The library was so quiet, Ines could hear her own heart thumping, a wild, panicked beat against her ribs. He had promised. He had sworn on his life.
She took a shaky breath, letting go of his coat sleeve. Her hand felt cold and empty without the contact. He had sworn to keep her secret, but he was still staring at her, his dark eyes filled with a grim, assessing light. He was waiting. He had promised silence, but he had not promised to let the matter rest. He was still waiting for an answer.
What should I tell him?
She had to give him something. The truth—that she was curious, that she was a writer, that she was trying to imagine a passion she had never known—was impossible. He would think her depraved.
The victim act, which he seemed to have assumed, made her skin crawl. She was not a victim. She is a woman of craft.
She needed a new lie. A different lie. A logical one.
Ines sighed, a long, weary sound, as if she were carrying the weight of the world. She looked away from him, at the titles of the books on the shelf, trying to appear worldly and burdened.
"I wrote it for money," she said, her voice flat.
Carcel’s eyes widened. Just slightly, but she saw it. This was not the answer he expected.
Ines pressed on, her lie gathering strength. "I am getting older, Your Grace. I am twenty-one. Six seasons. Who would marry a woman like me? A woman who is ’ill’ and ’difficult’?" She let a note of sadness enter her voice. "So I thought I should at least make some money for my future. I heard... I heard these kinds of novels sell quite well."
She chanced a look at him. His face was a mask of stone.
Will he be fooled? she thought, her heart hammering. Please be fooled. It sounds so practical. So very... spinsterish.
He stared at her for a long, agonizing second. Then, he spoke one, flat word.
"Lies."
Ines shrieked internally. He’s not fooled! Her heart plummeted into her stomach. Of course he’s not fooled. He is Carcel. He probably knows what I had for breakfast three weeks ago. He sees through everything!
This time, he did cross his arms against his broad chest. It was a gesture of absolute, immovable judgment. "You should know, Ines, that I understand Rowan’s financial status better than anyone else. That includes the vast dowry you will bring when you get married. You are one of the wealthiest heiresses in London. You do not need money."
Her lie had been stupid. Pathetic. He had dismantled it with one simple fact. But she was a Hamilton. She would not back down.
"That is a story for after I get married," she countered, lifting her chin. "Before marriage, that dowry is not mine. It is my brother’s. And I cannot spend my whole life growing old and living on my brother’s money."
"Even if you don’t get married, Rowan will provide enough for you to live well on your own," Carcel said, his voice flat, as if he were explaining a simple sum. "He would never see you want for anything. You know that."
This part of her lie, at least, was true. The thought of it, of being a permanent, useless burden on her brother, was a real and constant fear. Her voice took on a genuine, sharp edge.
"If I don’t marry, I can’t be a dependant! A charity case in my own home! I cannot simply... grow old, living on his kindness. I must have something of my own."
"Then why not just get married?" Carcel asked. The question was logical. It was the question the whole world asked her.
The words burst out of her, a cry of pure, honest frustration. "That’s because I can’t get married!"
Ah.
Carcel’s expression did not change, but she felt the atmosphere in the room shift. He had been waiting for this. He thought he finally had the truth.
She can’t get married, he thought, his own theory solidifying into fact. Because of him. Because of what that bastard did to her.
"Are the men you’re seeing... that bad?" he asked, his voice now dangerously soft. He was probing, trying to find the man, the one man, who was responsible for the words on that page.
Ines’s head went blank. The question made no sense. It was as if he had asked her if she enjoyed wrestling bears.
Men? Plural? What men? I am not ’seeing’ anyone. I actively run from them. He saw me do it!
The words slipped out of her mouth, a squeak of confusion.
"Men I’m seeing?"
He nodded, his face grim. He was certain he was on the right path. He pointed one, long finger at his breast pocket, where her page was hidden.
"The details in this writing are very vivid," he said, his voice low.
Ines felt the heat rise in her face again. He’s back on the manuscript. Always back to the manuscript.
"That is just my imagination," she said, her voice stiff. It was the last, most desperate response she had.
He took a single, slow step toward her. She held her ground, but her hands were twisting the strings of her apron so hard, she thought they might rip.
"Ines," he said, and the soft use of her name made her flinch. "There are many things written on that page. Things a woman... things you... cannot imagine without experience."
He was wrong. She had imagined them. But he was also right. She had not imagined them from nothing.
I am not an innocent! her mind screamed at him, a silent, furious tantrum. I am not a child!
She was so annoyed. She was so tired of being treated like a piece of fragile, ignorant porcelain. She was exhausted from his interrogation, from his dark, knowing, judging stare.
Because I have read a lot of those kinds of novels! she raged internally. That’s where I got it! From romances that would make your hair curl! From forbidden poetry! It is called RESEARCH, Your Grace! You are not the only person in this house who can read a book!
She wanted to stamp her foot. She wanted to throw some of the scattered seeds at his handsome, stone-cold, interfering face.
Carcel, can you just... her mind pleaded... please... just LET ME BE!