CHAPTER 39: CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

Ines, victorious, was actually eating. She was, she discovered, ravenously hungry. She took a delicate, ladylike, and utterly triumphant bite of her kipper. She allowed her gaze, just for a moment, to slide over her "opponent."

Carcel looked dreadful.

He was still pale, his eyes were still red-rimmed, and he had abandoned his cold, offensive tea in favor of a glass of water, which he was nursing as if it were his last worldly possession. He was, she noted with a thrill of delight, the very picture of a man in torment. A dark, brooding, haunted man. She was already composing the scene in her head.

This new, strange, electric-charged quiet was broken by the sound of the dining room door opening.

Huxley, their butler, entered the room. He was holding a small, heavy, silver tray. On it, lay a single, thick, cream-colored envelope.

"For you, Your Grace," Huxley said, his voice a low, respectful monotone. He presented the tray to Rowan.

Rowan, in the middle of a bite, nodded. He took the letter, and Huxley, having fulfilled his purpose, turned on his heel and vanished from the room.

Carcel finally looked up, his gaze wary. Any interruption was, in his current state, a threat.

Rowan turned the heavy envelope over in his hands. "Well, well," he chuckled, his good mood instantly restored. He tapped the heavy, red wax seal. "Look at this, Carcel. It seems our old buddy, Weston, just remembered our existence."

He held it up so Carcel could see the crest. "Since he became a viscount, he’s forgotten all about us common folk."

Carcel, who looked as if he would rather be anywhere else, gave a noncommittal nod. "Indeed," he said, his voice a low rasp.

Ines just concentrated on her food. Weston? She had no idea who that was. It sounded like another one of Rowan’s loud, back-slapping, hunting-obsessed friends. She was far more interested in the fact that, under the table, her foot was dangerously close to Carcel’s boot. She wondered, purely as a "research" question, what would happen if she... touched it.

Rowan broke the seal with his thumb and unfolded the letter. He scanned it, his expression brightening with every line.

"Ah, just as I thought!" he boomed, his voice far too loud for Carcel’s aching head. "The Champ is bored."

"’Champ’?" Ines asked, unable to help herself.

"Weston," Rowan explained, not looking up. "We call him ’Champ.’ He’s inviting me to a hunt at his estate. Tomorrow. I will be spending three days at his estate. A full three days." Rowan’s face lit up. "Splendid! It’s been too long since I had a good ride."

Carcel gave a small nod. A hunt. Three days of loud noises, bright sunlight, and... effort. Good thing he wasn’t going.

"Oh," Rowan said, his gaze flicking to his sister. "And he says i should bring Ines along."

Ines’s head, which had been bent over her plate, snapped up. The kipper on her fork paused, halfway to her mouth.

"I don’t want to," she said.

The words were immediate. Instinctive. A reflex. A hunt? That was even worse than a ball. A ball was just boring. A hunt was... dirty. It involved mud, and horses (which she respected, but did not wish to ride for six hours), and... and outdoors.

Rowan looked at her, exasperated. "Why? It will be wonderful. Fresh air! A change of scenery. I’m going. And Carcel, too, is going."

He glanced at Carcel, a silent question. Carcel, looked up. " When did I get involved in this?" He felt he was being sentenced to a fresh new hell and could only give a miserable, trapped nod.

Ines had been about to list her reasons. The mud. The early mornings. The inevitable, crushing boredom of sitting with other women.

But Rowan’s words stopped her.

Carcel, too, is going.

Her mind, which had been so firmly in the "no" category, suddenly, dramatically, slammed on the brakes and spun in a new direction.

Carcel... will be going.

A hunt. For three days. Away from this house. Away from the prying eyes of the servants. With him.

This will be fun.

The thought was a jolt, sharp and electric. It was opportunity. She pictured him... on a horse. She pictured him... his white shirt sleeves rolled up, his face set in concentration. She pictured... a dark, quiet, country house library. At midnight.

She was a writer. And her "tutor" was, it seemed, joining her on a field trip.

She had to compose her face. She had to hide the sudden, wild, predatory joy that was threatening to split her face.

She let out a long, slow, put-upon sigh. It was a masterpiece of boredom.

"Fine," she said, her voice dripping with resignation. She poked at her eggs. "I will go."

Rowan beamed. "Splendid, Ines! You see? It won’t be so bad."

"I will go," Ines continued, her voice a long-suffering drawl, "so that you won’t be alone." She looked at Rowan, her eyes the very picture of sisterly duty.

Carcel, who had been watching this entire exchange, felt a cold, new, and very specific dread. He had seen that look. He had seen her refuse. He had heard her given a reason—his reason. And he had seen the exact moment her eyes had lit up.

She was not going for Rowan. She was not going for the fresh air. She was, he realized with a sinking feeling, hunting. And he was the prey.

Ines, her performance complete, turned. "Edith," she called.

Edith appeared at her side, as if from nowhere. "Yes, my lady?"

Ines dabbed her lips with her napkin. Her mind was already on the next step. The practicalities.

"Prepare a dress for tea," she commanded, her voice full of a familiar, annoyance. "Several of them. I am afraid I will be spending three days in the presence of Weston’s sister." She rolled her eyes. "Sipping tea, no doubt, and talking about... I don’t know... lace... while we watch the men from a safe distance."

She let the annoyance in her voice be her cover. "Watching them... shoot their rifles." She sighed, as if the thought were the most tedious thing in the world.

The two men did not speak.

Rowan, who was simply delighted that his sister was coming, went back to his breakfast.

Carcel, who understood exactly what was happening, just... sat there. His headache, which had been a dull roar, was now a pounding, screaming migraine. He looked back at his plate. He had to get through this breakfast. He had to get through this day.

And he had to, somehow, survive a three-day hunt, alone in the country, with a curious, brilliant, and utterly reckless woman who had just discovered what she wanted. And it was, to his absolute terror, him.

Edith, oblivious to the high-stakes drama, just curtsied. "Right away, my lady.