Carcel walked back to the table and took a glass of water to sip. The conversation was, bafflingly, about other people.
"They’ve moved in," Carcel said, his voice still noncommittal.
"You should have ntioned it," Rowan said, his voice holding a note of friendly accusation.
"Why are you so interested?" Carcel asked.
Rowan leaned forward, his exhaustion and guilt suddenly replaced by a new, manic, plotting energy. His eyes were bright.
"Isn’t Earl Montclair unmarried?"
Carcel went still. The glass in his hand stopped halfway to his lips. He didn’t respond. He just... processed this.
Rowan, now excited by his own "brilliant" plan, rushed on, not noticing his friend’s sudden, terrifying stillness.
"I heard he’s a calm and patient man. I heard he’s young, too. And... Rowan leaned in, as if imparting a great, secret, wonderful truth... "he loves books."
He sat back, his face a picture of pure, smug, self-satisfied triumph.
"My Ines," he said, "also loves books."
Carcel slowly, slowly, lowered his glass. He turned, his entire body rigid, his face a mask of cold, hard, stone.
"Are you thinking," he asked, his voice flat, dead, and utterly devoid of all emotion, "of matching Montclair with Ines?"
"Why not!" Rowan said, his voice booming, his good mood, his purpose, restored. "He’s perfect! I heard from soone who knows him—at the gathering yesterday, in fact—that he’s quite a nice and decent man. A gentleman."
Rowan stood up, he was pacing now. He was energized. He had a plan.
"Ines said she will only marry the man she loves, even if it kills her," he said, his voice full of a new, sharp, strategic energy. "It is that... that fiction... she wants. So... if she ets a man with the sa hobbies... a man who will sit with her, and... and read... she might, finally, fall in love!"
Evans? Carcel’s mind was reeling. Evans Montclair? He pictured his cousin. Yes, he enjoys reading books. He... he is also kind.
But, his mind added, a note of pure, aristocratic scorn... he is also spineless. A weak, pale, book-obsessed man who hides from the world in his library.
But... a colder, more logical, and far more painful thought followed... the northern estate of the Montclair family... it is boring. There is nothing interesting around. But... it would be perfect for Ines. For a woman who just loves books. And he... he does... have a big library. A very big one. Ines would... she would probably be... interested in that. The age difference... it isn’t bad, either.
He looked at Rowan, who was now beaming, lost in his own, perfect, matchmaking fantasy.
But still... Carcel thought, his gut twisting. Ines... with Evans? It is... it is...
Rowan’s voice cut through his thoughts. "So, I was thinking about hosting a ball."
"A ball?" Carcel repeated, his voice still flat.
"Yes!" Rowan said, turning, his eyes bright. "To welco them! A brilliant idea, is it not?"
"Is it necessary?" Carcel said, his voice cold. He was grasping at straws. "Besides, Evans isn’t interested in won. He’s only interested in his books. He hates balls."
"That," Rowan said, tapping the side of his head, "is the genius of it. I want to give Ines the opportunity to et him. No matter how much the Earl hates balls, if I, the Duke of Ford, personally host one for him, he cannot refuse."
Carcel threw his head back. A low, frustrated sound, almost a groan, escaped him.
He’s right. The fool is right, Carcel thought, his mind racing. Even if Evans is reluctant, his sister...
He rembered Alia. His sister loves balls more than she loves breathing. She’ll attend. And if she, the Countess Beaufort, says she is coming, Evans will co, too. He has no spine. She will drag him here.
Rowan, his plan now complete, strode over to his friend. He clapped Carcel, hard, on the shoulder.
"Anyway, Carcel," he said, his voice now one of command, "please introduce them then. As your relative. It will be... perfect."
Carcel looked at his friend’s hand, on his shoulder. He wanted to shake it off. He wanted to... he wanted to hit him.
"Do you think Ines will like this?" he asked, his voice a low, tight, desperate, final protest. "Is this really necessary...?"
Rowan’s smile faded. He stepped back, his hand falling from Carcel’s shoulder. His eyes narrowed.
"Why are you so negative?" he asked, his voice suddenly, dangerously, suspicious. "You have been this way all morning. You have been... strange... ever since the Clifford hunt. Is sothing wrong... with Earl Montclair? Is there sothing you are not telling ?"
Carcel saw the suspicion in his friend’s eyes. He had pushed too hard. He had revealed too much. He had to back down.
"There is nothing wrong with Evans," he said, his voice stiff. "He is... a good man. But... forcing a marriage, Rowan... it could have its drawbacks."
He turned, walking back to the window. He could not look at his friend.
He saw her. In his mind. He saw Ines, not in the dark, not in his arms, but as he had seen her in the garden. He saw her, sitting by the flowers, a quill and a paper in her hand, writing, a small, secret, happy smile on her face, her hair framing her face.
She neither wants to get married, he thought, his heart aching with a strange, fierce, possessiveness, nor does she seem to have any intention of doing so. She is... she is happy. Even in front of , after... after everything... she seems happy, just thinking about the next Chapter to write.
How is she supposed to et another man? A passionless man like Evans?
I can’t imagine it.
Isn’t she the one who said she would marry soone she truly loves?
A new, cold, sharp, jealous thought... Of course... the one she could fall in love with at first sight... it might be Evans. He loves books. She loves books. It is... it is perfect. And... and it bothers .
He gripped the window fra, his knuckles white. It bothers , intensely.
Rowan’s voice, now full of a satisfied, decisive, business-like energy, ca from behind him.
"She is a very good match," he said, as if he were discussing a horse. "If I say so myself. I will also prepare a good dowry. A very good one. I know Earl Montclair will like her. Who wouldn’t?"
He paused, a small, musing, final thought.
"Is she attractive enough, do you think? For a man like that?"
Carcel’s eyes closed.
Attractive enough?
That, his mind scread, is the entire, bloody, damnable problem.
She is too attractive. She is too smart. She is too passionate. She is... she is a fire... hidden in a block of ice. And this... this idiot ... wants to...
"So, it is settled," Rowan said, his voice full of a cheerful finality. "You just need to write a letter, Carcel. As his relative. To the Earl. Asking him to attend the ball. My personal invitation, and your personal note. He cannot refuse."
Carcel stood, his back to his friend.
If I refuse any further, he thought, his mind a cold, bleak, empty plain, he will get suspicious. He will know. He will know sothing is wrong.
He had to do it. He had to write the letter. He had to, with his own, cursed, traitorous hand, invite the wolf to the hen-house.
He turned, slowly, from the window. His face was a mask of cold, perfect obedience.
"Alright," he said. The word tasted like ash.
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