CHAPTER 97: CHAPTER NINETY SEVEN

The morning sun burst through the window of Ines’s bedroom, a sudden, bright invasion that startled the dust motes dancing in the air. It was a brilliant, cheerful, golden light. It was the kind of sunlight that made birds sing and flowers open wide.

Ines hated it.

She sat at her small writing desk, her quill hovering over a piece of fine paper. The tip of the pen was dry. She hadn’t written a word in an hour.

She looked out the window, squinting against the glare. The garden below, which had been a muddy, gray mess for weeks, was suddenly vibrant. The leaves were green, the puddles were shrinking, and the world looked new.

"The pouring rain has finally stopped," she thought to herself, a bitter taste in her mouth. "It has allowed the sun to shine. The world is moving on."

She dropped the quill. It clattered against the wood.

"I can’t even blame the bad weather anymore," she whispered.

For weeks, she had told herself he wasn’t coming because of the rain. The roads are bad, she had told Gladys. The mud is too deep for a horse, she had told Rowan. He will come when the sky clears.

Well, the sky was clear. It was a perfect, blue, mocking expanse.

And he wasn’t here.

Ines laid her head down on the table, resting her cheek on the cool, polished wood. Her manuscript, a stack of papers filled with passionate reunions, lay ignored under her arm.

"In the end," she thought, closing her eyes to shut out the sun, "Carcel hasn’t visited me once. Not once."

She counted the days in her head. One week. Two weeks. Three weeks. It was almost a month now.

Maybe this marriage...

The thought, dark and cold, crept in.

Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe the bruises healed, and with them, his resolve faded. Maybe he realized that marrying his best friend’s sister—a woman who writes scandal—was too high a price to pay. Maybe he was no longer in London.

Knock, knock.

Ines didn’t move. She didn’t hear it. She was too far gone, lost in a spiral of rejection and fear.

Knock, knock. Louder this time.

"My Lady?"

It was Edith. Her voice sounded strange. Breathless.

Ines slowly lifted her head. She blinked, her eyes feeling heavy and dry. "Come in," she murmured, though the door was already opening.

Edith bustled in. She wasn’t carrying a tray of tea. She wasn’t carrying a basket of laundry. She was empty-handed, but her face was flushed, her eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and panic.

"My Lady..." Edith gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "The Duke of Carleton is here."

Ines went still.

The world seemed to stop spinning. The sun, the room, the manuscript—it all vanished.

"What?" she whispered.

"He is downstairs," Edith said, nodding vigorously. "He just arrived. He rode up on his black horse. He is... he is here."

Ines stood up. Her chair scraped loudly against the floor, toppling backward with a crash. She didn’t notice.

"Now?" she asked, her voice rising. "Without any notice? So suddenly? After a month?"

She looked down at herself. She was wearing a simple morning dress of pale blue cotton. Her hair was in a loose braid. She had ink on her finger.

Edith looked at her mistress’s panicked face. She knew Ines had been suffering. She saw the dark circles under Ines’s eyes.

"Y...Yes," Edith stammered. "He is in the library right now. Mr. Huxley let him in. Should I... should I tell him to leave? Should I say you are indisposed?"

Ines stared at the maid.

Tell him to leave?

Her pride screamed Yes! Tell him to go away. Tell him she is busy. Tell him she has forgotten his name. Make him wait a month, just as he made her wait.

But her heart... her foolish, traitorous heart... was already halfway out the door.

"No!" Ines cried out.

She stepped over the fallen chair.

"No," she repeated, smoothing her skirts with trembling hands. "I will go. I will go right away."

She didn’t stop to look in the mirror. She didn’t stop to pinch her cheeks or fix her hair. She couldn’t waste the seconds.

She walked out of her room and down the long, sunlit hallway.

Her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. It matched the sound of her footsteps on the runner.

This is the first time, she thought, her mind racing. This is the first time I am seeing him since that night. The night of the ball. The night of the guest room.

She remembered it vividly. The blood on his face. The swelling of his eye. The way he had looked at Rowan and said, "I will marry her."

She hadn’t seen him since he walked out the front door the next morning, battered and grim.

What if he looks at me with regret? she worried as she descended the stairs. What if he looks at me with duty, and nothing else?

She reached the library door.

It was closed.

She paused. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her shaking hands. She reached out and grasped the cool brass handle.

Courage, Ines, she told herself. You are Ines Hamilton. You can handle this.

She turned the knob and pushed the door open.

The library was bright. The heavy curtains had been pulled back, letting the sun flood the room.

And there, standing in the center of the room, was Carcel.

He was standing by the reading table—their table. He was looking down at a book, his profile sharp against the light.

Ines stopped in the doorway. She just looked at him.

He looked... healed.

The purple bruise that had covered his eye was gone. The swelling had vanished. His skin was smooth and tanned. The cut on his lip had healed into a faint, barely visible white line. He looked handsome. Devastatingly, unfairly handsome.

He was wearing a dark blue riding coat that fit his broad shoulders perfectly, and tall, polished boots. He looked strong. He looked healthy. He looked like a man who had not spent the last month crying into his pillow.

He heard the door close.

He turned.

His dark eyes found hers instantly.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just stared at each other across the expanse of the rug.

Then, Carcel moved.

He walked toward her. His strides were long and confident. He didn’t look hesitant. He didn’t look regretful.

Ines held her breath. She didn’t move. She waited to see what he would do.

He stopped in front of her. He was close enough that she could smell the familiar scent of soap and fresh air that clung to him.

He reached out.

He took her hand. His grip was warm, firm, and familiar.

He didn’t pull her into a hug. He didn’t grab her waist. He bowed his head, slowly, gracefully. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her hand.

It was a chaste kiss. A polite kiss. But his lips lingered on her skin for a second too long. His breath was hot against her knuckles. Ines felt a jolt of electricity shoot up her arm, straight to her heart.

He straightened up. He looked down at her, his eyes searching her face.

"Ines," he said.

His voice was a low rumble. It sounded like music she hadn’t heard in years.

Then, his gaze flickered. He looked past her, toward the door she had just come through. He looked at the ink stain on her finger.

He looked back at her face. A small, polite, almost distant smile touched his lips.

"You seem very busy," he said softly.

Ines stared at him.

Busy?

That was it? After a month of silence? After the flowers and the letters and the nothing? He walks in, looking perfect, kisses her hand like a stranger, and tells her she looks busy?

The relief she had felt upon seeing him evaporated. It was replaced by a cold, sharp spike of anger.

She snatched her hand away from his grip.

She dropped her hand to her side, clenching it into a fist in the folds of her dress. She stood up straighter, lifting her chin. She summoned every ounce of the "Icy Lady" she had buried.

She looked him in the eye.

"It is you," she said, her voice cool and crisp, cutting through the warm air of the library, "who have been very busy, isn’t it, Your Grace?"