Ines did not bother with the formality of walking. She practically ran from the dining hall, the image of Rowan's wounded face burning in her mind. Her feet carried her up the grand staircase, her lavender dress rustling with her hurried movements, and finally to the sanctuary of her bedroom. She slammed the door shut behind her, the sound echoing hollowly in the sudden silence.
She didn't light the lamps. She didn't call for Edith. She simply threw herself onto her large, four-poster bed, landing with a soft thump on the silk eiderdown. She lay there, spread-eagled, staring up at the ceiling of her four-poster bed. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her anger and frustration still thrumming through her veins.
The argument with Rowan had been terrible. She had hurt him, truly hurt him, and a part of her regretted it deeply. But another, more defiant part, refused to back down. He simply didn't understand. He couldn't.
She closed her eyes, seeking darkness, but her mind offered no peace. She open her eyes and instead, an image swam into view. Not Rowan's pained face, but Carcel. He was there, hovering over her, his dark eyes cold, just as they had been that night in the garden. He looked impossibly handsome, impossibly dangerous.
He opened his mouth to speak. His voice, in her imagination, was a low, soothing murmur, just as it had been when he asked if she was all right after Westhaven. "Are you okay?" he whispered, his hand reaching out.
Ines, in her half-waking dream, raised her own hand, reaching out to cup his chiseled jaw, to trace the line of his cold, unsmiling lips. But her fingers closed on empty air. It was nothing but her imagination. A cruel trick of her tired mind.
She chuckled, a dry, bitter sound that held no amusement. "Even in my imagination, I can't get you to smile at me," she said to the empty air, to the imaginary Carcel who dissolved as soon as she acknowledged his unreality. "Pathetic."
With a heavy sigh, she pushed herself off the bed. The thought of summoning Edith to draw her bath, of having to make small talk, was unbearable. She would do it herself.
She moved to her wardrobe, her movements slow and deliberate. She unlaced the lavender day dress, letting it fall in a soft pool at her feet. She shed her undergarments, each layer a liberation from the suffocating expectations of the day. Standing naked in the dimly lit room, she felt a fleeting sense of freedom, a brief moment where she was simply Ines, unburdened by title or expectation.
She walked into her attached bathing room and began to draw the water, the splash and gurgle a welcome distraction. As the copper tub filled, she poured in scented bath salts, hoping the lavender and rose would calm her frayed nerves.
Stepping into the warm water, she sank down, letting the heat seep into her chilled bones. Her mind, surprisingly, turned to her manuscript. To Stefan and Doris.
But something was different now. The images that formed in her mind were no longer those from the old novels she had devoured. When Stefan reached for Doris, it was not the fictional Stefan she pictured. It was Carcel. And Doris… Doris had her own reddish-brown curls, her own small lips, her own hazel eyes. It was herself.
New inspiration, raw and exhilarating, began to flow. A current, both frightening and thrilling, moved through her. The blank page of her mind was suddenly vibrant with possibilities, with scenarios she had never dared to imagine before.
"What would I want Carcel to do to me?" she whispered to the rising steam, the question shocking her with its impropriety. Her cheeks flushed, even in the hot water. "Why do I want him to touch me?"
She shook her head, splashing water onto her face as if to clear away the scandalous thoughts. "Stop that, Ines. Stop it at once."
He is Carcel. He is the Duke of Carleton. He is Rowan's best friend. He is like a brother to you, like Rowan is. Why should you have such improper thoughts about him? And besides, he has someone he likes, doesn't he? Lady Priscilla. She had seen them together at balls, their heads close, his rare smiles reserved for her.
"He probably sees me as nothing more than Rowan's troublesome sister," she muttered, scrubbing vigorously at her arms. "A chore. He solved the problem of Westhaven and then he left. He couldn't wait to get away from me."
She rationalized, she chastised herself, but the images persisted. Carcel's cold eyes, his strong hands, the brutal efficiency of his anger. The memory of his jacket, so warm and large around her. The clean, masculine scent that had clung to her all night.
"Well, I'm sure he has gone back to Carleton by now," she concluded, feeling a pang of something akin to disappointment. "He must have. I think it's better that way."
She finished her bath, washing away the dirt of the day, but not the new, unsettling images in her mind. She emerged from the water, her skin glowing, her mind suddenly alight.
She donned her simple nightgown, not bothering with a dressing gown, and walked to her vanity. From the jewelry box, she retrieved the small, iron key. She opened the bottom drawer of her reading desk, pulling out the hidden manuscript. The pages, still bearing the ink splotch from Edith's interruption, suddenly held a new, potent promise.
She sat down, her heart thumping with a different kind of urgency now. No longer burdened by a blank mind, she was instead overwhelmed by the sheer volume of new ideas. She opened the manuscript, dipped her quill into the inkwell, and for the first time in weeks, the words began to flow.
She wrote furiously, collecting pieces from the novels she had read, yes, but now infusing them with an imagined reality. She pictured Carcel's face, his strength, his quiet intensity. She poured all her suppressed longings, all her frustrated curiosity, into Doris and Stefan.
"He reached for her, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin of her inner arm." Ines wrote, her own arm tingling as she imagined it. "A shiver, both of fear and something far more dangerous, ran through her."
"The scent of him," she murmured, as she penned the words, "was like a storm and a safe harbor all at once. His eyes, dark as midnight, held a silent question that made her breathe catch."
She wrote through the night, the candle burning low, her quill scratching across the paper, page after page. She would finish this manuscript tonight. She would.