CHAPTER 108: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND EIGHT

The heavy oak door of the study creaked open.

Lloyd stepped in, looking apologetic and confused. Behind him, a small figure followed. She was draped in a heavy, rough wool cloak that was clearly meant for traveling in foul weather, the hood pulled so far forward it obscured her entire face. She kept her head bowed low, her hands hidden within the folds of the fabric.

She looked like a servant terrified of delivering bad news.

Carcel sat behind his desk, his quill suspended over an invoice for lumber. He looked up, his eyes weary and rimmed with red from lack of sleep.

He looked at the figure.

He saw the way she stood. He saw the slight, nervous tapping of her foot beneath the hem of the cloak. He smelled, faintly but unmistakably, the scent of lavender and rain that had haunted his dreams for a week.

His heart stopped. Then it restarted with a violent, thudding rhythm that echoed in his ears.

He stood up slowly. The quill dropped from his hand, rolling across the desk, leaving a trail of black ink that he didn’t even notice.

"Lloyd," Carcel said.

His voice was calm. Terrifyingly calm.

Lloyd jumped slightly at the tone. "Yes, Your Grace?"

Carcel didn’t look at his aide. His dark eyes were locked on the cloaked figure standing in the center of his rug.

"Please step out for a moment," Carcel commanded.

Lloyd blinked. "Step out, sir? But the message..."

"We need to discuss something important," Carcel interrupted, his voice dropping to a low, steel register. "So do not come in. Under any circumstances. Do you understand?"

Lloyd looked from his master to the trembling "maid." He was a man of the world; he knew when he was not wanted. But this... this felt different. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on.

"Yes, Your Grace," Lloyd said, bowing stiffly.

Carcel wasn’t finished.

"And ensure," he added, his gaze finally flicking to Lloyd with a sharp, warning intensity, "that no one else comes in. No one. Knock on each door and inform everyone if you must."

Lloyd’s eyes widened. "Yes, Your Grace."

He bowed again, more deeply this time, and backed out of the room. He closed the heavy door with a soft, definitive click.

The lock engaged.

They were alone.

The silence in the study was absolute. The only sound was the crackle of the dying fire and the ragged breathing of the woman standing before him.

Carcel walked around his desk. He moved slowly, deliberately. He felt as if he were approaching a mirage that might vanish if he moved too fast.

He stopped in front of her. She was still looking at the floor, her hood hiding her face.

"How," he asked, his voice rough with a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming relief, "did you manage to get here?"

He didn’t wait for an answer. He reached out.

His hands, usually so steady, trembled slightly as he grasped the edges of the rough wool hood.

He pulled the cloak off.

It fell away, pooling on the floor around her feet like a dark puddle.

"Hmm, Ines?"

She stood there.

She wasn’t wearing one of her elegant silk ballgowns. She wasn’t wearing the scandalous nightgowns that had driven him mad.

She was wearing a maid’s uniform. A simple, rough, gray cotton dress with a white apron. It was plain.

And it was Ines.

She lifted her head. Her hazel eyes were wide, shining in the lamplight. Her hair was messy, windblown, and damp from the night air. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold and the adrenaline.

She stared at him, her mouth slightly open.

"How..." she whispered, stunned. "How did you know it was me?"

She looked down at herself, at the disguise she had thought was perfect. Then she looked back at him, genuinely baffled.

Carcel let out a breath he felt he had been holding for seven days. A small, incredulous laugh bubbled up in his chest.

He stepped closer. He didn’t care about the uniform. He didn’t care about the rules.

He reached out and held her waist. His hands spanned the coarse cotton fabric, finding the warm, living woman beneath.

"I am not so foolish," he murmured, looking down into her eyes, "as to not recognize the woman I love. Ines, I would know you in a sackcloth. I would know you in the dark. I would know you if you were standing in a crowd of thousands."

Ines blinked. She felt a thrill shoot through her at his words, but her pride was stung.

"I am sure," Carcel continued, a teasing glint entering his tired eyes, "that all your servants knew. They probably let you come just to humor you."

Ines gasped. She pulled back slightly, looking indignant.

"No way!" she bragged, lifting her chin. "No one except for Edith noticed me! I was a shadow! I slipped past the scullery maids. I walked right past the stable boy."

She gestured to her outfit.

"How could they recognize me when I was wearing a cloak? And this dress... it is a perfect disguise. It is invisible."

Carcel replied with a low, thoughtful hum. "Hmmm?"

He stepped back just a fraction, allowing his gaze to travel over her. He really looked at her.

He looked at the gray dress. It belonged to Edith. Edith was a lovely woman, but she was... smaller than Ines. And perhaps less... endowed.

The bodice of the uniform was strained. The buttons were pulling, the fabric stretched tight across Ines’s chest. The neckline, which on Edith would have been modest, was on Ines... decidedly less so.

Her breasts felt too tight in the uniform. They were pushed up, pressed together, begging to be freed from the constraints of the coarse cotton. Every breath she took strained the seams.

It was, Carcel thought with a sudden, dry mouth, the most erotic thing he had ever seen.

He stepped back into her space. He pulled her close again, eliminating the distance.

He placed one hand firmly on her waist, anchoring her to him.

He lifted his other hand. He didn’t touch her skin. He pointed a long finger at the straining buttons of her bodice.

"You’re different somehow," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky whisper.

Ines looked down. She saw what he was looking at. She saw the way the fabric was struggling to contain her. She felt the tightness against her skin, the way her nipples were sensitive against the rough cloth.

Her face turned a bright, vivid crimson.

"That’s..." she stammered.

She looked back up at him. She saw the heat in his eyes. The hunger. It wasn’t the polite appreciation of a gentleman. It was the raw want of a man who had been starving.

She summoned her courage. She knew how this scene went.

"That’s because it’s you, Carcel," she said softly.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Other people," she explained, her voice gaining a little strength, "don’t pay that much attention to me. They see a gray dress. They see a servant. They look right through me."

She took a step closer, pressing her body against his hand.

"But you..." she whispered. "You look at me."

Carcel groaned. It was a low, defeated sound. She was right. He looked at her. He saw every inch of her.

He moved his hand from pointing. He opened his palm and cupped her breast, right over the tight, straining fabric. He gave it a gentle, playful, possessive squeeze.

Ines gasped, her knees going weak. The rough fabric against her sensitive skin, combined with the heat of his hand, was a sensation she hadn’t expected.

"If that’s the case," Carcel said, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear.

"Then I’m relieved," he whispered. "Because if any other man saw you looking like this... bursting out of your dress like a ripe fruit... I would have to challenge the entire city of London to a duel."

He kissed her neck, right above the collar of the maid’s dress.

"Now," he growled against her skin. "Let’s get you out of this thing before the buttons pop off and hurt someone."