"Chuckle..."
The sound escaped Ines before she could stop it. It was a small, bubbling sound, like champagne fizzing over the rim of a glass. She quickly pressed her lips together, trying to muffle the noise, trying to return to the serious, elegant mask of a lady waltzing with a Duke.
But her eyes gave her away. They were dancing with a light that matched the chandeliers above.
Carcel looked down at her. His hand was warm and firm on her waist, guiding her effortlessly through the sea of swirling skirts and black coats. He raised one dark eyebrow.
"What is so amusing?" he asked. His voice was low, a secret rumble meant only for her ears amidst the swelling music of the orchestra.
Ines looked up at him. She felt light. She felt dizzy, and not just from the turns.
"I am grateful," she admitted, her voice a breathless whisper.
Carcel tilted his head slightly as he spun her around a corner of the ballroom. "Grateful? For what? My excellent dancing skills? Or perhaps the fact that I haven’t stepped on your toes yet?"
Ines shook her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "No. Well, yes, that too. But mostly..." She hesitated. It was unladylike. It was petty. It was exactly the kind of thing Doris would say to Stefan in the privacy of the library.
"It is not something a lady should say openly at such gatherings," she confessed, leaning in slightly closer to him. "But I really, really dislike Priscilla."
She said it. She admitted it. The perfect Lady Priscilla, the Diamond, the woman everyone expected Carcel to marry. Ines disliked her.
A thought, sharp and sudden, pricked at her mind. Did I just sound jealous? Am I acting like a petty, envious spinster?
She waited for him to scold her. She waited for him to defend the beautiful, perfect Priscilla.
Instead, Carcel chuckled.
It was a dark, rich sound of genuine amusement. His grip on her hand tightened just a fraction. He looked over Ines’s head, his gaze briefly flickering toward the pillar where a silver-clad figure stood fuming, before returning to Ines’s face.
"I didn’t expect you to care," he said, his voice dismissive and cool, "about such trivial things."
Ines missed a step. She recovered quickly, but her heart hammered against her ribs.
Trivial things?
Her mind echoed the words. Did he just call Lady Priscilla Alworth... the most sought-after woman in London... a ’trivial thing’?
He had dismissed the "perfect match" as if she were nothing more than a gnat buzzing at a picnic. He didn’t care about her beauty. He didn’t care about her status. To him, she was just... noise.
And Ines? Ines was the one in his arms.
A laugh, bright and free, bubbled up again.
"Indeed," she laughed, her eyes shining. "Trivial. Absolutely trivial."
They spun on, wrapped in their own private world, while the rest of the ballroom watched in envious, confused silence.
~ ••••• ~
The music finally ended. Carcel bowed, a lingering, intense gesture, and reluctantly released her hand. He was immediately waylaid by a group of persistent businessmen who wanted to discuss shipping taxes. He gave Ines a look—a look that promised later—and turned to deal with them.
After a few more dances with other gentlemen, she decided to leave. She needed air.
She felt hot. Not the uncomfortable, panicked heat of her usual social anxiety, but a new, flushed heat of excitement and adrenaline. Her skin felt too tight for her body.
She slipped away from the crowd, moving toward the tall French doors that stood open at the far end of the room. She stepped out onto the balcony.
The night air hit her like a cool, wet cloth.
"Ah!" she gasped softly.
She walked to the stone balustrade and placed her hands on the smooth, cold surface. The stone felt grounding beneath her gloves. Below, the garden was a pool of shadows and moonlight. Above, the stars were faint, washed out by the lights of the house.
"It is hot," she said to herself, fanning her flushed face with her hand.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of night-blooming jasmine and damp grass. It was a stark contrast to the heavy perfume and candle wax of the ballroom.
"Tonight’s ball is quite enjoyable," she murmured, a smile touching her lips.
It was true. For the first time in six seasons, for the first time in her entire adult life, she wasn’t counting the minutes until she could leave. She wasn’t hiding behind a fern. She wasn’t praying for invisibility.
"Unlike any other ball I have attended," she whispered.
Because of him. Because he had looked at her. Because he had danced with her. Because he had called the rest of the world trivial.
