Ines stopped looking at him. The intensity of his gaze—that dark, frustrated, angry stare—was too much. It was a silent, confusing accusation, and she had no idea what cri she had committed.
She turned her gaze, deliberately, to her brother.
Rowan was still talking, his voice full of a new, bright, energy. He was, she realized with a cold, sinking feeling, discussing her "reading addiction" with the sa cheerful, problem-solving tone he used for his shipping ledgers.
She looked down at her own lap, at the small, plain, gray-gloved hands folded there.
It’s not like I want to spend all my ti reading, she thought, a familiar, dull, and very private frustration rising in her.
Her gaze drifted to the window, to the bright, open, free world outside.
In reality, a woman can’t go far alone. Maybe to so shops, downtown. To a lending library, if she is properly escorted. To a relative’s house.
That was her cage. A soft, gilded, and very small cage.
But through books... she thought, her hands gripping each other, ...I can go anywhere I want. I can go to Paris. I can go to Ro. I can... I can even go to a sea that shines like eralds.
Romance novels were the sa, she admitted to herself. They were her other escape. In her books, the n were not... real.
Unlike the n in books, she thought, a small, bitter smile touching her lips, who dedicate their hearts, and their souls, and say such passionate, wonderful, impossible words to the female protagonist...
She rembered the balls. The n she had t. The polite, stiff, boring, young lords, and the older, calculating, fortune-hunting widowers. She rembered all those tis she had excluded herself, hiding in her alcoves, using her "icy" reputation as a shield.
Real n, she concluded, her gaze still fixed on her own, still, lap, seed to view won not as... as subjects of love... but as tools for profit. An heir. A dowry. A connection.
Her mind, as it always, always did, went to him.
I still can’t forget how Carcel treated . Like a stranger. During the Danbury ball, after he had saved ... he just... he handed to Rowan and he was gone. Or even before that.
The mory, an old, familiar, aching one, surfaced. The mory from two years ago.
After the first ball I danced with him... when they ca ho as victors from the war...
She rembered that night. That one, perfect, magical waltz. He had been so kind. He had smiled at her. He had held her hand, and he had looked at her, not at the wall over her shoulder.
And then, just like that, he had vanished.
He beca so cold towards , she rembered, the old, familiar, girlish hurt still surprisingly sharp. He only sorted out Rowan. Even when he ca to visit... he would go straight to Rowan’s study. I would hear their voices, laughing, from the hallway. I would... I would wait. In the drawing room. Just... just in case. Just in case he might... stop. To say hello.
She had waited. Many tis.
And I wouldn’t even know when he leaves, she finished, her internal voice flat. He would just... be gone. As if she didn’t exist.
She sighed, a tiny, internal, soundless breath.
A man like Carcel... a hero, a Duke... he would not be interested in . Not really.
So, she concluded, the logic clicking, hard and cold, into place, having no other choice, I beca obsessed with books. I had to. At least, in my ’diary’... at least I can imagine him as my male lead. At least there, he can be the man who... who notices , who teaches .
Rowan’s voice, loud and triumphant, pulled her from her thoughts.
"So I was thinking," he bood, his voice full of the pure joy of a man who has just had a brilliant idea. "To celebrate your move, Alia, and Evans, of course... I would like to host a welco ball."
Alia, who had been listening with a bright, rapt, attention, gasped. It was a perfect, tiny, sound of pure, feminine, delight.
"A ball?" she trilled.
"Of course!" Rowan said. He was pacing now, energized."That is, if Earl Montclair agrees, of course. But... there is no better, more efficient, way for young n and won to et, than at a ball. Is there?"
Alia’s eyes were sparkling. She was, Ines realized, plotting, too.
"Oh my! Rowan, you are... you are a genius!" she cried, clapping her small, gloved, hands together. "It is such a good opportunity! A perfect opportunity!"
