Lady Ines Scandalous Hobby-Chapter 67 - Sixty Seven

Two days later, the gravel of the Hamilton courtyard crunched under the wheels of an elegant, white carriage, crested with a coat of arms Carcel recognized far too well.

He stood by the drawing room window, a cup of coffee, untouched and cold, in his hand. He had been standing there for an hour, a silent, brooding statue, waiting. He had, with his own, cursed hand, written the letter. He had signed his name. He had, essentially, invited his own

replacement, his own rival, into this house.

The bitter, jealous, possessive taste of it had been in his mouth all morning. He watched as the footman opened the carriage door.

"It seems," he said, his voice flat, his gaze fixed on the carriage, "Amelia has arrived."

Rowan, who had been impatiently pacing the length of the room, stopped. He had been, for two days, a man possessed by a new, brilliant, and, in Carcel’s opinion, stupid, plan. He was playing matchmaker. It was, Carcel thought, a deeply terrifying development.

"Excellent!" Rowan boomed, his face alight with a bright, strategic, social energy. He tossed his newspaper onto a sofa. "She is a woman of influence. And she adores you, Carcel. If she is on our side, Evans will not stand a chance."

He strode toward the door, already straightening his cravat. "I’ll go greet her first."

He left the drawing room, his steps light and full of a new, infuriating purpose.

Carcel did not move. He was left alone. With Ines.

She was sitting in the high-backed armchair, in the corner, by the cold fireplace. She was, as she often was, armed with a book. She had been, for the entire, long, silent morning, a picture of perfect, aristocratic calm.

He turned from the window, his hand in his pocket, the other hand still holding the cold coffee. He watched her.

She was not reading.

He had been watching her for twenty minutes. She had not turned a single page. She was just... staring. Her gaze was fixed, her knuckles white where she gripped the leather-bound cover.

The "French lessons" had continued. They were... complicated. They were a dangerous, addictive, nightly ritual. He would teach her a real French verb—vouloir, to want—and she would, in turn, look at him with those wide, curious, writer’s eyes, and ask him a question that would make his blood heat.

He was a man walking a tightrope, and he was beginning, he feared, to enjoy the view down.

But this woman, this morning... this was not the bold, curious, vivid creature from the library. This was not the sharp, clever woman from the garden. This was someone else. She felt like a stranger.

"Ines," he said, his voice soft, breaking the silence. "What’s wrong?"

She flinched, a small, violent, startled movement. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide, as if he had just, as he had in the garden, caught her unawares.

"Pardon?" she whispered.

He took a step closer. "You have been staring at that same page," he said, his voice still low, "for a very long time. I do not think, even in a French novel, that one page could be that interesting."

Ines let out a long, shaky breath. She closed the book, her gaze falling to her own lap.

"You caught me," she admitted, her voice a small, tight, embarrassed sound.

She was not, he realized, looking at him. She was actually nervous.

"It’s just that... I... I get nervous," she confessed, her voice dropping, "when I meet someone. For the first time."

Carcel just... stared.

This was new.

He had, in the last, mad, chaotic, wonderful weeks, seen ’Furious Ines.’ He had seen ’Curious Ines.’ He had, to his own, eternal, physical torment, intimately known ’Passionate Ines.’ He had never, not once, met... ’Nervous Ines.’

"Nervous?" he asked, his voice full of a genuine, profound, baffled confusion. "You?"

She nodded, a small, jerky, miserable motion. She was, he realized, truly afraid.

"Yes," she whispered, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her simple, gray morning dress. "I... I don’t have much experience... talking with other ladies. Not... not properly. I do not... I do not know what to say. I do not know the... the rules."

She looked up at him, her eyes wide, and dark, and, for the first time, full of a raw, honest, vulnerability that hit him, harder than any kiss, straight in the chest.

"And... and the Countess Beaufort," she continued, her voice trembling, "she is... she is older than me. She is a Countess. She might be like my Aunt Eleonora"

She looked back at her lap.

"I’m scared," she whispered, the confession a tiny, painful, secret thing. "I’m scared of what she might think about me. I’m worried about what might happen if I... if I make a mistake. Or... or if I say something... unladylike. Or... or do something unladylike."

Carcel was... he was moved.

This was the girl Rowan saw. This was the girl Rowan was so desperate to protect. A small, fragile, terrified creature, hidden inside the brilliant, sharp, passionate woman he had... he had come to know.

He had thought her brave. And she was. But he had not, until this very second, realized just how much bravery it took for her to just... exist.

"You... you think about these things?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Yes," she said, her voice a whisper. "Is it surprising?"

He let out a short, soft, humorless breath. A small, sad smile touched his lips. "Yes, honestly, it is. I... I never thought you felt that way. You always seem so... so composed. So icy."

"People are scary," Ines said, the words a simple, honest, and utterly heartbreaking fact. "Both the ladies... and the gentlemen."

She stood up then, a restless, anxious movement, as if she were a caged animal. She needed to move.

Carcel moved, too. He did not think. He just... reacted.

He took two, long, silent strides, and he stood in front of her, blocking her path to the door.

She stopped, her head down, trapped.

He was so close. He was a wall of dark, warm, solid, safe comfort.

"What about me?" he asked, his voice a low, rough, and very, very quiet question.

She looked up, her eyes wide, her lips parted.

"Am I scary, Ines?"

He had to know. He was a gentleman. He was a friend. He was, to his own, eternal shame, her secret, carnal teacher. But was he... scary?

Ines looked at him.

She looked at this man. This... this Carcel.

She looked at the man who had, when she had, in her own library, asked him to show her his... his body... had not... had not laughed at her. (Well, he had, but...). He had not... shamed her. He actually taught her.

He had seen her, at her most foolish. At her most vulnerable. At her most... scandalous. And he had... he had praised her writing.

He was not ’people.’

A small, slow, and utterly genuine laugh, a soft, warm, knowing sound, bubbled up, and escaped her.

She looked up at him, her eyes, which had been so full of fear, now shining with a soft, warm, and utterly, terrifyingly, intimate, light.

"Of course not," she said, her voice a soft, warm, tease, " You are Carcel, after all."

The words hit him like a blow.

You are Carcel , after all.

It was not ’Your Grace.’ It was not ’my brother’s friend.’ It was... You are you. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

It was, he realized, the most intimate, trusting, and final thing she could have possibly said.

His heart, his stupid, treacherous, trapped heart, which he had tried so hard to keep in its cage, gave a low, heavy, painful rhythm. A single, powerful, beat that he felt, not in his chest, but in his throat.

He was lost. He was, he knew, in that one, single, simple, devastating second, completely, and utterly, lost.

He placed his hand on her shoulder and opened his mouth. He did not know what he was going to say. He did not care. He was going to...

"Ines," he began, his voice a low, rough, strangled sound. "I..."

"Rowan, darling, you absolutely must not jest! You are too, too, kind!"

The voice, a bright, musical, and terrifyingly loud, female trill, echoed from the foyer, followed by Rowan’s own, deep, laughing, baritone.

The moment was shattered.

Ines flinched, jumping back, her face once again a mask of pale, social terror.

Carcel... Carcel just closed his eyes.

He had been about to... he had been about to say... He did not know what he had been about to say.

And he knew, with a sudden, cold, sickening certainty, that it was, for all of them, for the best... that he had been interrupted.