A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 55 - Fifty Five

The morning sun did not ask for permission before entering the master bedroom of Anderson Hall. It spilled through the gaps in the heavy velvet curtains, painting a bright, golden stripe across the carpet and landing boldly on the large four-poster bed.

Ines burrowed deeper into the warmth.

She did not like the sun. Not at this hour. She preferred the darkness, especially when the darkness was warm, solid, and smelled faintly of cedar and sleep.

She buried her head in Carcel’s chest.

Her husband, the Duke of Carleton, was a very comfortable pillow. He was lying on his back, his breathing slow and rhythmic. One of his heavy arms was draped protectively over her waist, holding her in place as if she were a treasure he was afraid to lose in his dreams.

Ines sighed contentedly. She nuzzled her nose against the soft linen of his nightshirt. It was peaceful. It was quiet. It was the perfect morning in the countryside.

For a few precious moments, the obligations of her station did not exist. There were no tenant disputes to settle, no menus to approve, no social correspondence to draft. There was only the warmth of the duvet and the steady, reassuring beat of Carcel’s heart against her cheek.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound was sharp and intrusive. It shattered the peace of the room like a stone thrown through a glass window.

Carcel stirred. He did not wake up fully. He simply tightened his grip on Ines, pulling her closer, as if he could protect her from the noise.

"Mmph," Carcel grumbled. It was a sound of protest.

Ines frowned against his chest. She kept her eyes closed, hoping the person at the door would realize their mistake and go away.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound came again, louder this time. More urgent.

Carcel stirred. He still did not wake up fully; he was a man who treated sleep with the reverence of a religion. Instead of opening his eyes, he tightened his grip on Ines, pulling her closer as if to shield her from the noise. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his stubble grazing her skin, refusing to acknowledge that the day had begun.

"Who is it?" Carcel murmured into Ines’s hair.

His voice was thick with sleep, a low rumble that vibrated against her ear. He sounded like a bear that had been poked with a sharp stick during the depths of hibernation.

Ines didn’t open her eyes. She clung to the last remnants of her dream, a pleasant haze of summer picnics and quiet afternoons. She hoped, with the desperate optimism of the sleepy, that if she ignored the door, the person on the other side would simply vanish.

"Must be the maids," Ines replied, her voice filled with sleep. It was a husky whisper, barely audible over the sound of Carcel’s breathing. "They are early. Or perhaps the sun is late. They want to get me prepared to go to London."

She said the words automatically, without thinking. Her brain was still foggy, floating in the comfortable, cotton-wrapped space between sleep and wakefulness. She often spoke nonsense in the mornings.

London.

The word hung in the air for a split second.

It hovered there in the silence of the room, heavy and demanding.

Ines’s eyes flew open. She stared at the small pearl button on Carcel’s nightshirt, her vision sharpening instantly. The fog in her brain cleared as if a strong wind had blown through her skull, blown away by a sudden, sharp realization.

"London!" she gasped.

The sleep vanished from her eyes instantly. It was replaced by a jolt of pure adrenaline that raced through her veins, waking every nerve ending in her body.

She raised her head up from Carcel’s chest. Her hair was a wild halo of reddish brown curls around her face, mussed from sleep and friction. She looked at her husband’s sleeping face. He looked peaceful, annoyingly handsome with his relaxed features, and completely unaware of the crisis that was currently standing on their doorstep.

"Carcel, we need to prepare," Ines said urgently.

She placed her hands on his broad shoulders. The muscles were relaxed, warm under her palms. She shook him.

"Carcel!" she cried. "Carcel, wake up!"

Carcel groaned. He opened one eye. It was a sleeply look. He looked at his wife, who was hovering over him with wild hair and wide eyes.

"What?" he mumbled. "Is Harry crying?"

"No, the letter!" Ines cried, sitting up on her knees. The duvet fell away from her shoulders, and the cool morning air hit her skin through her thin nightgown, making her shiver. She ignored the cold. "The messenger came last night! The special courier from Hamilton House! Rowan needs us."

Carcel closed his eye again. He pulled the blanket up to his chin. "That sounds like a problem for the afternoon, Ines. Or perhaps next week."

"It is a problem for now!" Ines insisted. She grabbed the edge of the duvet and ruthlessly pulled it down, exposing him to the morning.

"The Hamilton Ball has been moved forward. He wrote that he is ’drowning in details.’ Do you know what that means?"

Carcel blinked, shivering slightly. "That he needs a swimming lesson?"

"It means he is serious," Ines said, her face grave. "Rowan never asks for help. Never. He handles everything alone. He manages the estates, the investments, the family scandals... he does it all without blinking. If he sent a special messenger to Carleton, asking us to come weeks early, it means he is in a crisis."

She paused, her eyes widening.

"I can’t believe I forgot" she whispered, the reality hitting her. "We have to leave immediately if we want to reach Hamilton House before nightfall! The roads will be crowded with market traffic."

Carcel sighed. It was a long, tragic sigh that seemed to mourn the loss of his peaceful morning. He opened both eyes this time. He looked at the ceiling, tracing the plaster moldings, then looked at Ines. He saw the fire in her eyes. He saw her determination.

He knew he had lost the battle for more sleep.

"It is today," Carcel murmured, sounding like a man who very much wished it was not today. "I thought I had dreamt that letter. I hoped it was a nightmare induced by too much port."

"You did not dream it," Ines said firmly. "And we are going. My brother needs me."

A voice came from the door. It was Mrs. Pringle, the housekeeper. Her voice was muffled by the heavy wood, but the authority in it was unmistakable.

"Your Grace," Mrs. Pringle called out. "We need to get you ready for departure. Everything has been packed as requested last night. The trunks are downstairs. The carriage is also ready and the horses are being harnessed."

Ines looked at Carcel. He was still lying there, looking at her with a lazy, affectionate smile, seemingly unbothered by Mrs. Pringle’s schedule.

"Did you hear that?" Ines asked, nudging his leg with her knee. "Mrs. Pringle is waiting. The carriage is waiting. The horses are waiting."

"I heard," Carcel said. He reached out and tugged on a lock of her hair playfully, winding it around his finger. "You are very bossy in the mornings, Duchess. It is quite terrifying."

"I am efficient," Ines corrected, slapping his hand away gently but suppressing a smile. "Someone has to be the general of this army."

"Please come in!" she called out to the door, her voice projecting the authority of her title.