Rowan stared at her, his gaze lingering for a second, confused by her sudden, bright energy. He looked at Carcel, who was a dark, unmoving shape in the shadows, and then, seeming satisfied, he replied. " Soon." He turned back to Weston with a final, booming laugh.
Ines pulled back, her face vanishing into the dimness.
And the smile? It was gone.
She turned back to Carcel. Her face was serious.
"I am your friend," she said again, her voice low, intense, and final. "See it as you are helping a friend. Who is in need."
She sighed, a calculated, weary sound. "I have never written that much before. Not in one night. After Edith brought me my... my ’diary’... I wrote for hours. And now... now I am beginning to understand when I read the other books. It all... it all makes sense now."
She leaned in, her eyes, in the darkness of the coach, shining with a terrifying, unholy light.
"So I still need your help, Carcel," she whispered. "I am the one asking. It is my choice. So you don’t need to worry about anything. You don’t need to feel... guilty. You are just... the teacher. Keep your moral compass aside."
She had, in one, brilliant, horrifying move, reframed the entire thing. She had seen his guilt, his one, true weakness, and she had taken it from him. She had absolved him. He was not a seducer. He was not a monster who had preyed on his best friend’s sister. He was a... a helper. A tool.
And she had, in the process, left him with no logical reason to say no. Everything in summary felt like he was being threatened.
Before he could form a single, coherent protest... before he could point out that "helping a friend" did not, in any civilized society, involve what they had done...
The carriage door opened.
Rowan climbed in, filling the space with his large, cheerful, and blissfully ignorant presence. "Right, then!" he boomed, settling himself next to Carcel. "Weston sends his apologies again for... well, for everything. A bit of a disaster, that, wasn’t it?"
He slammed the carriage door, and with a lurch, the carriage moved.
The journey home was three hours of the most profound, civilized, and excruciating torture Carcel had ever endured.
Rowan pulled out a sheaf of estate reports and began to read, occasionally murmuring about crop yields.
Ines, her victory complete, leaned her head back against the velvet, closed her eyes, and, with a small, secret, utterly satisfied smile on her lips, began to plan her next list of questions.
And Carcel... Carcel just sat. He did not read. He did not sleep. He sat, rigid as a stone, and stared at the woman opposite him.
"What is going through her mind now?" He thought to himself.
He stared at her, his mind a battlefield of disbelief, and a new, terrifying, unwanted admiration. He was smitten seeing a woman who knew what she wanted.
When the carriage finally rattled to a stop on the gravel drive of their own home, Carcel almost wept with relief.
The footman opened the door. Carcel, moving on pure, gentlemanly instinct, stepped out first. He turned, his hand raised, to help Ines down.
She placed her small, gloved hand in his.
The contact was a brand. A jolt of pure, white-hot memory. He felt the brush of her fingers, and he was back in the library, her legs wrapped around his waist, her cries muffled against his mouth, her hair sticking to her face, her scandalous dress clinging to her body from the sweat and her eyes telling him she wanted more, begging for another round of whatever he did to her.
He let go of her hand as if he had been burned, pulling back too quickly.
Ines, he noted, did not. Her touch was firm, steady, and unapologetic. She held his hand this time, firmly as she stepped down, her gaze cool, as if she had felt nothing.
"My lady!"
Edith was there, rushing from the open front door, her face a mask of pure relief. She had clearly been waiting.
Ines, in a rare, public show of affection, hugged her maid. "Edith! It is good to be home. I miss you."
"You came home earlier than expected, my lady! I was so worried..."
Before Ines could speak, Rowan, in full Duke-mode, stepped forward, already giving orders. "Edith, call for Doctor Harris. Immediately. I want him to check up on Lady Ines. She... she had an episode yesterday."
Edith, her face paling with fresh worry, curtsied. "Yes, Your Grace. At once." She turned back to Ines, her hands twisting. "My lady... Miss Gladys is in the library. She has been waiting for almost an hour. She said... she said she received a letter from you, by a special messenger, this morning, asking her to come?"
Carcel, who had been stiffly standing to the side, waiting for this entire, awful day to be over, heard this.
He turned his head.
A letter? This morning? Before we left the Clifford’s estate?
He had been in his own, personal hell of guilt and sham, and she... she had been awake. She had been clear-headed enough to summon a messenger. To arrange a business meeting.
Ines simply nodded. She was already unpinning her hat. "Yes. Thank you, Edith. When the doctor arrives, please... meet me in the library. He can see me there."
She handed her hat and gloves to the astonished maid.
"And prepare a warm bath for me, I feel sticky and my muscles are sore." She said as she rubbed the back of her neck.
Edith bowed. "Yes, my lady." She hurried off to summon the doctor first before drawing her a bath.
Ines turned. She did not look at her brother. She did not, not even for a second, look at Carcel.
She looked straight ahead, her back straight, her head high. And with a firm and terrifyingly purposeful stride, she walked into the house, her steps echoing on the marble floor.