"Carcel, wait..." Ines moaned, her voice a low, breathless sound he had, to his own, eternal shame, come to recognize. He was kissing her neck. He could feel the frantic pulse beneath his lips.
He didn’t listen. He couldn’t.
He was a man possessed, his mouth a hot, desperate, plundering force. He moved from her neck, that sweet, intoxicating curve, and he crashed his lips into hers. He kissed her with a raw, savage, hunger, a hunger that had been building in him since that morning. He was starving, and she... she was a banquet.
He felt her small, capable hands come up, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
He pulled back, his hands moving, finding the thin, silk straps of her nightgown. The transparent one. The one he hated and come to love. He tore it from her. He did not care. He needed her skin.
He lowered his head. He took one, hard, nipple into his mouth. Her head was drawn back, her back arched, her eyes, those beautiful, intelligent, hazel eyes, rolled back in her head.
"Carcel..." she moaned. A long, high, shuddering sound that was, to him, the sound of victory.
He raised his head. He was panting. He was desperate. He had to know. He had to own this.
"Do you love me?" he groaned, his voice a low, rough, ragged sound. He gripped her shoulders, his fingers digging in. "Say you love me, Ines. Say it. Me. And only me."
She looked at him. Her eyes were clear. She was not dazed. She was... smiling. A soft, tender, knowing smile. She lifted her hand. She caressed his cheek.
He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, a broken, desperate, waiting man.
"I love you," she whispered, her voice a soft, silken, purr.
"I love you... Evans."
Carcel froze.
His blood, which had been boiling, turned, in a single, agonizing, heart-stopping second, to ice.
He pulled back, his hands falling from her, his body rigid. He stared at her.
"What..." he choked out. "What did you just say?"
Her smile did not falter. It was... it was pitying.
"Let’s stop these lessons, Carcel," she said, her voice calm, and light, and reasonable. She sat up, pulling the torn, ruined, silk to cover her bare breasts. "I’m getting married soon. And, as you can see, I am... I am in love. With the man I am to marry. Evans."
"Evans..." he whispered.
"Yes," she said. "Earl Montclair. He is perfect. He loves books. And he... he understands me. Thank you... for the practice. But I... I am in love with him."
"No..."
"INES!"
He woke up.
He did not wake up slowly. He bolted upright, his heart a wild, frantic, cannonball in his chest, the name "Evans" a foul, acidic, poison on his tongue.
He was in his room. The guest room. It was pitch black. He was tangled in his sheets, which were damp with a cold, terrified, sweat.
He was breathing. Hard. His lungs ached.
He ran a shaking, trembling, hand through his hair. He looked around the dark, empty, silent room.
"It’s just a nightmare," he whispered, his voice a raw, hoarse, rasp.
But it had felt so real. The scent of her. The taste of her. The rejection.
Evans.
The name. It was a curse. It was the name of his pale, spineless, book-reading cousin. The man Rowan, in his infinite, matchmaking, idiot wisdom, had chosen.
In that dream, he had lost her. He felt... he felt sick.
He threw the covers off. He had to get up. He had to move. He was... he was thirsty. His throat was dry.
He reached, in the dark, for the water carafe on his bedside table. His fingers fumbled, finding the glass, finding the heavy, crystal, decanter.
It was empty.
He had, he remembered, drained it, hours ago, after his first nightmare. The one where Rowan had found them.
A low, frustrated, groan rumbled in his chest. He needed water. He needed to wash the taste of that... that dream... from his mouth.
He stood up. He was wearing, he noted, vaguely, a dark trouser. He had not, it seemed, even bothered with a nightshirt. He was too... restless.
He would go to the kitchen.
He opened his door, wincing at the small, sharp, click of the latch in the dead, profound, silence of the house. The hallway was a river of silver, moonlit, shadow. It was late. It must be... three, four, in the morning. The house was asleep.
He walked, his bare feet silent on the thick, plush, runner. He was lost in the fog of the dream. The horror of it. Her, in his arms. Her, loving another man. Evans.
He was walking, his head down, lost in this... this hell...
And then, he saw it.
He was at her door. He was just... passing.
Her door was slightly ajar.
He froze.
A thin, bright, warm, orange line of light was slicing through the dark. It was coming from inside.
He stopped, his heart, which had just, finally, settled into a slow, grim, beat, giving a sudden, sharp, lurch.
She is awake.
He moved, silent as a shadow, closer to the door. He was not spying. He was worried. Was she ill? Was she... was she having a nightmare, too?
He was just, he told himself, checking. He peered, through the tiny, inch-wide, crack.
And he saw her.
She was not ill. She was not in distress.
She was at her desk. The small, delicate, lamp, the one with the orange, silk, shade, was lit, casting a warm, intimate, golden glow, all around her.
She was in her green, velvet, dressing gown. Her back was mostly to him, but he could see her profile. Her hair was down, a wild, reddish-brown, glorious mess, tumbling over her shoulders.
And she was writing.
Her quill was not just moving. It was flying. It was a blur of inspired, joyful motion.
He watched, his breath caught in his throat.
She wrote, for a full minute, her entire, small, body lost in the act. And then, she stopped. She lifted the quill. She looked down, at the page she had just, in a flurry of genius, filled.
And she... she smiled.
It was not a small smile. It was not a polite, social, smile. It was a beam. A bright, slow, triumphant, and utterly, beautiful, smile of pure, unadulterated, satisfaction.
It was the smile of an artist, who had just, in the deep, silent, secret, dark, created something.
Carcel’s heart, the one that had been a cold, hard, aching stone of jealousy, and fear...
It... it warmed.
The nightmare... Evans... Rowan’s ball... it all just... it all just... faded.
He smiled.
A small, private, tired, and deeply, fond, smile, there, alone, in the dark, silent, hallway.
He lifted his hand. He was not going to knock. He wouldn’t dare disturb her peace. He reached out. His fingers, very gently, touched the cold, hard, wood of her door. He pushed it. Just an inch.
The door moved, with a soft, whispering sigh, closing. The line of bright, orange, light vanished, plunging the hallway, once again, into a safe, silver, and secret darkness.
He smiled, again, and turned. He went to the kitchen.
Inside the room, Ines had not heard the small, soft, sigh of her door. She was too lost in her own, triumphant, world. She had just finished. She had written the final line of the Chapter.
She dropped her quill, her hand, her entire arm, aching. But it was a good ache. She beamed, her face, in the lamplight, full of a pure, triumphant, joy.
Gladys is going to love this, she thought, her mind already, professionally, moving to the next step.
I’ll have to tell her not to come here for a few days, she decided. She was, she knew, ahead. She had, in the last, glorious, inspired weeks, written more, and better, than she had in the last year.
I’m sure, with what I’ve just written, she thought, a small, smug smile touching her lips, there will be more than enough to be printed. And that... that will be okay, until after the ball.
She stood up. She stretched, her arms high above her head, her back arching, like a small, satisfied, and very, very, tired, cat.
She picked up the pages. The new, fresh, wonderful, manuscript. She walked to her desk. She performed her ritual.
She placed the manuscript in the hidden, bottom, drawer. She locked it. She walked to her vanity. She opened the jewelry box. She lifted the velvet, lining. She hid the key.
She walked to her bed, and blew out the lantern, plunging her own, small, safe, room, into a soft, satisfied, darkness.
She had, she thought, as she climbed, exhausted, into her bed, her mind, for once, quiet, and at peace...