"Secured." His dry tone carried a warmth she had come to recognize as affection. "You make me sound like a piece of luggage."
"The most valuable luggage in England." She rose on her toes to kiss his jaw, catching the attention of a passing dowager whose expression suggested she had opinions about public displays of marital affection. "And farmore handsome."
His laughter emerged soft and genuine, a sound she had spent months coaxing from behind his careful defenses. His arm tightened around hers, drawing her closer, and together they walked through the summer afternoon.
The Serpentine went on glittering, unbothered. The birds continued their songs. And somewhere ahead, where the promenade curved toward a gathering of familiar figures, the next chapter of their story awaited.
