CHAPTER 25: CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Ines stood with her hand on the brass handle of her bedroom door for a full minute. Her heart was not just beating; it was rearing, like a frightened horse.

This is foolery, she thought. Utter, complete, certifiable foolery. I am walking through my brother’s house, in the dead of night, wearing a nightgown that is little more than colored air, to meet a man. A man who is not my husband. A guest in this house.

The house was a sleeping giant. The clock in the downstairs hall had chimed midnight ten minutes ago, each stroke a hammer blow against her nerves. She had heard nothing. No footsteps. No distant doors. Rowan was long asleep. The servants were in their quarters. The entire house was still.

Slowly, she turned the handle. The latch, well-oiled, made a soft, buttery snick. She opened the door, just a crack, and peeked out.

The hallway was a black void, a tunnel of shadow. The moonlight from the tall landing window was far away, offering no help here.

She slipped out, closing her door behind her with a barely audible click. She did not have a lamp. A lamp would be a beacon, a screaming announcement of her movements. She would have to go by touch.

I am sneaking through my own home, like a thief. She thought, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over her.

She held her hand out, her fingers brushing the cool, familiar pattern of the wallpaper. This was her guide.

It’s so dark, she thought, her eyes straining, trying to make out shapes that weren’t there. I have lived in this house my entire life, and I can barely find my way. How can Carcel, who’s only been staying here for two short weeks, find his way to the library in this?

A new, sharp thought struck her.

Or maybe, he might not come.

Her footsteps, so light on the thick carpet, faltered.

Maybe he thought about it and realized what a foolish, improper idea it was, she reasoned. A small, sharp pang went through her. She told herself it was relief. Yes, he’s a duke. He’s sensible. He’s probably fast asleep in his very proper, very comfortable bed. He just said it to frighten me. To teach me a lesson.

The thought was... deflating. But it made her feel disappointed.

Yes, that’s it. That is probably it. I’ll just check. I’ll go to the library, and when he is not there, I will turn around, go back to my room, and this entire, humiliating day will be over. I’ll be free.

She was so lost in this new, comforting narrative, so convinced she was on a fool’s errand, that she was not paying attention. She reached the end of the hall, where the alcove leading to the library door began. Her hand, searching for the familiar carved wooden doorframe, found only empty air. She took one more, confident step.

WHUMPH.

She walked directly into a solid, warm object that was most definitely not a wall.

A small, terrified scream, a pure, instinctive "Ahhh!!!" tore from her throat.

Before the sound could even echo, the object moved. In one, fluid, shockingly fast motion, a large, warm hand clamped firmly over her mouth, stifling the scream, pressing her lips against her teeth. His other hand, strong as iron, shot out and wrapped around her waist, yanking her forward against him, saving her from falling backward onto the hard floor.

"Shhh!!!"

The voice was a low, urgent rumble, right by her ear.

Ines was frozen. Her eyes, wide with shock, stared up into the darkness. She was being held. She was pressed, from her knees to her chest, against a very tall, very warm, very male body.

He was here.

Her senses, heightened by the darkness exploded.

She could smell him. He didn’t smell of wine from dinner, or the faint, musky scent of a man. He smelled... clean. He smelled like soap. Like the expensive, herbal soap that Mrs. Briggs procured from France. He must have just finished taking his bath.

The hand over her mouth was not rough. It was calloused, the hand of a man who rode horses and, she knew, used a sword and held a pistol. But it was warm, and it held her with a firm, steady pressure that was not meant to hurt, only to silence.

She could feel him. Her thin, scandalous silk robe and nightgown were no barrier at all. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, the hard, solid planes of his chest. He was only wearing a simple shirt, thin and soft beneath her cheek, which was now pressed against his shoulder.

Something soft and damp brushed her temple. His hair. It was down, not styled back in its usual queue. And it was damp. He had bathed, and he had come here, and he had been waiting. Waiting in the dark. For her.

"Quiet," he whispered again.

He shifted, just slightly, and the dim moonlight from the far-off landing window finally caught his face.

He was smiling.

It was not a cold smirk. It was not a leer. It was a small, genuine, almost teasing smile. The corners of his eyes were crinkled.

"If people come rushing to the library now," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that she felt more than heard, "it will be... troublesome. Mrs. Briggs would have a heart attack. And your brother..."

Ines was mesmerized. She stared at that smile. It was the smile from two years ago. The smile from the waltz.

This, her heart whispered in a sudden, aching realization, this is him. This is the Carcel I remember. The one who teased me. The one who danced with me. The one I know... and the one I love being around. Why did he change? Why has he been so cold all this while?

He seemed to read the confusion in her enormous, moonlit eyes.

"You wouldn’t want to be caught secretly meeting me so late at night, would you, Lady Ines?" he whispered.

The use of her title was a playful, gentle jab. She was still pinned against him, his hand still over her mouth. She shook her head, a tiny, jerky motion. Her loose curls brushed his hand.

"Good," he replied.

He let go of her. But he did it slowly. His hand slid from her waist, leaving a trail of fire. His other hand, the one over her mouth, lingered. His palm slid from her lips, his fingers brushing her chin in a touch that was so light it was barely there, but it sent a jolt of lightning through her entire body.

Ines stumbled back a step, suddenly, shockingly cold. She wrapped her arms around herself, clutching the thin silk robe.

Carcel did not move. He was a tall, dark shadow in the alcove. He reached past her, his hand finding the library doorknob with an easy familiarity. He pushed the door open. It swung inward, into a deeper, more profound darkness.

He stepped inside, then looked back at her. He held the door, waiting. An invitation.

Ines’s heart was in her throat. Her legs were shaking. But she had come this far. She had worn this gown. She had a question. And he had, against all logic, has all the answers.

She took a breath. She smoothed her silk robe, lifted her chin, and walked past him, into the pitch-black library.

Carcel followed, and she heard the door close softly behind them. The click of the latch was the loudest sound in the world. They were alone, in the dark, together.