Crewe cleared his throat. "We should reach the picnic grounds within the hour."
"How delightful," Alice replied, her voice steadier than she felt.
He turned his attention to the passing hedges, presenting her with his profile. The strong nose, the set jaw, the faint tension in the line of his throat. She studied him, noting details that were none of her concern. The single gray thread in hisdark hair, the almost imperceptible scar near his right ear, the way his chest rose and fell with measured breaths.
He was more formidable than she had previously thought, infuriating and interesting, which was perhaps the most dangerous thing.
The carriage rolled on, carrying them toward whatever came next.
The countryside settled into monotony, green upon green, with occasional wildflowers in a hedgerow and a distant shepherd's silhouette against the sky. Alice thought the worst of the journey was behind them. The silence between her and Crewe felt almost comfortable, each retreating to their corners of the carriage.
She watched the landscape pass by, her mind replaying fragments of their conversation. Loneliness is chaos that has given up hope. Had she really said that? The words felt true but exposed, like discovering a diary page she never meant to write.
Crewe had not spoken since his comment about the picnic grounds. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers tense. She could see the leather stretching across his knuckles.
Alice turned her attention to the window again, searching for distraction in a distant farmhouse, a pond catching the light, anything but the manopposite her and the uncomfortable awareness prickling beneath her skin.
The rut came without warning.
One moment, the carriage rolled smoothly. The next, the left wheel plunged into a gash in the road, and the world tilted violently. Alice gasped as her body left the seat, momentum carrying her forward.
Her hand shot out instinctively, grasping for support, and found Crewe's shoulder.
The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. She collided with him chest-first, her forehead nearly striking his jaw, her fingers digging into the fine wool of his coat as the carriage shuddered and righted itself. For a moment, she was pressed against him, her body against his, her face inches from the starched linen of his cravat, her hand clutching fabric and warmth.
She felt the rapid beat of his heart through the layers between them, or perhaps it was her own pulse thundering in her ears.
Then, after a half-second’s hesitation, his hand covered hers—his fingers tightening once, then easing, as though he steadied himself as much as her.
She sensed his strength, the way he braced himself against the carriage wall, preventing them both from tumbling to the floor.
Their eyes met.
At this distance, his gray irises were flecked with something lighter, silver perhaps, or merely the reflection of the suns brightness. Faint lines at their corners hinted at thoughts held too tightly for too long. His breath came shallow and quick, stirring the loose curl at her temple.
Neither of them moved.
The carriage rolled forward, stable now, as if nothing had happened, but Alice remained frozen with her hand beneath his, her body angled toward him like a compass needle unable to find true north. The wicker hamper shifted against her ankle. The driver called apologies about the state of the road.
She should move. She should pull back. Smooth her skirts. Make some remark about country lanes and incompetent roads. She should do anything except remain here, breathing his air, feeling the heat of his palm seep through their gloves.
Crewe's fingers tightened slightly, whether to steady her or himself, she could not tell, and then released.
Alice pulled back with a jolt nearly as violent as the one that had thrown her forward. She retreated to her seat, her hands flying to her hair, her bonnet, the ribbon at her throat, checking for damage that was not physical and finding disorder everywhere.
"Forgive me," she heard herself say, breathless. "The road?—"
"No apology necessary." His voice was clipped, rougher than before. He had returned to his corner of the carriage, straightening his coat and adjusting his cuffs, not looking at her.
Alice smoothed her skirts with trembling fingers. The blue fabric creased where she had pressed against him, and the ribbon at her waist twisted askew. She fixed it, her attention split between her hands and the man now studying the wicker hamper.
She noticed his knuckles first, pressed hard against his thigh. The stillness of his posture had shifted from calm to rigid, the stance of a man holding something back by force of will.
He noticed her noticing. She saw his jaw tighten.
Alice looked away, heat rising in her neck. She pressed her palm against the cool lacquered carriage edge, hoping the chill might soothe her. The countryside rolled past, indifferent, more meadows, more hedgerows, a stone wall running parallel to the road.
When she glanced back, she found his eyes on her.
