Twenty minutes later, Ines walked into the dining room.
She was dressed in a modest, high-necked gown of pale yellow muslin. Her hair was neatly pinned up, not a strand out of place. She looked fresh, innocent, and perfectly respectable.
Rowan was sitting at the head of the table. The remains of his breakfast—a half-eaten scone and a boiled egg—sat on a plate to his side. He was holding the morning newspaper wide open, creating a wall of newsprint between him and the world.
"Good morning, Rowan," Ines said, taking her seat.
Rowan lowered the paper. He looked at her over the top of the pages. His eyes were critical, searching. He was looking for signs. Signs of rebellion. Signs of sadness. Signs of secrets.
"Good morning, Ines," he said.
He folded the paper and placed it on the table. He picked up his teacup.
"I trust you slept well?" he asked.
"Very well, thank you," Ines lied smoothly. She reached for the toast rack.
