CHAPTER 19: CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ines stared at Carcel, her heart a trapped bird against her ribs. She gave Edith a tiny, jerky nod.

Edith looked from the duke’s stone-cold face to her mistress’s pale, frozen one. She had never been in a room with so much silent, terrifying tension. "My lady," she whispered, as if to apologize. She bobbed a quick, frightened curtsy, backed out of the library, and pulled the heavy door shut.

The click of the latch was the loudest sound Ines had ever heard. It was the sound of a key turning in a lock. The sound of a trap springing shut.

She was alone. With him.

She stood where she was, halfway between the door and the desk. Her gardening basket, still clutched in her hand, felt as though it were filled with stones. Her mind was running in frantic, useless circles.

How? How did he get it? she thought, her pulse hammering in her ears. Did I drop it on the table by mistake last night? It was so dark... no, I remember closing the book.

Then... did it fall out in the hallway? The memory of her running, of brushing past him, came flooding back. It must have. When I brushed into him. It must have slipped out from the cover, and I was in such a panic, I didn’t even notice. He found it. He found it in the hall. He has had it all night. He had it at breakfast.

The thought made her feel physically ill.

Carcel broke the awful silence. He did not move from his position behind her desk. He just held up the single, folded piece of cream-colored paper.

"Is this yours?" he asked. His voice was quiet, dangerously calm.

Ines opened her mouth. The lie was right there on her tongue.

"No. I have never seen it."

" It must be one of the maid’s."

"What an odd thing to find."

But before she could speak, he continued. "It seems like your handwriting, Ines."

The use of her name, so casual and so intimate in this dreadful moment, was a slap. The lie died in her throat.

He’s right, her mind whispered, defeated. He knows my writing. When my brother injured his hand during the hunting season two years ago, I wrote to Carcel on his behalf. Rowan dictated the letters, and I wrote them. He would know my script anywhere. Lying about the handwriting won’t work.

She was trapped. He had her.

She looked at him, and at the paper he was holding. A new, desperate hope flared. It was just one page. One single page out of hundreds she had written.

Maybe it’s a safe page, she prayed, her hands clenching. Maybe it’s a scene of Stefan discussing politics. Or Doris arranging flowers. Or them talking about the weather. It could be anything!

She closed her eyes for a brief, agonizing second. Please, please, let that one page not be a sex scene. Let it be the boring part. Please...

Carcel watched the play of denial and terror on her face. He seemed to understand her tiny, foolish prayer. And, with a single, calm movement, he decided to destroy it.

He looked down at the paper. He unfolded it. And he began to read.

His voice was a low, steady, emotionless monotone. It was the voice of a man reading a shipping ledger. And it was, for that reason, the most horrifying sound she had ever heard.

"The duke’s hand," he read, "roughly spreads Doris’s legs."

Ines’s eyes flew open.

Her basket, the one she had been clutching, dropped from her nerveless fingers. It hit the floor with a dull thud. The rose seeds she had been holding, the ones for the garden, scattered across the floor around her feet. She didn’t even notice.

Carcel did not look up. He continued reading, his voice unwavering.

"His finger penetrated into her moist and soft inner flesh..."

"No," Ines whispered. A small, strangled sound. Her entire body, from her scalp to the soles of her feet, was on fire. This was not embarrassment. This was ruin.

It’s the last paper, her mind shrieked in pure panic. It’s the very last page I wrote last night. The worst, most scandalous, most depraved page of the entire manuscript.

Her poise, her "Icy Lady" mask, her proper manners—they all shattered. She was no longer Lady Ines. She was a cornered animal.

She lunged.

She didn’t ask. She didn’t plead. She launched herself forward, her hands outstretched, her only thought to get that paper, to shred it to pieces, to destroy it, to burn it.

"Give it to me!" she cried, her voice a hoarse, desperate croak.

But Carcel was faster. He was a soldier. He was also, to her fury, impossibly tall.

As she lunged, he simply did one thing: he raised his arm.

He held the paper high, high above his head, far out of her reach.

Ines, in her gardening apron, her hair coming undone, her dignity a forgotten dream, did the only thing she could. She jumped.

"Give it to me!" she panted, her fingers swatting at the air, inches below the paper. She jumped again, landing awkwardly on the scattered seeds. She looked like a furious, small child trying to get a toy.

Carcel looked down at her. He did not move. He did not laugh. His expression was stern, serious, and infuriatingly calm.

"Did you write this?" he asked, his voice still quiet, though she was flailing at him.

"Give it to me, Carcel!" she cried, her desperation making her forget his title. She jumped again, her hand brushing his sleeve. "It’s none of your business! Give it back!"

A flicker of... something... crossed his face. It was not a smile. Not quite. But his cold expression wavered for just a second.

"Finally," he said, his voice a low rumble. "You’re calling me Carcel."

He lowered his arm, but not to give her the paper. He folded it, slowly, deliberately, and tucked it back into the breast pocket of his coat

"And no," he said, looking down at her, his eyes now holding hers, trapping her. "I can’t give it to you."