The soft, rhythmic strokes of a hairbrush pulled Ines from her thoughts. She sat at her vanity, wrapped in a robe of pale silk, her fine linen nightgown beneath it. The evening was quiet.
Edith, her movements practiced and gentle, brushed through Ines's long, reddish-brown curls, preparing them for bed.
It had been two weeks. Two full, agonizing, and surprisingly quiet weeks since Carcel Anderson had taken up residence in their home.
Ines felt as if she had been walking on eggshells for fourteen straight days. Every morning, she half-expected to run into him in the hall, to find herself trapped in an awkward conversation, to be forced to endure that heavy, intense stare.
But she was, to her own surprise, shocked at how well she had managed to keep her distance. It was a masterpiece of avoidance.
Carcel, for his part, was not making it hard for her. He seemed to have his own strict routine. Before she even came down for breakfast, he was already there with Rowan in the dining room, their heads bent over ledgers and maps, discussing their shipping business. When they ate, he was a model of polite civility. He focused on his food. He spoke only to Rowan, and only about investments or politics.
When the meals were done, he simply vanished. He would either go to his assigned room in the guest wing and not emerge, or he would go to the library. Ines had learned this on the third day, when she had entered her sanctuary only to find him in her favorite window seat, reading a book on agriculture. She had frozen, mumbled an apology as if she were the intruder, and fled. Since then, she had learned to avoid the library during the day, ceding the territory to him.
It was... an oddly peaceful coexistence. A silent, unspoken truce.
She sighed internally, a small, frustrated breath. So much for moving on. She had successfully avoided the man, but she had failed entirely to avoid the thought of him. His quiet presence in the house was a constant, low thrum beneath her skin.
"Edith," she said softly, staring at her own reflection in the mirror.
"Yes, my lady?" Edith's hands stilled.
"Can you bring a glass of warm milk to the library? I... I want to log my activities for the day in my diary before I sleep."
It was the lie she had been upholding.
"Logging her activities" was her code for writing her manuscript.
"Certainly, my lady," Edith replied. "I will bring it right away."
A few minutes later, Ines was in her safe place. The library was dark, the moon outside casting long, silver rectangles on the floor. The only light came from a single, bright lamp on the large, heavy desk she used for her "diary." The house was asleep. Rowan, she knew, had retired an hour ago. And Carcel, she assumed, was in his wing. She was, finally, completely alone.
Edith had already come and gone, leaving a steaming glass of milk and a small plate of biscuits.
Ines sat down, her heart rate finally slowing. She took the small iron key from the pocket of her dressing gown and unlocked the bottom desk drawer. She pulled out the new manuscript, the one she had started after Gladys had taken the last.
She took a sip of the warm, sweet milk, her nerves settling. She was ready.
She opened the notebook. She read the last line she had written: Stefan had her pressed against the wall of the carriage, his mouth claiming hers in the darkness.
It was a good start, but it was not enough. The readers wanted more than a kiss. She wanted to write more.
She began to pen down her thoughts, her quill scratching in the profound silence.
Take it off, Doris.
She wrote the words, her own voice whispering them in her mind.
Stefan ordered.
Her hand trembled, just slightly. This was a new, dangerous path. She took another sip of milk, as if for courage, and continued.
Doris stripped the layers of garments off her body, her fingers shaking. The silk and linen pooled to the floor at her feet. She stood before him, looking like a scared statue as the moonlight bathed her skin.
You are so beautiful, Doris. Come here.
Ines dipped her quill back into the inkwell. Her cheeks were hot. She could feel her own pulse, a heavy beat in her throat. What else? she asked herself, her mind racing. What else should they do?
She pictured Stefan... but his face was not clear. It was a shadow, tall and broad-shouldered.
Oh, yes. I know.
She continued writing, faster now, the words tumbling out.
Doris walked towards him, her bare feet silent on the floor. Stefan pulled her onto his lap, his hands grasping her waist. He had her straddling him.
Ines's own breath hitched. This was scandalous. This was... exhilarating. She could almost feel the heat, the intimacy.
She wrote on, her mind alight: His finger traced the line of her collarbone, and then... lower. He found the soft peak of her breast. Doris gasped. He then moved his hand lower still, stroking the inside of her thigh, his touch setting her skin on fire. His finger penetrated into her moist and soft inner flesh...
Click.
The sound was tiny. A small, metallic click from the other side of the room.
Ines froze. Her quill hovered over the page, a drop of black ink trembling at its tip.
Her heart stopped dead.
No. Not now.
She heard the sound of the large, brass doorknob turning, slowly, quietly.
She squeezed her eyes shut, a wave of pure annoyance washing over her. The scene was gone. The magic was shattered. It had to be Edith, coming back to collect the glass, even though Ines had not called for her.
"Edith," she sighed, her voice low and sharp with frustration. She did not bother to look up. Her eyes were still closed. "You know better than to disturb me when I am writing in my diary."
There was no reply. No "Sorry, my lady."
A sudden, cold dread pricked at her skin. The silence was wrong.
She opened her eyes.
He was standing by the door, which was still half-open.
It was not Edith.
It was Carcel.
He was not in his nightclothes. He was fully dressed, save for his jacket, his white shirt open at the collar, his sleeve rolled up to his arm. He held a book in one hand, as if he had been coming to retrieve it.
He was not looking at her. His gaze was fixed, his dark eyes unblinking, on the open manuscript spread across the desk.
On the words she had just written. He was too far away to read them, surely. Surely.
But he was there. And she was in her nightgown, her hair unbound, her secret book open for the world—for him—to see.
She could not breathe. She could not move. She was a scared statue, bathed not in moonlight, but in the accusing glow of her own lamp.