The dinning area was bathed in cheerful morning light.
The atmosphere at the table was, as it had been for two weeks, thick with a silence that felt heavier than the solid silver cutlery. Maids served poached eggs and kippers, their footsteps silent on the thick rug. Rowan, at the head of the table, read The Times. Carcel, to his right, was a picture of focused concentration, his attention devoted entirely to the plate of food before him.
Ines sat to her brother's left, the perfect, proper lady. She unfurled her linen napkin, the crisp fabric making a soft, civilized sound. She laid it across her lap with practiced grace. She had slept terribly. Her mind had replayed the encounter in the library, the dark hallway, the brush against him, until she wanted to scream.
