CHAPTER 27: CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Carcel sat, a solid, dark shape behind the desk. The lamplight carved his face from the shadows, making his cheekbones look sharp, his eyes dark, unreadable pools. He was expecting straight to the point questions. He was not expecting this.

"Questions?" he asked. The word sounded flat, almost stupid, in the quiet room.

Ines nodded, her entire demeanor transformed. The terrified, cornered woman from that morning was gone. The flustered, embarrassed girl from the hallway was gone. In her place was a woman on a mission. She was bright, focused, and terrifyingly eager.

"Yes, questions!" she said, her voice a happy, confidential whisper. "You said you would help. You said you would tell me. So... I prepared."

Carcel’s gaze dropped from her face to the single sheet of paper clutched in her hand. It was, he noted with a sinking, hollow feeling, covered from top to bottom in her neat, precise handwriting.

"Yes, I did," he said slowly, his voice rough. He was still trying to ignore the way the lamplight was shining through her pale blue robe. "I just... I didn’t expect you would need to write them down. Or that they would... occupy a full sheet of paper."

She has an entire list, he thought, a fresh wave of disbelief washing over him. She has been planning this. For how long has she had those questions in mind?

"Can I ask now?" she asked, her voice vibrating with the suppressed excitement of a child who had been promised a sweet treat. She squealed, a tiny, soft, delighted sound, and clapped her hands together once, a small, muffled thwack.

Carcel, who had faced cannon fire without flinching, felt a genuine bead of sweat threaten to form on his brow. This woman was going to be the end of him.

He gave a single, stiff nod.

"Um, okay," she said. She cleared her throat, pulling herself back into a state of seriousness. She held the paper up, her gaze scanning the first line.

Now, her mind thought, how do I begin?

She looked at her own, neat writing. The list was very graphic.

• How to arouse a woman? (Specifics: touch, words, atmosphere?)

• Moments when a man gets aroused? (What does he see? What does he hear?)

• What does it feel like... to be inside a woman? (Is it ’hot’ and ’tight’ as the books say?)

• How does one... ’straddle’...?

Ines felt a hot, mortifying blush crawl up her neck.

No, she thought, her eyes wide with panic. No, I cannot. I cannot just... ask those. Not first. I cannot say ’what does it feel like to be inside a woman’ to his face. He will faint. Or I will faint. Or he will lock me in here and go find Rowan. I must... I must ease him into it. Start with something less... weird. Something intellectual.

She took a deep breath, lowered the paper, and looked at him.

"So, Your Grace..." she began, her voice the proper, formal tone of a lady in a drawing room.

"Carcel," he interrupted.

His voice was not loud, but it cut through her formality like a knife.

Ines blinked, startled. "What?"

"Carcel," he repeated. He leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on the desk, his dark eyes fixed on hers. The lamplight made them glow. "Do not be formal with me again. Not... not like this. Not when we are here." He made a vague gesture to the dark, intimate room, to the scandalous secret that lay between them. "It is... unsettling."

He was pulling down the wall. The one that kept her Lady Ines and him Your Grace. He was making this something else entirely.

"Oh," Ines whispered. Her heart gave a single, hard thump. "Okay."

She tried again, her voice smaller now, less certain. "So... Carcel... When does a man... find a woman attractive?"

It was a good question. A safe one. It was... logical.

Carcel just looked at her. His face was completely, utterly blank. He looked clueless. He had been prepared for questions about that page. About sex. This... this sounded like something a debutante would ask her mother.

"Hmm," he said. It was a noncommittal, deeply unhelpful sound.

He doesn’t understand! Ines thought, her panic returning. Oh, this is awful. I have made a fool of myself. He thinks I am asking about... about courtship! I can’t just blurt out ’when does a man want to have such indulgence with a woman? I need to be clearer.

She fumbled, the paper crinkling in her hand. "I mean... uh... you know. When a man is... looking for a bride. To marry."

She was digging a hole, and she knew it.

"You know," she babbled, "not about her family background, or her conditions, or her dowry. I know all about that. I mean... the charm. The... the quality. That special thing that makes a man... want to marry a woman. What is that?"

She finished, breathless, and looked at him, hopeful.

Carcel stared at her. His gaze was intense, and the blank, confused look was gone. It was replaced by a sharp, knowing, and profoundly weary expression. He had finally understood.

She was not asking about marriage. She was not asking about charm.

She was asking about lust.

She was asking why a man would look at one woman out of a hundred and feel that raw, physical, undeniable pull. She was asking about the very thing he was feeling, right now, as he looked at her nipples, hard and dark against the pale blue silk.

He let out a slow, quiet breath. He was not going to play this game. He was not going to let her hide behind these polite, silly, drawing-room words. If they were going to do this, if he was going to be her "teacher," then they were going to be honest.

His voice, when he spoke, was low, deep, and cut straight through her carefully constructed pretense.

"Ines," he said. "Are you asking what kind of woman sexually attracts a man?"

He said the word. Sexually.

Ines stopped breathing. The word hung in the air, loud and shocking, as if he had fired a pistol.

She didn’t squeak. She didn’t gasp. She just... froze.

The heat that had been a simple blush on her neck exploded, consuming her entire face, her ears, her chest. She was on fire.

Instinctively, the piece of paper in her hand—her list of "research"—flew up, a flimsy, useless shield to cover her burning face.

She hid, like a child, behind the single sheet.

He waited. He did not laugh. He did not look away. He just... waited.

From behind the paper, a tiny, mortified, jerky nod was the only answer she could give.

Her wide, terrified, pleading hazel eyes, bright with a desperate curiosity, peeked over the top edge of the paper, begging him for the answer.