He was exactly where Edith said he would be.
Rowan, Duke of Ford, stood at the base of the grand staircase, a tall, unmoving figure of masculine impatience. He was dressed in perfect, severe black evening wear, the white of his cravat stark against his tan skin. As Ines’s foot touched the top step, he snapped open the gold pocket watch in his hand.
CLICK.
"We are twenty minutes late, Ines."
His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the foyer. He snapped the watch shut and slipped it back into his waistcoat pocket, his eyes never leaving her as she descended.
It’s been four years since he left for the war, she thought, gathering her skirts. And two years since he came back. And he’s still as time-conscious as ever.
She reached the bottom step. He did not look angry. Rowan rarely looked truly angry. He just looked... precise. And slightly disappointed, which was, Ines always found, substantially worse.
"I was having trouble with my hair," she lied. The excuse felt thin and weak on her tongue. " They kept escaping from the pin."
Rowan’s gaze flickered to her head. He noted the reddish-brown curls escaping. They were lovely, but they were always escaping. It was not a twenty-minute problem. He knew his sister. He knew her lies.
"Why didn’t you just allow Edith to help you with that?" he asked. His voice was calm and reasonable.
Ines was silent. She had no answer for that. She couldn’t very well say, "Because Edith would have seen my manuscript, and I cannot allow anyone to know I am writing a book that would have me banished from society."
So, she just stood there, silent, smoothing the satin of her gloves.
Rowan sighed. It was a heavy sound, full of duty and exasperation and, buried deep beneath it, a great deal of affection. He was her guardian. He was her duke. But mostly, he was just her big brother and the only family she has left.
"Let’s just go," he said.
He held out his arm. It was a solid, dependable gesture. Ines felt a rush of gratitude for him, immediately followed by a sharp pang of guilt for the secrets she kept. She placed her gloved hand lightly on his forearm.
"The Danbury Ball," he said, as he guided her out the massive front doors and into the cool night. "I trust you will, at least, try not to look bored and enjoy every bit of it."
"I will try, Rowan," she said sweetly.
"And I trust," he continued, as the footman helped her into the carriage, "that you will stay away from Lord Westhaven, he just got married recently and I heard his wife is already with child."
Ines froze, one foot on the carriage step. "I am perfectly capable of handling Lord Westhaven."
"I have no doubt," Rowan said, settling in across from her. "But I find him dreadfully predictable, and I would prefer not to have to polish my dueling pistols tomorrow morning. It’s tedious."
Ines settled back against the plush velvet seat. The carriage lurched forward, the rhythmic clop-clop of the horses a familiar comfort as they left the residence.
They sat in silence for several minutes, the darkness of the carriage hiding their expressions.
Rowan cleared his throat breaking the silence. "Are you quite well, Ines?"
She started. "Yes, of course. Why would you ask?"
"You seem... distracted," he said, his outline barely visible. "More so than usual. Your cheeks are flushed. You do not have a fever, do you? Or is the night too cold for you?"
Ines’s hand flew to her face. It was still warm. "No. No, I am perfectly well. Just... eager for the ball."
This, he knew, was an absolute fabrication. Ines hated balls. She tolerated them. He could practically feel the lie radiating from her.
She is hiding something, Rowan thought. He looked out the window at the passing gas lamps. It is likely a book. She is always reading some dreadful gothic novel that gives her nightmares. He decided not to press. She was twenty-two. She was entitled to her silly novels. As long as she didn’t elope with a stableboy or gamble away her dowry, he supposed he could allow her this one small secrecy.
"Very well," he said, his voice softening just a fraction. "Just... try to enjoy yourself. Lady Danbury’s punch is rumored to be quite potent. Perhaps that will help."
"Rowan!"
"I am merely suggesting you find some small amusement in the evening," he said, a rare, small smile touching his lips. "It is, after all, what society demands of us."
Ines smiled back, the tension finally leaving her shoulders. He was impossible. And she was lucky to have him.
She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes, trying to compose herself. She needed to think about how to decline dance requests from gentlemen, and avoid small talk or gatherings, and avoiding Lord Westhaven.
But as the carriage rattled over the cobblestones, her mind betrayed her. It drifted away from the ball, away from her brother, and back to the desk drawer.
Despite Doris’s resistance, his hands...
Ines’s eyes snapped open. Her cheeks burned anew. She fanned herself lightly with her hand, profoundly grateful that her very proper, very punctual brother could not, in the darkness of the carriage, see her face.