CHAPTER 35: CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

The bright, cheerful, morning sunlight was an act of war.

Carcel sat at the dining table, or perhaps slumped was a more accurate word. He had been there for ten minutes, his head in his hands, staring at the intricate patterns of the damask tablecloth. A footman, moving with a silence that was still somehow too loud, had poured him a cup of coffee. It sat, untouched, its steam rising in a mocking, cheerful plume.

Every sound was an assault. The clink of a distant spoon. The rustle of a servant’s apron. The cheerful, offensive chirping of a bird outside the window.

He felt... ravaged. Not just by the whiskey, though there had been a great deal of that. He was ravaged by memory. By the scent of lavender and a woman. By the feel of damp, tangled curls in his fists. By the ghost of a high, sharp, whimpering cry.

He groaned, a low, pained sound, and pinched the bridge of his nose, his elbow resting on the table.

"Good God, Carcel. You look like death."

Rowan’s voice, clear, rested, and impossibly awake, boomed from the doorway. Carcel flinched, the sound a hammer blow against his skull.

Rowan entered, a vision of a noble perfection in a crisp cravat and a perfectly tailored morning coat. He took his seat at the head of the table, opposite his friend. A maid immediately appeared with his plate.

Rowan looked at Carcel, his brow furrowing with genuine concern. "You don’t look very well," he said, his voice softer now. "You are pale. And you are, I believe, still wearing yesterday’s shirt."

Carcel lifted his head. It felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. His eyes were red-rimmed, his jaw dark with stubble.

"Rowan," he said. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp. He rubbed his temple, a circular, painful motion. "I couldn’t sleep last night. I... I stayed up late. Drinking whiskey."

Rowan’s concern deepened. He set his own fork down. Carcel was a man of control. For him to admit to drinking—especially to this degree—was alarming.

"If that’s the case, you should have invited me to drink with you," Rowan said, his voice full of brotherly care. "You know I am always willing to help a friend empty a bottle. What was troubling you?"

Carcel sank his head deep into his hands, his fingers digging into his scalp. Invite him?

That wouldn’t do, his mind screamed. What should I say if he asked why I was drinking?

He created a vivid, horrifying scenario in his head. He pictured himself, glass in hand, looking at his best friend.

"Ah, Rowan, yes. You see, I laid hands on your beloved sister. In her nightgown. On her library desk. My mind is in turmoil because I discovered she is not an innocent, but a tiny, perfect, responsive volcano, and I am not sure if I can ever sleep again. I needed a drink. Would you join me?"

His thoughts continued, his stomach twisting. If I said that... if I told him even one tenth of the truth...

He did not have to imagine what Rowan would do.

Rowan would not speak. He would not yell. His mind, clear on this one, terrible point, supplied the rest. He would simply stand up, walk to the drawer in his study, and retrieve his dueling pistols. He would not wait for seconds. He would just challenge me to a duel, right here over the kippers, and I would have no choice but to accept. And he would be right to do so. I would deserve it.

Carcel sat up, pulling himself straight with a visible effort. He crossed his arms on his chest, a defensive, closed-off gesture.

"It was already late when I started," he lied, his voice flat. "So I drank alone. I just wanted... something that would make me sleep.

"I see," Rowan replied. He accepted the answer, because Carcel was his brother, and he trusted him.

The trust was, somehow, worse than the imagined duel.

Carcel’s mind went again, pulling him back under, drowning him in the memories of the night before.

Something must have clouded my mind, he thought, staring at his untouched coffee. I was... I was mad. I was not myself.

But he had been. That was the worst part. He had never been more himself.

I touched the woman I should never have touched.

It was the one, unbreakable rule. The sister of a friend. It was a sacred line. And he had not just crossed it; he had set it on fire.

The daughter of a Duke, his mind provided, and a friend’s sister. My best friend’s sister.

He remembered her face, pale in the lamplight, her eyes wide, dazed, and full of a shocking, innocent pleasure. He remembered the feel of her, so small and soft, shattering in his hands. He remembered the small, red marks his mouth had left on her skin. He had marked her.

He dropped his head, his palm covering his face, a gesture of profound, weary, and hopeless shame. He had come to the library to protect her, and, as he had feared, he had become the biggest threat.

"Goodness," Rowan said, his voice pulling Carcel from his self-loathing. "You seem to be in a very bad shape today. You are truly unwell."

Rowan looked around the empty room, as if looking for a distraction. He signaled to a footman for more coffee.

"By the way," he said, his tone shifting to one of casual, domestic annoyance, "is Ines still not done yet? She is usually here by now. She doesn’t come down late for breakfast."

Carcel flinched.

It was not a small movement. It was a full-body, electric jolt, as if he had been struck by lightning. His hand, which had been covering his face, slammed down onto the table. The heavy silver cutlery rattled, and his coffee cup jumped, spilling a dark, spreading pool of liquid across the white linen.

He was not ready. He was not prepared. He had been so lost in the memory of her, he had not even considered the reality of seeing her.

He stared at the spreading coffee stain, his heart hammering in his chest, a cold, sharp panic lancing through him.

What would she look like?

Would she be the pale, terrified girl from the library before?

Or would she be the flushed, boneless, wild creature from after?

He did not know which one terrified him more.