The drawing room was, for the first time in Ines’s memory, a battlefield. And she was losing.
She sat in a high-backed damask chair, the very picture of aristocratic grace. Her deep blue silk dress was immaculate. Her hair was perfect. She had armed herself with a slim volume of poetry. Edith moved silently, pouring Ines a cup of tea, the fragrant steam curling in the air. Ines murmured her thanks, her movements measured and smooth.
Across the room, Rowan and Carcel stood near the fireplace, their voices a low, masculine rumble as they discussed business. She was determined to ignore them. She would be a beautiful, elegant piece of furniture. She would read her poetry and drink her tea and be utterly, completely, nonchalantly invisible.
It was a very good plan.
It failed immediately.
She opened her book. The words on the page were about shepherds and unrequited love. She read the first line: "My heart, a lonely wanderer..."
She lifted her teacup, her pinky finger extended just so. Over the rim of the fine china, she cast a tiny, sideways glance.
Carcel was looking right at her.
He was not looking at her politely. He was not gazing idly around the room. His dark eyes were fixed on her with the same unnerving, quiet intensity she remembered from the garden.
Ines snapped her gaze back to her book so fast, she nearly gave herself whiplash. Her heart, which had been behaving like a normal organ, suddenly performed a violent leap against her ribs.
He was staring. Why was he staring?
She pretended to be deeply absorbed in the poem. She took a tiny, shaky sip of tea.
My heart, a lonely wanderer...
She read the same line again. It made no sense. She could feel his gaze on her, like the heat of the sun through a window. She resisted the urge to look again for a full two minutes. It was the longest two minutes of her life.
Maybe he looked away.
She turned a page, a graceful, silent motion. She allowed her eyes to drift, as if scanning the room in boredom.
He was still looking at her.
This time, she hid behind the entire book, lifting it slightly higher as if the light were poor. Her cheeks were burning. She could feel a blush creeping up her neck, and she prayed her high collar would hide it.
This is a nightmare. He knows I’m not reading. He knows I’m a fraud. He probably sees the dirt I missed behind my ear. He’s probably remembering me in my apron, looking like a stunned fish.
She had almost finished an entire book of poetry—or at least, she had stared at all of its pages—when Rowan cleared his throat, pulling her from her misery.
Ines put on her "Icy Lady" mask. She lowered the book gracefully onto her lap, placing her teacup on the saucer with a soft, delicate click. She turned her head toward her brother, her expression one of mild, polite interest.
"Carcel is going to be in town for some time," Rowan announced, his voice cheerful. "He’s here for business. We’ll be working together on the new shipping investments."
Ines felt a small, cold pit of dread open in her stomach. "Some time?" How long? A week? A month?
"Is that so?" she replied, her voice a perfect, cool monotone. She even managed to raise one eyebrow slightly, as if the news were dreadfully boring.
So he isn’t going back to Carleton anytime soon, she thought, her internal voice a high-pitched scream. This is a disaster. A complete and utter catastrophe.
Carcel spoke, his voice deep and smooth. It rumbled through the floor, and Ines felt it in her very bones. "Rowan, do you have any recommendations on a good inn I might stay at?"
Ines’s heart, which had been sinking, suddenly soared with a wild, desperate hope.
An inn! she thought, her relief so profound she almost smiled. He’s staying at an inn! Oh, thank God. He will be leaving here today. He will be a respectable distance away. I am saved. I will just have to move on. Yes. Moving on. An excellent, mature plan.
She let out a tiny, inaudible sigh of relief and took a sip of tea. It tasted like victory.
"...with good proximity to your residence," Carcel continued, "for better communication of the business plan."
Her teacup stopped halfway to her lips.
Proximity? she thought, her panic returning. Better communication? Oh, no. That means he will be dropping by. Casually. Some days at least. He’ll be here for breakfast. He’ll be here for dinner. He’ll just... appear.
She managed to set the cup down, though her hand was not quite steady.
I can deal with that, she told herself, trying to rationalize. I just have to know when he is coming and avoid him. I will stay in the library all day. It is a solid plan.
She took another, more deliberate sip of tea, calming herself.
"Nonsense!" Rowan boomed, laughing as he clapped Carcel on the shoulder. "An inn? We are brothers, Carcel, not mere acquaintances. Why would you stay in an inn when there are dozens of guest rooms in my residence? It’s an absurd idea. You will stay here, of course. Stay until all our business is concluded."
Ines was in the middle of swallowing.
The words "You will stay here" hit her brain at the exact same moment the hot tea hit her throat. The two things collided, and her body, in a moment of pure, unadulterated panic, rejected both.
She choked.
It was not a small, delicate cough. It was a strangled, spluttering, gasping choke. Tea went down the wrong pipe. She lurched forward, her hand flying to her chest.
"WHAT?" she thought, and the word came out as a loud, watery gasp that sounded horrifyingly similar.
The two men stopped talking instantly. They both turned to stare at her. Rowan’s face was etched with alarm. Carcel’s face was... just Carcel. Intense, unreadable, and fixed entirely on her.
Ines’s face flooded with a heat so intense, she was surprised the tea didn’t steam. She was mortified.
She smiled, a truly grotesque and awkward grimace, while patting her chest. "My apologies," she croaked, her eyes watering. "It... it went down the wrong way. So silly of me."
Rowan and Carcel exchanged a brief look. Her brother, seeming satisfied that she was not, in fact, dying, turned back to his guest. "It’s settled, then. I’ll have Mrs. Briggs prepare the Duke’s suite for you."
They continued their conversation, their voices fading back into a dull roar as Ines’s mind descended into pure, unadulterated chaos.
Why? she wailed internally, sinking back into her chair. Oh, why? Why is it that the very moment I decide, like a mature, sensible woman, to move on with my life, the actual devil comes knocking? And not only does he knock, he’s invited in! He decides to STAY!
She stared at the wall, her poetry book forgotten.
In my house. Sleeping under the same roof. Walking the same halls. Eating at the same table. Breathing the same air. This is not a business trip; this is a siege! My peace is gone. The library is not safe. Nowhere is safe!
"Ines?"
She started, pulled from her spiral. Rowan was looking at her, a small, questioning frown on his face.
"That is acceptable to you, of course? Having Carcel stay with us?" he asked, a polite afterthought.
No! her mind shrieked. It is not acceptable! It is the least acceptable thing that has ever happened in the history of things! Tell him no! Say you’ve suddenly contracted the plague! Say Aunt Eleonora is coming after all and she needs all twelve guest rooms!
She forced a bright, painful, cracking smile onto her face. It felt like her lips were splitting.
She nodded, a stiff, jerky motion. "Of course, Rowan. It is... wonderful. A splendid idea."
Rowan beamed, satisfied. "Excellent." He turned back to Carcel, and the two men began to walk toward the door, likely to inspect the stables.
Ines watched them go. She stared at her brother’s broad, unsuspecting back.
Rowan, she thought, her heart sinking into her silk slippers. You absolute traitor. Why would you suggest something that will eventually, absolutely, be my undoing? You have just invited a wolf into the sheepfold. And I am the sheep. A very clumsy sheep.
She picked up her book, her hands trembling, and hid her burning face behind its cover.