CHAPTER 44: CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

Emotional Stress.

The words hit Ines like a slap.

Her mind did not go to the race. It did not go to the heat of the sun, or the noise of the crowd, or the tightness in her chest.

It went, instantly, to a small, dark, dusty shed that smelled of gun oil.

It went to Carcel. To his cold, logical, brutal rejection. To his words: "I will likely die. From your brother’s hand." It went to the slam-door of humiliation. The rejection. The cold, aching disappointment. He was right but does her feelings have to be based on what society thinks is right or wrong?

It must have been then, she thought, her stomach twisting. It must have been when I was so upset with Carcel about what happened at the shed. That... that is what the doctor might have meant.

The realization was a new, fresh wave of humiliation. She had not just made a fool of herself in front of him. She had, quite literally, fainted from the rejection. It was the most pathetic, most dreadful thing she had ever done.

She sighed internally. She could not, ever, tell Rowan this.

"Rowan, no," she said, forcing a small, tired smile. "Of course not. No one bullied me. You are being dramatic." She put her hand on his, forcing him to relax his grip. "It was just... the sun. It was hot. And the noise... it was all too much. I promise. I am fine."

Rowan did not look convinced. He looked like a man who had been given a puzzle with half the pieces missing. But he was, for now, too relieved to argue.

Ines looked past him, her gaze sweeping the dark, unfamiliar room. The chair by the bed was empty, save for Rowan’s discarded coat. The door was shut. There was no one else here.

He isn’t here.

The thought was not a question. It was a cold, hard, final statement.

Rowan had stayed. Rowan had slept in a chair, his head on her bed, waiting for her to wake up.

But Carcel... Carcel, the man who had, only the night before, held her as she shattered... the man who had looked at her with such hunger... the man she had been so certain she had finally, finally... reached... was not here.

He was not here.

I was a fool, she thought, the bitterness a sharp taste in her mouth. I thought... after that night... I thought he... he liked me. I thought that ’lesson’ meant something. I thought he must have felt the same way I do.

She felt a cold, hard, brilliant anger begin to replace the shame. It was a familiar feeling.

Fine.

I’ll just use him, she decided, her heart hardening, her mind clearing. I will use him for my novels. I will use him to gain experience, to know more about what society hides from women. That is all he is good for. He is ’research.’ He is the man who showed me what a kiss is. He is the man who showed me what... that ...feels like. He is a dark, brooding, handsome, and emotionally useless hero.

And when my ’lessons’ are over, I’ll leave. I will have all the material I need. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Rowan stood up, raking a hand through his hair. He was trying to become the Duke of Ford again, and not just a terrified older brother.

"You need to rest," he said, his voice still rough. "And you need to eat. I’ll... I’ll send someone up. One of Weston’s maids. To help you get changed, and... and to bring you dinner. You’ve had nothing since breakfast."

Ines just nodded, pulling the blankets up to her chin.

Rowan walked to the door, his shoulders slumped. He was exhausted. "I need to... I need to go have a talk with Weston. Apologize, for... well, for all of this."

"Where do you think Carcel is ?" A small voice stopped him. He paused, his hand on the doorknob.

"Carcel is there, too," he said, as an afterthought. "In the study. Some of the guests have... gone. The party is rather... over." He sighed. "I need to go."

"Rowan," Ines said, her voice small.

He turned.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For staying."

He gave her a small, tired, pained smile.

"Always, Ines. Always."

He slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Ines was left alone, in the dark, in the strange, silent, grand house. And she had never, in her entire life, felt so completely, and so utterly, alone.

~ ••••• ~

Rowan closed the door to the guest room, his hand lingering on the brass knob for a moment. The soft click of the latch was deafening in the suddenly quiet, moonlit hallway. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood, his eyes closed, his shoulders slumped in a wave of exhaustion so profound it felt like a physical weight. She was awake. She was fine.

For a long moment, he just breathed. He was no longer the Duke of Ford. He was just a terrified older brother who had, for a few, agonizing hours, thought he had lost the only family he had left.

Finally, he pushed himself away from the door. He straightened his waistcoat, which was rumpled and stained with grass from where he had knelt on the field. He raked his hands through his hair, trying to restore some semblance of order. He had to go back. He had to face his friend, his host.

He walked down the long, portrait-lined hallway, his boots heavy on the thick carpet. The Clifford estate was silent. The party, the hunt, the cheerful, roaring laughter—it was all gone, snuffed out by the afternoon’s events.

He reached the study. He could see a low, flickering firelight from under the door. He paused, took one more deep, steadying breath, and opened it.

The room was warm, smelling of old leather, books, and the sharp tang of brandy.

Weston was standing by the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantel, staring into the flames. He turned, his usually cheerful, booming face a mask of somber concern.

Carcel... Carcel was not standing. He was slumped in a deep, wing-backed chair, his back to the door. He was a statue of disheveled misery, staring at nothing.

"Rowan," Weston said, his voice a low, respectful murmur. "How is she? Is she...?"

Rowan let out the breath he had been holding. "She’s fine," he said, the words feeling, for the first time, real. "She’s awake. She’s... she’s her. Complaining about her head."

A small, relieved smile broke through Weston’s worry. "Thank God."

Rowan walked further into the room. "Weston, I need your help. I need someone to tend to her. A maid. She..."

"It’s fine," Weston said, cutting him off with a gentle wave of his hand. "It’s already done. I told Mrs. Agnes to have a maid on standby with a warm dinner, as soon as she woke. She should be on her way up now."

"Thank you," Rowan said, his voice thick with a gratitude that went beyond simple politeness. "And, Weston... I am so sorry. For this. For ruining your gathering. For... everything."