She leaned forward, her voice dropping, just a fraction, into a plotting tone. "And Evans... oh, don’t you worry about Evans. There is no way he would say no. Not to you. Not to a ball in his honor. And," she said, her voice full of a sudden, cheerful, ruthless steel, "if he does say no... I will tie him to a horse, and I will bring him here myself."
Rowan laughed, a deep, satisfied, sound. "They do seem like the perfect match," he mused, more to himself than to anyone else.
Ines just... sat. She was a stone. She was a piece of furniture.
She looked at Carcel.
He was still in the chair. His chin was still resting on his hand. He was still staring. Not at her. Not at Rowan. Not at Alia.
He was staring, with a look of such profound, deep, and utter, boredom, at the empty fireplace. He looked, Ines thought, completely, and totally, uninterested.
Rowan, his plan now in motion, turned, his gaze falling, with a new, purposeful, energy, on his sister.
"Ines," he said. "Since there is to be a ball. A proper ball. Here. In this house. Why don’t you get a new dress for the occasion? Sothing... sothing new."
Ines, who was still reeling from the "tie him to a horse" comnt, looked up. "I already have more than enough dresses in my wardrobe, Rowan," she said, her voice flat. It was her standard, automatic, refusal.
"Oh, nonsense!" Alia chid in, her voice a bright, dismissive, trill. "For a lady, Ines, there is no such thing as ’enough dresses.’ The more, the better. It is, I believe, a law of nature."
She put on, with a speed that Ines found, to her own, profound, surprise, admirable, a small, sad, face.
"How about..." Alia began, her voice suddenly, pitifully, small, "...going to get fitted? Together? With , Ines? Just in ti, I... I wanted to buy one... one orange-colored dress... to match this season’s trendy color."
Ines just looked at her.
Orange? she thought, her brain, noting, with a distant interest, that Alia would look, in all probability, divine in orange.
"Ummmm....." Ines said. It was not a yes. It was not a no. It was a stall.
Alia’s face, which was already sad, crumpled. She looked, in that mont, like a small, beautiful, blonde, child, who had just been told she could not have a new dress.
"But I..." she whispered, her bright, blue, eyes suddenly, tragically, wide, and full of... were those tears? "I... I don’t really know this neighborhood well. I am a stranger here. I... I might embarrass myself. If I go to the modiste... alone."
She looked at Ines, her gaze a pure, heartbreaking, plea.
"Ines," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Will you... will you go with ? Please?"
It was a performance.
It was, Ines realized, with a sudden, dawning, and deeply, respectful, awe, the single, greatest, performance of ’feminine helplessness’ she had ever, in her entire, twenty-one years, witnessed.
It was art.
Now I understand, her mind thought, a small, dry, amused voice in the back of her head, why n never, ever, refuse a beautiful woman.
She was trapped. By art.
Ines nodded.
Alia’s face, in an instant, was transford. The tears vanished. The sadness was gone. Her smile, a dazzling, triumphant beam, returned, full-force.
"Oh, wonderful!" she cried, clapping her hands again. "We shall have a splendid ti! I will choose a beautiful dress for you, Ines! A dress that my Evans... will fall in love with, at first sight!"
Oh, God, Ines thought. The trap... has a... a ’the.’
"I trust your taste, Countess," Ines said, her voice dry.
Her gaze, against her will, against all her better judgnt, moved.
It moved back to him.
Carcel.
He was still in the chair. He was still in the sa, slumped, "bored" position. But he was not, she realized, looking at the fireplace anymore.
He was staring. Again.
He was staring, his dark, unreadable, angry eyes, fixed, with a terrifying, silent, intensity...
...at her.
Ines’s heart gave a small, nervous, flutter.
Why? her mind whispered, a sudden, cold, shiver running down her spine. Why does he look like that? Why... why does he look like he holds sothing in his heart?
Why does he look, she thought, her breath catching in her throat, like he wants to tell sothing?
I wonder... I wonder what it could be?
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