Ines stared at him, her chest heaving. His words, "you cannot imagine without experience," echoed in the silent library. He was wrong. He was so, so wrong. And she was so tired of him being so wrong, so calm, so judgmental.
The last thread of her composure snapped.
"I am struggling because of my lack of experience!" she cried out. The words tore from her, loud and sharp and brimming with a hysterical frustration. The Icy Lady was gone, replaced by a furious, cornered writer.
Carcel’s stony expression finally cracked. He blinked.
"That is the entire problem!" she continued, her hands balling into fists at her sides. She was practically vibrating with pent-up energy. "Lately, I can’t even imagine anything new for my writing. It’s completely blocked. That... that page you found... that was the last idea I had. It was all I had left! And now it is gone, and I have nothing!"
He just stared at her. His mind, which had been so certain, so full of dark theories about her past, was now a complete and utter blank. His theory of a secret, malicious lover had just been blown to pieces.
He had to be certain. He took a step back, as if she were a strange, explosive device he did not understand.
"Ines," he said, his voice low and incredulous. "Are you seriously saying... you have never dated any man? That you have never had... such... relations?" He gestaured to his breast pocket, to the scandalous page hidden within.
Ines let out a short, sharp, humorless scoff. "Of course! Is that so shocking? I am the ’Icy Lady,’ remember? The spinster of six seasons. No one comes near me. And I do not let them."
She was on a roll now, the words tumbling out, her filter completely dissolved. "Because of my lack of experience, my writing is stuck. It is just going in circles. The same scenes, over and over. A stolen kiss. A trembling hand. It is boring." She threw her hands up in the air. "I am even considering meeting a man somewhere if this continues!"
The words hung in the air.
They were, perhaps, the most scandalous, insane, and honest words that had ever been spoken in the Hamilton library.
A cold, profound silence descended. It was no longer a tense silence; it was a stunned one. The sound of the tall case clock in the hall, ticking, ticking, ticking, was like a hammer blow in the quiet. Ines could see the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam from the window, frozen in time.
Carcel’s face was a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. His "victim" theory was dead. His "depraved woman" theory was dead. He was now faced with a third, far more terrifying possibility: she was a complete, beautiful, high-born, and dangerously naive lunatic.
Then, Ines heard what she had just said.
She heard it as he must have heard it.
"I am even considering meeting a man somewhere if this continues."
Her eyes widened in abject horror. Her hands, which had been gesticulating wildly, flew to her mouth, as if to physically stop any more audacious, ruinous words from coming out.
Oh, no, her mind shrieked, a high-pitched, silent scream. Oh, no, no, no. I did not just say that. I did not just tell the Duke of Carleton, my brother’s best friend, the most moral and terrifying man I know, that I was planning to go find a stranger to... to... for research! He is going to lock me in a tower. Rowan will lock me in a tower. They will build a special tower just for me!
She looked at Carcel. He looked... stunned. As if she had just confessed to being a spy for the French.
She immediately began to wave her hands in front of her, a frantic, desperate gesture of denial.
"No!" she squeaked, her voice cracking.
"No, I mean... I didn’t mean that. Not literally." She let out a nervous, high-pitched chuckle that sounded like a dying bird. "Obviously. Obviously, there are no men around me. Where would I... I mean... it’s just a thought! A silly, writer’s thought. You know, for the art. I have just... I have run out of ideas from my imagination. That is all I meant."
She was babbling. She knew she was babbling. She was making it worse.
She finally dropped her hands, her shoulders slumping. The manic energy was gone, leaving her exposed and exhausted. She looked at the floor, at the scattered seeds.
"I have given up on marriage," she said, her voice now small and tired. "I do not care about my own reputation. Not really. But... but I don’t want to bring shame to my brother."
She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. "He is a Duke. He is a good man. He deserves better than... this. Having a troublesome sister, a sister who writes... that... or who is rumored to be... meeting men... it would be a disgrace to him. It would be a disgrace to our family name. That is why... that is why you cannot tell him. It would break his heart."
Carcel stood there, watching her. He had seen her go from a terrified victim, to a furious artist, to a babbling, panicked girl, to a somber, protective sister, all in the space of three minutes.
His mind was reeling. She was not a victim. She was not depraved.
She was an innocent.
An innocent who wrote detailed, anatomical filth. An innocent who was so frustrated by her lack of "inspiration" that she was casually threatening to go find some. She was a walking, talking powder keg. She was a beautiful, well-born, twenty-one-year-old child playing with fire.
He let out a long, slow breath. The cold fury he had felt for her was gone. It was replaced by a hot, profound, and utterly weary frustration at her.
He lifted one hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes, squeezing them shut for a brief second.
What, he thought, his mind a mixture of disbelief and a burgeoning, terrifying sense of responsibility. What am I supposed to do with this young lady?