CHAPTER 41: CHAPTER FORTY ONE

He looked down at her.

She was standing in a dusty, dimly-lit shed, a place that smelled of oil and leather, and she was wrapped in his arms, her body soft and pliant against his. Her head was tilted back, her eyes were shining with a terrifying, innocent hunger, and she had just asked him to kiss her.

Carcel felt a muscle in his jaw clench. He was a man on a rack, being torn in two. Every base, primal, male part of him—the part that had been at war, the part that had been without a woman for too long, the part that had been awake since their last encounter —was screaming at him to lower his head. To taste her. To finish what they had started on that damned library desk.

But the other part of him, the part that was a Duke, the part that was a man of honor, and the part, larger than all the others, that was Rowan’s best friend, was at war.

He could feel her fingers, her small, gloved fingers, tracing a light, agonizing line at the nape of his neck. His body, his treacherous, hungry, exhausted body, shivered at the touch.

He had to stop this. He had to be the adult.

"Ines," he said, his voice a low, strained rasp. "Do you realize where we are? We aren’t at your residence."

"I am quite aware," she replied, her voice a soft, silken purr that made his blood heat. She did not move. If anything, she leaned in, her body pressing more firmly against his.

He had to make her understand. He had to break this spell.

"Have you stopped to wonder," he said, his voice cracking as her fingers brushed a sensitive spot behind his ear, "if someone... if Weston, or... or your brother... were to walk in here and see us like this?"

Ines was silent. He could feel her breath against his throat.

He had to make the danger real. He had to make it cut through this haze of curiosity and desire she was trapped in.

"Your reputation," he said, his voice flat, his hands still, to his own eternal damnation, frozen at his sides. "It would not just be damaged. It would be ruined. Entirely. And I..." he let out a short, harsh breath. "I will likely die. From your brother’s hand in a duel for your honor. He would be right to do it."

The duel.

That was the word that finally broke the spell.

He felt her go still. The small, curious, almost playful movements of her fingers on his neck ceased. He felt her entire body, which had been so soft and pliant, go rigid in his arms.

She had been in a dream, a scene from one of her novels, and he had just, with a few, cold, brutal words, woken her up.

She realized what he was talking about. Not a stolen kiss. But a consequence. A real, terrible, life-altering consequence.

Scandal. Ruin. A duel.

She slowly, her movements stiff and jerky, dropped her hands from his neck. They fell to her sides, her arms straight. She pushed herself back, out of the circle of his arms, creating a chasm of cold, dusty air between them.

Her face, which had been flushed with a bold, beautiful light, was now pale. She was mortified.

"I... I didn’t think it through," she whispered, her gaze dropping to the floor. She could not look at him. She had offered herself, and he had, with perfect, cold logic, rejected her. He had called her a fool.

"I am going to... I am going to join my brother," she said, her voice small and tight.

She turned, her violet skirts rustling, and she fled. She did not run. She walked, her back ramrod straight, a perfect, icy, noble lady, leaving him alone in the shed.

"Ines..." he said, his hand finally moving, reaching for her.

But she was gone.

He sighed, a long, ragged, painful breath, and leaned his head against the rough, wooden doorframe. The wood was cool against his hot skin.

"I am doing this for her good," he muttered to the empty, dusty air. "I am. So why... why is she so stubborn? And why do I feel like the villain?"

He stayed in the shed for ten minutes, giving his heart, his breathing, and his body time to return to a state of civilized control. When he finally rejoined the others at the pavilion, the world had righted itself, at least on the surface.

He saw Ines. She was sitting at the tea table, in the exact same spot as before, her parasol angled to hide her face. She was, he noted, staring very, very intently into a cup of lukewarm tea. She was not looking at him. She was, with a palpable, furious energy, ignoring him.

He felt a strange, unreasonable pang of... disappointment.

He went to the water barrel, doused his handkerchief, and pressed the cold, wet linen to the back of his neck. He needed it.

He heard Weston’s boom before he saw him.

"Alright, fellas!" Weston was leading two magnificent stallions, a black and a deep bay, their coats gleaming in the sun. "It’s been too long since we had a real champion around here! Rowan," he called, "your title as the undefeated remains... but it is becoming dreadfully boring!"

Rowan, who was checking the ammunition of a fresh rifle, laughed. "Weston, just admit it. You’re jealous. You have been jealous since our first year at Eton when I beat you in that footrace."

Another of the young men, Lord Harrison, clapped Rowan on the back. "He is not wrong, Rowan. Weston is right. You have raced all of us, on every horse in this county, and you have still won. It is boring."

A third man, younger, with a sly smile, butted in. "You haven’t raced everyone, Rowan."

Weston stopped, the reins in his hand. "What do you mean? Who is left?"

"Him," the young man said, pointing his chin directly at Carcel.