CHAPTER 20: CHAPTER TWENTY

Ines’s frantic jumps ceased. She landed on the floor with a flat-footed thump, her breath coming in ragged, painful gasps.

The adrenaline was gone, replaced by a cold, leaden dread. He had the paper. He had read the words. He was tucking the evidence safely into his coat pocket, a place she could never reach.

She was defeated.

Slowly, her hands trembling, she tried to regain some scrap of her dignity. She smoothed the front of her gardening apron, her gaze fixed on the floor, on the scattered, crushed rose seeds that lay around her feet.

"It is just a short novel," she said, her voice small, thin, and breathless. She was trying to make it sound unimportant, like a child’s game. "A silly story. I don’t think it is something the Duke should be concerned about." She put a cold, formal distance in his title, trying to push him back, to re-establish the walls he had just shattered.

Carcel looked at her. He didn’t just glance. He looked at her. He saw the frantic, panicked energy drain away, leaving a woman who looked pale, exhausted, and utterly terrified. He saw the stray reddish-brown curls clinging to her damp forehead. He saw the way her small hands were twisting the strings of her apron, knotting and unknotting them.

She is a woman who is utterly incomprehensible, he thought, his mind racing.

This Lady Ines. Rowan’s sister. The woman he had known, from a distance, since she was a girl. The woman who, for the last six years, had been the ghost of every ballroom. He had seen her. He had watched her. She had never said with her mouth that she hated men, but she had screamed it with her actions. She kept her distance from every man who approached her. She built walls of ice.

Because of this, the rumors in the social circles were rampant. Lady Ines is afraid of men. Lady Ines dislikes men. She is a cold, untouchable spinster.

His thoughts continued, sharp and fast. A woman like that... a woman who flinched when Westhaven grabbed her... wrote something as wild as this? This kind of novel?

He pictured the words on the page again, seared into his memory. ...penetrated into her moist and soft inner flesh...

It was not just scandalous. It was, as the prompt had noted, a very detailed erotic novel. It was anatomical. It was written with a knowledge that felt... horribly real.

His mind, logical and trained in the brutality of war, leaped to the darkest, most obvious conclusion. This was not imagination. This was memory.

I haven’t heard from Rowan that Ines is engaged, he thought, his blood running cold. She has no suitor. She has no husband. His gaze hardened. Judging from the story written here, there must be a malicious bastard who touched her. Who hurt her. Who has been feeding her imagination.

The image of Westhaven flashed in his mind. He had broken that man’s hand for a simple, rough grab. But this... this paper... this implied something a thousand times worse. A crime. A violation.

His expression, already serious, became a mask of cold, hard fury. The fury was not for her. It was for the man, the nameless, faceless monster, who had done this. This was no longer an embarrassing, private moment. This was a matter of her honor.

He had tucked the page away, but he touched his breast pocket, as if to confirm the evidence was still there.

"No," he said, his voice flat and cold, all trace of mockery gone. "It seems like something I should be concerned about."

He took a step from behind the desk, moving closer to her. She flinched, a tiny, almost invisible movement, and his heart clenched. He stopped, keeping his distance.

"Why did you write this?" he asked.

The question was not an accusation. It was not "Why would you write such filth?" It was a quiet, urgent, Why? His subtext was clear, though she could not hear it: Who did this to you?

Ines heard only the coldness in his voice. She heard the judgment. She heard the disgust she had been dreading. He thought she was a depraved, fallen woman. His cold, hard stare confirmed her worst fears.

Why did I write this? her mind raced, panicked. What do I say?

Would he believe it if I said I wrote it for myself? she thought, frantically. That I have... desires... and this is the only way to express them? She imagined his face, his disgust. No. He would think I am a harlot. A crazy, lonely woman.

Or... a new, equally terrible idea... would it be better to say I wrote it to sell as a novel? She pictured his reaction to that. A lady of the ton, a Duke’s sister, selling... this... for money? He would think I was a disgrace to my name. A common tradeswoman of the worst sort.

She sighed inwardly, a gust of pure hopelessness. Either way, I will still be called a crazy woman. A freak. There is no right answer. I am trapped.

She gave up. She couldn’t explain. She could only beg for containment.

She finally looked up, meeting his hard gaze. She was no longer frantic. She was just... tired. Defeated.

"Promise me," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Promise me you won’t tell anyone."

Carcel’s theory solidified. Of course. She was terrified. She was ashamed. She was trying to hide the terrible secret of what had been done to her. A powerful, overwhelming wave of protectiveness, so strong it nearly staggered him, crashed over him. This small, trembling woman was not an icy aristocrat. She was a victim, hiding her pain in the only way she knew how.

"I promise," he said, his voice softer now, gentler.

But that was not enough for Ines. A simple promise was not enough for her entire life, her reputation, her family’s honor.

She did the bravest thing she had ever done. She took two steps forward, closing the distance between them. She reached out her small, trembling hand and grabbed the sleeve of his expensive wool coat.

"Never," she said, her voice shaking but fierce. She looked up at him, her hazel eyes blazing with a desperate, terrified light. "You must make sure to never—and I mean NEVER—tell anyone. Especially not Rowan. He can’t know. He would... he would not understand. And I don’t know how to explain myself to him."

Carcel was profoundly moved. Her terror was real. It was sharp and raw. He looked down at the small, pale hand gripping his arm. He could feel her shaking.

He slowly, gently, covered her hand with his own. His hand was large, warm, and steady. It enveloped hers completely.

"Ines," he said, his voice a low, solemn vow.

He did not just say the words. He made it an oath. He raised his other hand and placed it on his chest, over his heart.

"I promise with my life."

They stood there for a long, silent moment. Ines, shaking, slowly let go of his arm, her body sagging with a small measure of relief. She had sworn a powerful, dangerous man to secrecy.