The grand dining hall was silent save for the soft clinking of silver on porcelain. A fire crackled in the enormous hearth, casting long, dancing shadows on the dark wood paneling and the stern portraits of Hamilton ancestors. Two footmen, stiff as statues, stood by the sideboard, their gazes fixed on the wall above Ines and Rowan's heads. A young maid moved silently between them, refilling water goblets and replacing plates with grace.
Dinner with Rowan was always a formal, quiet affair, but tonight the silence was heavier than usual. It was thick with the unspoken events of the previous evening—of Lord Westhaven, of a broken hand, and of a duke who had disappeared without a word. Ines had spent the entire day in the library, staring at a blank page, her promise to Gladys a heavy weight in her stomach. Now, she pushed a single green bean around her plate with her fork, the rich aroma of roast lamb doing nothing to stir her appetite.
Rowan cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. He was trying, she knew, to bridge the chasm that had opened between them.
"Is the food not to your liking?" He asked noticing how she pushed a single green bean round her plate with her cutlery.
" It's very delicious." She murmured.
"How was your lesson today?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral changing the topic to one she would definitely find interesting. "Did you learn more German?"
Ines looked up, grateful for the simple, safe question. She managed a small, tired smile. "Ja, sehr viel," she replied, the German words precise and clean on her tongue. (Translation: Yes, a lot.)
Rowan nodded, a flicker of approval in his eyes. He appreciated diligence in any form. "Good. But why do you want to learn so many languages? Latin, Italian, now German. Is it not exhausting?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"I procured some books in their original languages," she explained, finding relief in the familiar topic. "There were no English translations available. I wanted my reading experience to be smooth, to hear the author's true voice."
And to escape this world for a little while, she added silently, her gaze dropping back to her plate.
"Okay," Rowan said, accepting the logic. He took a sip of his wine, his brow furrowed in thought. He was leading up to something. Ines could feel it. She could feel his hesitation. These casual questions were merely the preamble. "I met Viscount Grayson at my club today. A good man. He just came into his father's estate. Very well managed, I hear."
Ines's hand tensed on her fork. She knew it. Here it was.
"Good to know," she replied, her voice cool and noncommittal. She took a delicate bite of a roasted potato, hoping her disinterest was plain.
Rowan ignored her remark, forging ahead with the determination of a general leading a charge. "He is interested in you, Ines. He asked after you specifically. He says he has met you before at a ball but he's sure you don't remember. I don't know why"
I know why. She thought to herself
Rowan continued. " I am thinking of inviting him over for dinner next week, so that the two of you can become better acquainted."
Ines placed her fork down on the plate with a soft click. She looked directly at her brother, her expression unreadable. "I am not interested, brother."
"You have not even met the man."
"I do not need to. I do not wish to be acquainted with Viscount Grayson. And I do not want to marry someone I have just met. I don't believe in love at first sight or love after marriage."
Rowan sighed, the sound a familiar note of familial frustration. He leaned forward slightly, trying to be logical, to make her see reason as he saw it. "Ines, there is no time for that anymore. You are twenty-two. A courtship can take years. You and the Viscount can fall in love during the course of your marriage. It is a practical, sensible arrangement."
Practical. Sensible. The words were like stones, cold and hard. They had nothing to do with the soaring, heart-stopping passion she wrote about, the kind of love she secretly, desperately craved.
Something inside her snapped. The frustration from the blank manuscript, the fear from the garden, the sting of Carcel's dismissal, and now this—it all boiled over.
Clatter.
Her silver spoon dropped from her hand, hitting the side of her plate with a sharp, angry sound that made the footmen flinch.
"Are you sick of seeing me?" she demanded, her voice trembling with a sudden, hot anger. "Do you want to get rid of me so quickly that you would sell me off to the first 'sensible' man who asks?"
Rowan stared at her, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. He looked utterly stunned, his face a mask of shock and hurt. "What?" he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. It was as if she had physically struck him.
But Ines was past reason. The words tumbled out of her, a torrent of pain and resentment she had held inside for years.
"Two years ago, when you returned from the war, you took one look at me and jumped right in, didn't you? You started looking for prospects, making lists, arranging introductions, as if I were some lost cause, a problem to be solved!"
She pushed her chair back, the legs scratching a harsh protest against the polished floorboards as she stood up.
"I told you then, and I will tell you now. I want to marry for love, Rowan! Like Father and Mother did!" Her voice rose, echoing in the cavernous room. "I have heard the stories! They were inseparable. They talked for hours, they laughed, they understood each other. I want that! I want to be that for my husband, not be tied to a stranger who doesn't understand me. A stranger who would not know what to do with my wants, my needs…"
She faltered, her voice cracking as the deepest fear surfaced. "…or a man who might even be disgusted by my illness or even my hobbies."
Rowan's face was pale. "'Hobbies'? What hobbies? Playing the piano and gardening are good hobbies."
"My books, Rowan!" she cried, gesturing wildly. "This need to read, to learn, to explore with my imagination. This part of me that is not content with needlepoint and gossip. The part of me society deems sordid. What would a man like Viscount Grayson do with that? He would try to cure me of it. He would see it as a flaw."
The hurt on Rowan's face was profound. He saw her not as a problem, but as his duty, his family, the last piece of his parents he had left. He was trying to secure her future, her happiness, in the only way he knew how—through a good, stable match. He thought he was protecting her. Her accusation that he wanted to be 'rid of her' was a knife to his heart.
Ines saw the pain in his eyes, but she was too caught in her own storm of emotion to stop. She looked at the beautiful, untouched food on her plate and felt a wave of nausea.
"I have lost my appetite," she said, her voice now cold and brittle. She smoothed down her skirts. "Have a good night, brother."
She turned and walked out of the dining hall, her back ramrod straight, leaving a deeply wounded Rowan sitting alone at the long, empty table, the flickering candlelight illuminating the confusion and pain etched on his face. He stared at her empty chair, the echo of her words hanging in the air. Are you sick of seeing me? He dropped his head into his hands, trying to understand his sister, a woman he loved more than anyone, who somehow felt like a complete and utter stranger.