Ines made a small, choked, whimpering sound, right there in the garden.
She held her cheeks. They were, all of a sudden, burning. They were hotter than the French sun she had just imagined.
Carcel, who had been watching her, who had seen her bright, dazzling smile... and who had then seen it crumple, replaced by a look of wide-eyed, blushing, panic...
He understood.
He was, after all, a man who knows the rules of society. He was not an idiot. He had just, in his own, impulsive, stupid way, offered to elope with his best friend’s sister which was not in anyway intentional.
He had to fix this. Quickly.
He cleared his throat.
"Of course," he said, his voice casual, reasonable, and full of a kindness that was, somehow, almost as painful as her own foolishness. "We would have to... manage it."
He leaned forward, his expression now one of a helpful friend.
"How about," he said, as if the thought had just, this very second, occurred to him, "taking Rowan along? Convince him to go with you?
Ines, who had been hiding her burning face in her hands, looked up, her eyes wide. Rowan?
"And," he continued, his voice so sensible it was a bucket of cold water, "your friend. Miss Gladys. The... the tutor. I’m sure it would be amazing."
Ines just... stared.
The beautiful, sun-drenched, kissing image in her mind... popped. It vanished.
It was replaced by a new image. Her. Rowan (complaining about the heat). And Gladys (looking pale, and nervous, and probably seasick).
Oh.
Her mind, her poor, foolish, romantic mind, responded.
"Of course," it said, in a small, dull, flat voice. "That makes sense."
"I misinterpreted it. Again. I assumed... I assumed he meant just the... just the two of us, alone, on a journey to France. How foolish of me. How... how incredibly, stupendously, foolish of me."
He was not offering an elopement. He was not offering a romantic escape. He was... he was being kind. He was offering her a vacation, a chance to leave her gilded cage. A proper, chaperoned, respectable vacation.
She forced a smile onto her face. It felt stiff. It felt... brittle.
"Really?" she said, her voice a bright, false, social-tinkle. "A... a group? That would be a wonderful idea. Do you... do you think Rowan would want to join us?"
"You can arrange it," Carcel said. He was smiling again, that new, easy, brotherly smile. He was back to being her co-conspirator. "You can, as you said, complain that your summers are dull. You can complain that your health requires a warmer climate. You can arrange it so he can’t say no. You know he rarely says no to you."
He leaned back, pleased with his own cleverness.
"And even if I can’t go with you," he said, a final, generous, and utterly devastating nail in her romantic coffin, "you and Rowan, and Miss Gladys, of course... you are all welcomed to use the villa. For as long as you like."
Ines’s smile faltered.
It didn’t just falter. It... it died.
She looked down at her lap. At her gloves.
Even...even if I can’t go with you. Then what’s the point in going at all? What’s the need of planning a vacation when he won’t be there. I would just sit theredoing nothing like I normally do.
She looked at him, her heart, her foolish, stupid heart, which had been so full, and so warm, just moments before, suddenly felt... empty.
It would be wonderful to change scenery, another thought tried to see reason with the situation, her mind a gray, dull, echo. But... if Carcel isn’t there...
She looked at him again. He was watching the butterfly again, a small, pleasant, friendly smile on his face.
...it feels meaningless.
The emerald sea... the warm sun... the floating... it wasn’t the place she wanted.
It was him.
Even if I am destined to spend my life confined to this mansion, she thought, her gaze dropping, being here... just... just being here in this garden, with him... just... just talking to him... it makes me happy.
I’ll be happy anywhere. Anywhere at all. As long as I’m by his side.
The realization was so pure, so sharp, and so painful, that it almost made her gasp.
She wanted to tell him. She wanted to scream it at him. I don’t want your villa! I don’t want the emerald sea! I want you! I want your ’mischievous’ smile! I want...to go with you!
She closed her eyes.
I can dream alone, she told herself, her internal voice now a small, sad, frightened thing. But... but voicing these desires... voicing these feelings... it might shatter our current relationship. This... this new, fragile, wonderful thing I tried so hard to foster between us.
She had, she realized, a terrible choice.
She could have this. She could have this—this easy friendship, this secret, electric, "French lesson" game they were playing. She could have his jokes, his kindness, his... respect.
Or, she could ask for more. She could ask for... love.
But if she goes ahead with it, she could lose everything.
I’m afraid, she thought, her hand clutching her book, so tight her knuckles ached. I am so afraid my feelings might break it. That I will... I will say the wrong thing. That I will ask for too much. That I might be selfish again to make him mine even if he doesn’t want to and we will be back to square one.
Back to him, as the cold, distant, silent Duke of Carleton who only shares his smiles with everyone except her.
And her, as the invisible, icy, lonely Lady Ines.
She could not, would not, risk that.
She took a deep, shaky breath. She opened her eyes. She put on her smile.
"Well," she said, her voice bright. "A trip to France! With chaperones, of course. It sounds... it sounds like a wonderful, and very sensible, idea."