CHAPTER 105: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND FIVE

The grandfather clock in the hall ticked.

Tick.Tock. Tick. Tock.

It was a slow, heavy, rhythmic sound that usually faded into the background of the Hamilton estate. But tonight, in the suffocating silence of Ines’s bedroom, it sounded like a hammer striking an anvil. Every second was a reminder of time passing. Every second was a reminder of time wasted.

Ines lay on her bed, her body sprawled atop the silk coverlet. She hadn’t bothered to get under the blankets. The night was warm, or perhaps it was just the restless heat in her own blood that made the air feel heavy.

She stared up at the intricate plaster molding of the ceiling. The moonlight streamed through the tall, uncurtained window, casting long, pale bars of silver across the floor. It looked like a prison cell.

"It has only been a week," she whispered to the empty room.

Her voice sounded small and pathetic in the darkness.

One week, she thought, her mind turning the words over like a jagged stone. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours.

It shouldn’t have felt this long. She had gone a month without seeing Carcel before. When he was at war, she had gone years. But that was before. That was before she knew the taste of his mouth. That was before she knew the weight of his body. That was before he had looked at her with blood on his face and promised her forever. That was before before he told her he loves her.

But I miss him so much, she admitted, the thought tearing through her defenses.

It wasn’t a poetic, romantic longing. It was a physical ache. It was a hollowness in her chest, right beneath her ribs.

She closed her eyes, trying to summon his face.

I want to hug him right now, she thought, her arms aching with emptiness. I don’t even need the passion. I just want... the solidness. I want to press my ear to his chest and hear his heart beating. I want to feel the heat of his body.

She turned her head into the pillow, inhaling deeply. It smelled of lavender laundry water and dried herbs. It was a clean, pleasant smell.

It was wrong.

I want to smell his scent, she thought desperately. That mix of starch, and horses, and the sharp, clean soap he uses. And the woodsmoke. And the... the musk of him.

She rolled onto her back again, staring at the moonlight.

Since we usually meet at night, she realized, analyzing her own misery with a writer’s detachment, I miss him more when it gets dark.

The night had been their time. The library. The guest room. The darkness was their cover, their accomplice. Now, the darkness was just... empty.

She squeezed her eyes shut tight. She was a grown woman. She was engaged to a Duke. She shouldn’t be lying in bed moping like a child.

I can’t sleep, she decided. My mind is too loud. My body is too restless.

She sat up. Her hair, which she had left loose, fell in a curtain around her face. She pushed it back impatiently.

"Let’s just have a glass of water," she said to herself. It was a flimsy excuse, but it was a reason to move. A reason to leave this room that felt so haunted by his absence.

She slid off the high bed, her bare feet finding her soft velvet slippers. She didn’t bother with a dressing gown over her simple white nightdress. The house was asleep. No one would see her.

She opened her bedroom door and slipped into the hallway. It was a cavern of shadows. The portraits of her ancestors seemed to watch her with disapproving eyes as she walked past.

Go back to bed, Ines, they seemed to say. A lady does not prowl the halls.

She ignored them. She walked to the top of the grand staircase and looked down.

There was a light in the foyer.

Ines paused, her hand hovering over the polished banister. Who is awake?

She descended slowly, stepping on the edges of the stairs to avoid the creaks she knew by heart.

When she reached the landing, she saw him.

It was Rowan.

He was standing by the large, gilded mirror near the front door. The gas lamps were turned up low, casting a warm, flickering glow over him.

He was not dressed for bed. He was dressed for the world.

He wore a black evening coat that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His white waistcoat was pristine. He was currently engaged in the complicated, precise art of tying his cravat. His reflection in the mirror frowned in concentration as he looped the starched linen.

Ines watched him for a moment. He looked so normal. So put together. While she felt like she was falling apart.

A footman, looking tired but alert, stepped out of the shadows holding Rowan’s top hat and cane.

"The carriage is ready, Your Grace," the footman said softly.

Rowan nodded, giving the cravat a final, critical tug. "Thank you."

Ines frowned. It was past midnight.

"Where are you going, brother?" she asked.

Her voice floated down from the stairs, soft and echoing in the high-ceilinged hall.

Rowan jumped. He spun around, his hand flying to his chest. He looked up and saw her standing on the stairs, a white ghost in the gloom.

"Ines!" he exclaimed, letting out a breath. "Good heavens. You should be asleep. You nearly stopped my heart."

Ines walked down the remaining stairs, the silk of her nightgown rustling softly. "I couldn’t sleep. I was thirsty."

She stopped on the bottom step, so she was eye-level with him. She looked at his fine clothes.

"Where are you going at this hour?" she asked again, concern knitting her brow. "Is there trouble?"

Rowan smiled, a reassuring, brotherly expression. He reached out and tweaked a lock of her loose hair.

"No trouble," he said. "Just... society. I am going to the club."

"The club?"

"Yes," Rowan said, taking his hat from the footman. "There is a high-stakes card game tonight. Lord Berbrooke has been boasting about his luck all week, and I intend to relieve him of some of his confidence. And perhaps some of his guineas."

He checked his pocket watch. "I will be late, Ines. Very late. The game won’t even start for another hour. Don’t wait up for me."

Ines nodded slowly. The club. A place of smoke, and brandy, and men talking about things women weren’t supposed to understand.

A sudden, sharp thought pierced her mind.

The club. That is where men go.

She clasped her hands together in front of her, her fingers twisting nervously. She tried to keep her voice casual. She tried to sound like a sister just making conversation.

"Is... is Carcel going to the club, too?" she asked.

She held her breath.