The question came with precision, no inflection, no hint of expectation. A thrill of satisfaction coursed through Alice. He was engaging, whether he intended to be or not.
"Discomfort?" She let her gaze wander around the carriage. "I find myself in a well-appointed conveyance, with ample legroom and the promise of a picnic at journey's end. The company is..." she paused, considering, "invigorating."
"Invigorating." He repeated the word as if testing it. "Like a cold bath."
"Precisely." Alice's smile widened. "Refreshing, if one survives the shock."
The carriage rounded a bend, and the landscape changed, meadows giving way to ancient oaks whose branches arched over the road. Dappled light played across Crewe's features, softening the severity of his jaw before shadows returned.
"Those are rather magnificent," Alice said, gesturing toward the trees. "Do you suppose they've been here since the Conquest?"
Crewe glanced out at the countryside, his expression cool, as if the trees were mere background to a scene he had seen countless times. "Oaks of that size are typically three to fourhundred years old. Tudor, perhaps. Not Norman."
"How precise of you." Alice shifted in her seat, crossing her ankles beneath her skirts. "Do you approach all of nature with such detachment?"
"I approach most things with attention to fact," he replied. "It tends to produce more reliable results than sentiment."
"Results." She leaned forward slightly, propping her chin on her gloved hand. "You speak as though life were a ledger to be balanced."
"Is it not?" His grey eyes held hers, a flicker of something neither warmth nor coldness making her pulse quicken. "Every choice has a consequence. Every action, a cost. Those who ignore the accounting tend to find themselves in debt."
Alice reached into her reticule, searching for something to occupy her fingers.
"And what of pleasure, Lord Crewe?" She kept her voice light, teasing. "Where does that fit into your calculations?"
"Pleasure has its place."
"How generous of you to acknowledge it."
"Within reason," he continued, as if she had not spoken. "Pleasure that serves no purpose beyond itself is?—.”
"Frivolous?"Alice supplied.
He inclined his head. "I was going to say wasteful, but frivolous will do."
The road curved again, revealing a distant tenant cottage with smoke rising from its chimney, someone's ordinary life proceeding without debate. Alice touched the carriage door, feeling the faint vibration of the wheels through her fingertips.
"Do you find all pleasure frivolous, Lord Crewe?" She did not look at him as she asked, instead watching the cottage recede into the green.
His answer came after a deliberate pause. "Only when pursued at the expense of sense."
Alice turned. He was watching her now, the assessment in his gaze sharpening into something more personal. She suddenly felt acutely aware of the small space between them, the few feet of air carrying his scent and scrutiny, along with a low hum of something neither of them was prepared to name.
"And who determines what counts as sense?" she asked. "You? Society? Some invisible committee of the properly purposeful?"
"Sense speaks for itself." His voice dropped an octave. "It is self-evident to those willing to observe it."
"How convenient." Alice allowed her smile toturn brittle. "And how lonely it must be to live by such certainties."
Something flickered in his expression, surprise perhaps, or the recognition of a blow that had landed closer to home than expected. He recovered quickly, but not quickly enough.
"Loneliness," he said, "is preferable to chaos."
"Is it?" Alice held his gaze, chin lifted. "I’ve always thought loneliness was just chaos that has given up hope."
The silence that followed felt different, heavier, charged with words that had come closer to truth than either intended. Outside, oaks gave way to open meadow, and sunlight poured through the window.
Alice realized her hands were gripping her reticule tightly. She forced them to relax, finger by finger.
