CHAPTER 28: CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

He let out a long, slow breath. He had to be careful as he is currently sitting in a dark room with a beautiful, half-dressed woman who was, quite literally, asking him to describe desire.

He decided on the truth. The safe, boring, and simplest truth.

"Hmm," he began, his voice a low, thoughtful rumble. "Usually, men are drawn to beautiful people."

It was a terrible answer. It was the answer a young lad would give. It was, however, the only safe answer he could think of.

Ines’s eyes, still visible over the top of the paper, blinked.

"I see," she whispered.

She lowered the list, placing it on the desk. Her face was still a bright, lovely shade of pink, but the zeal in her had taken over.

She pulled a second, blank sheet of paper from the pocket of her thin silk robe.

Carcel watched, utterly bemused, as she smoothed it out on the dark, polished wood. She reached for the inkwell and quill that were already on the desk—her desk, he realized—and dipped the tip.

Her hand was perfectly steady. She began to jot down a note, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"Men... are drawn to... beautiful people."

Beautiful people, her mind echoed. She thought of the women who were always surrounded at balls. The blonde, angelic, perfect women. She thought, specifically, of Lady Priscilla Alworth.

Lady Priscilla, she thought, her quill pausing. The most famous, celebrated beauty in all of society. She is tall, and graceful, and her hair is like spun gold. She is everything I am not.

A small, familiar ache settled in her chest.

Now that I think about it... many people talked about Carcel and Priscilla, dancing the first waltz at the Danbury ball. I saw them. Before I... before I saw him with Rowan and ran to the garden. They said they make a perfect pair. The dark, brooding duke and the golden, angelic beauty.

She looked at the man sitting opposite her. He was a hero. He was powerful. Of course he would be drawn to someone like Priscilla. This lesson, she realized with a cold, sinking feeling, was not about her. It was just a collection of facts. He was describing a world she did not, and could not, belong to.

"But..."

Carcel’s voice, sharp and sudden, pulled her from her thoughts.

She looked up. He was no longer sitting.

He was standing.

He pushed his chair back, the sound a harsh scrape against the floor, and he began to move. He walked, not away, but around the desk, his steps slow and deliberate. He was invading her space.

Ines’s breath caught. She stopped writing. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, as he came to a stop, standing inches from where she was perched on the edge of the desk.

"A man’s heart races," he said, his voice no longer the detached, lecturing tone of a tutor, but a low, dark murmur, "when he sees a different side of someone."

He was so close. She was trapped, her hips against the solid wood, and he was a wall of heat and shadow in front of her.

She could feel the warmth radiating from his body. She could see the pulse beating, strong and steady, in his throat.

She gripped the edge of the desk behind her. Her knuckles turned white. She had to steady herself.

"For... for example?" she whispered, her voice so low it was barely a breath.

He looked down at her. His dark eyes were not cold, not anymore. They were lit from within, the way she had imagined. They were hot.

"For example," he murmured, "seeing his friend’s sister, who he had always thought was an innocent, quiet... young woman..."

He leaned in. Ines’s heart gave a single, painful lurch.

"...hide claws at the tips of her soft fingers."

His gaze dropped to the manuscript page—her scandalous, ruined page—which was still lying on the desk beside her list.

He knew. He was talking about her.

He leaned in further, placing his large, warm hands on the desk on either side of her hips. He was trapping her. She was pinned. The air became thick, hot, and impossible to breathe.

"Or," he continued, his voice a rough velvet, his gaze lifting back to her eyes, "seeing a pure, innocent gaze... a gaze that is supposed to be looking at poetry... hiding red-hot desires right inside it."

He stared at her, as if he could see straight through her eyes and into her very soul.

"That," he finished, his voice a growl, "could excite a man."

It was too much. It was too close. This was... something else. This was personal. He was not talking about "a man." He was talking about himself.

She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t meet that burning gaze. She tore her eyes away, staring instead at the crisp, white linen of his open shirt collar.

"You... you’re teasing me," she accused, her voice trembling.

"No," he replied, his voice deadly serious. "I am more serious than I have ever been."

She shook her head, her curls brushing the back of his hand on the desk. She flinched at the contact.

"I knew you were playful," she stammered, still refusing to look at him. She was trying to frame this, to put it back in a safe box. "That night... at the ball. When you danced with me. But I didn’t know you were this... this mischievous."

She was trying to call it a joke. She was trying to tell him she was not, and could not be, the object of this dark, intense, real desire he was describing.

She had to get back to the list. Yes, the list.

Ines cleared her throat, though it was tight with a feeling she couldn’t name. She was shaken. She was... thrilled.

"Next question," she said, her voice shaky but firm.

She did not look at him. She looked down at her list of questions, her eyes finding the next line. She read it aloud, a simple inquiry, though her heart was pounding so hard, she was sure he could hear it.

"What... what does it feel like to kiss a woman?"