Lady Ines Scandalous Hobby-Chapter 50 - Fifty

Ines, who had been frozen in a state of pure, scarlet-red mortification, found her own hands, which had been pressed to her burning face, slowly lowering.

The sight of his amusement, of his smile, did something strange to her. It vanquished her shame.

Her embarrassment, which had been a raging inferno, cooled, replaced by a spark of mortification.

She lunged.

It was not a graceful movement. It was a sudden, furious, cat-like snatch.

"Hey!" Carcel yelped, genuinely surprised as her small, fast hands clamped onto the stack of papers he was holding.

"What a man you are!" she hissed, her voice a low, scandalized whisper as she yanked the pages from his grasp. She pulled them back, clutching the entire, incriminating stack to her chest, as if it were a shield. She was breathing heavily, her eyes blazing, her face still a beautiful, furious shade of pink.

Carcel, for his part, let the papers go. He was too amused to fight for them. He simply watched her, his hands gripping the edge of the heavy oak desk, his smile fading, but the deep, dancing amusement still glittering in his dark eyes.

"Weren’t you going to ask me those questions anyway?" he asked, his voice a low, teasing rumble. He had her. He knew it.

"No!" Ines lied, her voice a little too high. She clutched the papers tighter. "I was just... curious! I... I jotted them down. Over time. As a... as a writer. For my characters."

She was lying, and they both knew it. She had written that entire list in a single, feverish, inspired hour this afternoon.

Carcel’s smile returned. It was the smile she remembered. The one from two nights ago, in that same library. It was mischievous. It was knowing. It was, she thought with a small, traitorous jolt, the most handsome, devastating expression she had ever seen.

He’s not angry, her mind realized, a wave of pure, dizzying relief washing over her. He’s not horrified.

He’s... he’s free.

She understood. Her words have given him something to think about. It had taken away his guilt, his honor-bound, Rowan-related agony. He was no longer thinking he’s a monster who had preyed on his best friend’s innocent sister.

"You have been curious about these things for a while, then?" he asked, his voice laced with that same, gentle, teasing humor from the past.

Ines looked at him. She saw the man she had missed, the friend she had admired, the man she had... well.

This... she thought, her own heart giving a small, happy, flutter... this is good.

"Don’t worry," Carcel said, seeing her relax. He leaned back, his pose on the desk one of casual, masculine confidence. "During our... ’French’ lessons..." He said the words with a small, conspiratorial emphasis that made her blush all over again. "...feel free to ask anything. I am, as I agreed, your tutor. It is my duty to answer."

The word "duty" now sounded like a promise, not a burden.

This was it. This was her chance.

"Alright then," she said, trying to sound as grave and serious as he did. She pulled her chair closer to the desk, her entire demeanor shifting. "I will... I will ask without hesitation."

She placed the stack of papers on her lap. She shuffled through them, her brow furrowed. No... she thought, looking at the line, ’what does a man’s part look like?’... Not yet. We are not... we are not there yet. We must... we must ease into this.

She found a good one.

"Okay," she said, clearing her throat. She looked at him, her face laced with inquiry. "What kind of conversation happens... between a man and a woman? At night?"

Carcel tilted his head, his smile fading into a look of genuine, thoughtful consideration. He was, she noted with approval, taking her question seriously.

"What kind?" he asked, his voice low, prompting her.

"You know," she said, leaning forward in her chair, her voice dropping to a low whisper. "In the books I’ve read... the couple is always... in bed. And they whisper. They whisper ’sweet nothings’ to each other."

She was on solid ground here. She was talking about her books.

"They say ’I love you’ a thousand times," she explained, "and they talk about... about the stars, or... or their ’souls.’ But..."

She stopped.

Her mind flashed back to the previous night. To him. He had not whispered about the stars. He had not said "I love you." He had... growled. He had whispered, "Don’t you understand what I’ll do to you?" and "Let go." It had been... it had been nothing like the books.

She had been about to say, But that is not what you said.

She put her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide, horrified that she had almost revealed her thoughts.

Carcel watched her. He watched her stop, her train of thought derailing. He saw the flicker of memory in her eyes. He saw the blush rise on her cheeks. She was remembering.

He had decided. She deserved the truth. The books she knew, were full of lies.

He uncrossed his arms.

He moved.

He didn’t just get off the desk. He slid off, his movements silent. He moved around the large desk, closing the small, safe distance between them.

Ines watched him come, her hands gripping the arms of her chair. Her heart, which had been so calm, so serious, gave a sudden, hard lurch.

He’s moving. He’s... he’s not sitting anymore. Why is he...

He did not stop until he was standing directly in front of her chair. He was close. So close, she had to tilt her head all the way back to look up at him. She was trapped, her knees almost touching his.

His voice... when he spoke, it was different. It was not the amused, teasing voice of her friend. It was not the formal, cold voice of the Duke. It was the voice from that night. It was a low, intimate, and deeply unsettling sound.

"Ines."

She just... stared. "Yes?" she breathed.

He was so close, she could feel the heat radiating from his body. She could smell the clean, sharp, herbal soap on his skin.

He lifted his hand. Slowly.

Ines flinched, her eyes fluttering shut.

But he did not touch her face. He did not touch her lips. He put his hand on the back of her neck.

His fingers slid, warm and calloused, into the soft, fine hair at her nape. He did not grab. He just... held her. His thumb, with an agonizing, electric slowness, began to stroke the small, sensitive skin just behind her ear.

Ines’s entire body went rigid. A shiver, sharp and hot, raced from that single, tiny point of contact, all the way down her spine, to the very tips of her toes.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered.

His voice was a low, intimate, physical thing. It was a caress, just like his thumb.

"You know that, right?"

Ines could not speak. She could not breathe. She could not think. She just stared.