A cool breeze blew past, lifting the loose curls at her temples. She closed her eyes, letting the wind dry the dampness on her skin.
"This is refreshing," she whispered, tilting her head back.
She stood there for a long moment, savoring the peace, the quiet, and the lingering thrill of the waltz.
"Ines."
The voice came from the doorway behind her. It was deep, familiar, and decidedly not happy.
Ines opened her eyes and sighed internally. She knew that tone. It was the tone of a guardian. The tone of a big brother who had a list of complaints.
She turned slowly. "Rowan."
He stepped out onto the balcony, the light from the ballroom framing his broad shoulders. He did not look happy. He held a glass of wine in one hand, but he wasn’t drinking it. He looked agitated.
He came to join her at the railing, but he didn’t look at the view. He looked at her.
"I saw you dancing," he began, his brow furrowed.
Ines braced herself. Here we go again, she thought. He is here to complain. He is going to tell me I looked bored. Or that I stepped on someone’s foot. Or that I didn’t smile enough at Lord Alvington.
"But..." Rowan continued, shaking his head. "...you were only dancing with those who are not eligible to marry you."
Ines blinked. "Pardon?"
"The men you danced with," Rowan clarified, gesturing vaguely back toward the ballroom with his wine glass. "After the first dance. You filled your card, yes. But look at who you filled it with."
Ines felt a flash of defensiveness. She had danced. She had been social. Wasn’t that what he wanted?
"That’s not true," she replied, lifting her chin. "They were all good men. They were polite. They asked me."
Rowan turned to her fully, his expression exasperated. "What do you mean, ’not true’? Ines, think about it."
He started listing them on his fingers, ticking them off one by one like items on a list.
"Mr. Gibbs," Rowan said flatly. "He asked you for the second waltz. Mr. Gibbs is fifty years old and he is already married. His wife was watching you from the buffet table like a hawk."
Ines opened her mouth to argue, but stopped. Well, yes. Mr. Gibbs was married. But he was a safe dancer. He didn’t try to make conversation.
"But Viscount Dunbar..." Ines interrupted, trying to salvage her evening’s reputation. "He was very charming."
Rowan scoffed. "Viscount Dunbar is a widower. With four children. Four! The youngest is still in nappies, Ines. He isn’t looking for a wife; he is looking for a governess who he doesn’t have to pay. Do you want to raise four children who are not yours in a drafty house in Yorkshire?"
Ines was silent. She hadn’t thought about the drafty house. Or the children. She had just been happy that someone—anyone—had asked her to dance so she wouldn’t be standing alone while Carcel talked to the businessmen.
"I..." she started, but had no defense.
Rowan wasn’t finished. He took a sip of his wine, his eyes dark.
"And that’s not all," he said, his voice dropping an octave. It became heavier. More serious.
He set his glass down on the wide stone railing with a sharp clink.
"I saw you having your first dance," he said.
Ines’s heart skipped a beat. "Yes?"
"With Carcel."
He said the name as if it were a problem. As if it were a mistake.
Ines felt a flicker of annoyance. Why was everyone making such a fuss? First Priscilla, now Rowan.
"Carcel is single," she spoke up, her voice firm. "He is a Duke. He is your best friend. So there is no problem, right? He is perfectly eligible. More eligible than Mr. Gibbs, certainly."
Rowan looked at her. He looked at her for a long, long time. His expression was a mix of pity, frustration, and a deep, brotherly fear.
"What?" he asked, a harsh laugh escaping him. "No problem? Ines, are you blind?"
He stepped closer, looming over her.
"Carcel," Rowan said, pronouncing each word slowly and clearly, as if speaking to a child, "is an impossible match."
Ines felt a cold stone drop into her stomach. "Impossible? Why?"
"Because he is Carcel," Rowan said, throwing his hands up. "He is... he is my brother in arms. He is not looking for a wife, Ines. He is not a man who settles down. A lot happened in his family and I don’t want you entangled in that."
Rowan gripped her shoulders gently.
"Ines," he whispered, his eyes searching her face. "You... you haven’t been harboring some... foolish feelings towards Carcel, have you?"