CHAPTER 23: CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Carcel pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut. The silence in the library was absolute, broken only by the faint sound of Ines’s breathing.

What, he thought, his mind a whirl of disbelief, am I supposed to do with this young lady?

He had come in here with one, dark theory. That she was a victim. That some bastard had hurt her, and she was writing this... this filth... to process the trauma. He had been ready to find that man and tear him apart.

But this... this was infinitely more complicated. She was not a victim. She was an innocent. A hopelessly, dangerously, recklessly innocent woman who had the imagination of a seasoned courtesan and the common sense of a lemming.

His mind flashed back, over a decade. He remembered her. Ines.

Contrary to her quiet, icy appearance, she had always been unpredictable. She was stubborn. Rowan had been driven half-mad by it. He remembered, vividly, when she was thirteen. She had been suffering from a particularly bad bout of her heart disease, and the doctor had given strict, terrifying warnings. She was to be confined indoors. Even a whiff of cold winter air, he’d said, could be fatal.

And what had Ines done, after a week of confinement?

She had wanted to go out. So, she had fearlessly, stupidly, climbed out her second-floor balcony, intending to use the thick ivy as a ladder.

He had been the one to find her. He’d been in the gardens with Rowan, and a small, high-pitched "oh, bother" had drawn his eye upward. She was dangling, twenty feet above the stone terrace, her thin leg caught in a tangle of vines, her face pale with terror but her eyes blazing with pure, undiluted fury. He had saved her. He had climbed up and untangled her, his own heart in his throat, and had carried her, shaking, back to her room.

She is still that girl, he thought, his hand dropping from his face.

Such an eccentric, impossible lady is now writing detailed, erotic romance novels. And she is, with a straight face, considering finding random men for... for ’experience.’

Someone had to stop her. She was going to walk out of this house and find the first, smiling scoundrel—another Westhaven, but one who was cleverer—and she would be ruined before she even understood what was happening.

And since he had sworn, on his life, not to tell Rowan, he was trapped. He was the only one who knew. The responsibility was his.

I have no choice, he concluded, his jaw tightening. I have to step in.

He cleared his throat. He would try, one last time, to be logical.

"Anyway," he said, his voice stiff and formal, "finding a man before marriage, for... this... is not right. It is not an option. What if rumors were to spread? You would be destroyed."

Ines looked up, her face pale, her eyes still holding a trace of that wild, frustrated fire.

"I know that!" she snapped, her dignity returning in a wave of defensiveness. "I am not a complete idiot, Your Grace. That is why I said I wanted to hear from someone! From someone with experience! But who am I supposed to ask?"

Her voice cracked, the frustration turning to a raw, desperate plea. "If I ask my brother, he would do exactly what I said. He would confiscate all my papers, he would lock me up, or he would send me to a convent. He would think I was mad, or corrupted. I have no one to ask. No one in the entire world."

She stood there, defeated, her shoulders slumped, her hands twisting in her apron. She was right. She was completely, utterly alone in her bizarre, dangerous quest for knowledge.

He looked at her. At her small, defiant, and hopelessly naive face. At the genuine, artistic despair in her eyes.

He saw the thirteen-year-old girl, dangling from the vine.

His logic, his duty, and his deeply buried protective instincts all collided, and a new, terrible, and utterly insane idea was born.

He let out a slow breath. "I’ll help you."

The words were quiet. They hung in the air between them, simple, calm, and completely bizarre.

Ines’s head snapped up. She stared at him as if he had just grown a second head.

"What?" she whispered.

What? her mind screamed. What did he just say? He’ll... help me? Help me... what? Help me write? Help me... find a man? She felt a dizzying, light-headed panic. Instead of him to lecture me? To tell me to stop immediately? To burn my book? To call me a harlot? He offers to... help?

This is a trick, she thought wildly. He’s mocking me. He’s going to... to...

Carcel did not smile. He was not mocking her.

"You said you needed a man’s help, right?" he said, his voice still quiet, but with a new, dark intensity.

He moved. He stepped away from the desk, from his side of the room, and began to walk toward her.

He was no longer a judgmental duke but a man, tall and broad, and he was approaching.

Ines was frozen. She wanted to back away, but her feet were rooted to the floor.

His boots were polished to a mirror shine. They made almost no sound on the thick rug, but when they reached the small, scattered seeds she had dropped, they did not avoid them.

CRUNCH.

The sound of his heel crushing the seeds was shockingly loud. He didn’t even look down.

"That you wanted to hear from someone with experience," he continued, his voice a low rumble.

He did not stop until he was standing directly in front of her. He was so close. She was small, and he was a mountain. She had to tilt her head all the way back to see his face, which was cast in shadow, his back to the light. She could smell the faint, clean scent of his soap and the sharp, masculine scent of wool and starch.

"What... what do you want to know?" he asked.

Her heart, her traitorous, weak, stupid heart, gave a painful, fluttering lurch.

Then, he lifted his hand. Slowly.

Ines flinched, her eyes squeezing shut.

But he did not strike her. He did not grab her.

His hand, large and warm and impossibly gentle, cupped her cheek. His thumb brushed over her cheekbone, a whisper of a touch that set her entire skin on fire.

She opened her eyes. He was bent over her, his face inches from hers. His dark eyes were not cold. They were... something else. Something dark, and hot, and serious.

His lips were inches away.

"You can ask me," he finished, his voice a murmur.

Ines’s face was a furnace. She was trembling from head to toe. She could not breathe. She could not think. This was not happening.

"Oh, n...no," she stammered, the words catching in her throat. "No. Y-you... you don’t need to. I... I couldn’t... that is... that’s not..."

"Otherwise," he spoke, his voice dropping even lower, his thumb still making a slow, hypnotic circle on her skin, "you will look for another man, won’t you?"

It was not a question. It was a statement. He knew her. He knew that stubborn, reckless girl.

"No!" she protested, trying to avoid his gaze. His eyes were too much. They saw too much. "It’s not like that... I was just... I was just frustrated. I was just talking."

"To prevent you from falling for some scoundrel," Carcel said, his voice a low, rough caress. He was still stroking her cheek. "I have no choice but to step in. I have a duty to protect you, Ines."

He leaned in, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of her ear. Ines went rigid, a shiver racing down her spine.

"I have a duty to protect you from them," he whispered, his warm breath sending a jolt of pure, terrifying electricity through her. "And from yourself."

He pulled back, just enough to look her in the eyes.

"Tonight," he commanded, his voice a bare-bones whisper. "At midnight. After the house is asleep." His lips brushed the tip of her ear.

"Meet me here."