He was staring. Not at her, not at first. His gaze was fixed, his dark eyes unblinking, on the open manuscript spread across the desk, illuminated in the bright, isolated pool of her lamplight.
She could not breathe. She could not move. She felt as if he could read the scandalous words from across the room.
In a single, violent motion, she stood up. The legs of her chair screeched against the hardwood floor, a sound like a scream.
"Ca... Carcel?" she stammered. Her face was on fire. She shook her head, as if to clear the horrifying vision. "Ah, no. I mean... Duke Carcel."
He finally lifted his gaze from the desk to her. He looked at her in her nightgown, her hair unbound and tumbling over her shoulders, her face flushed.
"Am I interrupting?" he asked. His voice was soft, almost gentle.
Yes! her mind shrieked. You are interrupting the most private, depraved moment of my life!
"What were you doing?" he asked.
"Uhmmm..." Ines replied. Her eyes darted from his face to her opened manuscript.
Oh, God, the manuscript!
SLAM!
She slammed the heavy leather-bound book shut. The sound was like a gunshot in the dead-quiet library. It echoed off the walls.
Her mind, her worst enemy, began its routine of attacking her.
What were you doing? WHAT WAS I DOING?
Ah, yes. A calmer part of her brain replied. I was writing about Stefan and Doris. I was just getting to the good part. The very good part. His finger... oh, heavens. I was getting to their intimate moment.
She held her hands tightly together, her knuckles white.
He can’t blame me! she argued with herself. I have never been close to a man before. Not properly. So what better way to vent my... my desires... than penning them down? It is perfectly logical. It is research!
She looked at him. He was just... watching her. His expression was serious. Unreadable.
I definitely cannot say any of that to him, she concluded. He’s a man. He won’t understand. He will just think I am a depraved lunatic. He’ll tell Rowan.
She mirrored his serious expression, lifting her chin in what she hoped was a dignified manner. "I was writing my diary," she said, her voice stiff.
He tilted his head, just slightly. A single lock of dark hair fell over his forehead. He seemed, to her utter shock, genuinely curious. "Your diary?"
"Yes," she said, her grip tightening on the desk. "My diary."
"Hmm," he said, the sound a low vibration. "A diary. Did something interesting happen today?"
Ines was completely taken aback. Why is he trying to start a conversation with me? Now? In the middle of the night? While I am dressed for bed? He hasn’t spoken ten words to me in two weeks! He just eats his food and disappears!
She felt a flash of defensiveness. "Even if I am stuck at home, Your Grace," she replied, her voice cool, "it is not as if every day is filled with boring tasks."
For example, she thought, her anger rising, the ’novel’ I write gives joy to someone else. It gives joy to hundreds of women. That is not boring. It is more interesting than your boring shipping ledgers!
She needed to leave. Now. She gathered the few loose pieces of paper she had been using for notes and tucked them into the front cover of the closed book. She picked up the heavy volume, holding it to her chest like a shield. It was still warm.
She stood tall and began the long walk toward the door. Toward him.
"You have something to do in the library, right?" she said, her tone polite but icy. "I will step aside."
As she approached, he spoke again, his voice still soft. "I didn’t mean to mock you, Lady Ines."
She paused, just a few feet away from him. He hadn’t been mocking her. His curiosity, she realized, was real. This was somehow worse.
"Of course not," she said briskly, dismissing the thought. "So, I will be going now..."
She reached the door. And stopped.
He was still standing there, his large frame blocking half the exit. He hadn’t moved. He was enormous.
He is so tall, her traitorous mind whispered. Even in the dim light, his shoulders are so broad. His arms... she glanced at them. He had crossed them over his chest, and the white sleeves of his shirt strained against his muscles. His arms look so strong. He could probably lift...
Snap out of it, Ines! she scolded herself. This is the man who ignores you! He is in the way!
She put on an irritated look. "You need to step aside for me to leave, Your Grace," she said, her voice sharp.
He did not look flustered. He did not look annoyed. He simply unfolded his arms. One hand slid casually into his trouser pocket, and the other held the book he had come for. He shifted.
But he only shifted a little. Just a single step, giving her barely enough space to pass.
"My apologies," he said.
Ines looked at the narrow gap. Just one step? she thought, outraged. He barely moved. It would have been nice if he had stepped back a little more. Now I have to... to squeeze past him.
There was no other choice. Holding her breath, Ines clutched her precious "diary" tighter. She turned sideways, trying to make herself as thin as possible, and began to shuffle past him.
She failed.
The space was too small. Her side, her hip, and the arm clutching her book brushed against him. It was a long, slow, unavoidable contact. She felt the hard muscle of his arm through his shirtsleeve, and... oh, dear God... her hip brushed against the front of his trousers.
She felt something. Something firm.
It was a key, she told herself instantly. A key. A very large, oddly shaped... key.
Writing too many novels has finally driven me crazy, her mind shrieked in pure panic. My mind is gone. I am a lost cause. I am imagining things. It is not even like our bare skin touched. It was just wool and silk. It was a key. It was!
She was finally past him. She could feel her ear, the one that had been closest to him, burning a bright, mortified, screaming red. She was profoundly thankful for the dim hallway, thankful that his back was now to her.
She did not say goodnight. She did not look back. She quickened her footsteps, her silk slippers making a soft, frantic shushing sound on the wooden floor as she all but ran down the dark, silent hall.
Carcel did not move. He did not go into the library. He stood in the doorway for a long time, one hand still in his pocket, staring at her retreating form.