Lady Ines Scandalous Hobby-Chapter 69 - Sixty Nine

The drawing room, which had, for one, brief, miraculous moment, felt safe, was now a stage. And Ines, sitting on the sofa, felt the hot, bright, uncomfortable lights of social expectation shining directly on her.

Amelia Beaufort was like a force. She had not, Ines noted, paused for breath since she had sat down. She was charming, she was witty, and she was, Ines realized with a small, sinking feeling, exhausting.

After arranging her perfect, peacock-blue, silk skirts, Amelia turned her full, bright, high-wattage attention to the dark, silent, and, Ines thought, sulking, figure of the Duke of Carleton.

"Now, you," Amelia said, her voice a bright, teasing, musical chime. She pointed her closed, lace fan directly at Carcel.

Carcel, who had been a silent statue by the window, his arms crossed, his face a mask of cold stone, simply raised one, dark, questioning eyebrow.

"We have been here for a month, Carcel," Amelia complained, her voice full of a dramatic, pouting despair. "A full month! In that dreadful, drafty, boring house. It is... it is practically lifeless. And I," she said, turning to Ines, as if they were two, long-suffering, conspirators, "even had to send a letter. Twice."

She tapped Ines’s hand with her fan, a gesture of shared, feminine, outrage. "Two letters, Ines, can you believe it? Two! To let him know that we had, in fact, arrived. And did he come to call? Did he invite us for tea? Did he, in any way, acknowledge our presence, just a few, short, miles down the road?"

She turned back to Carcel. "No. He did not. Now, that is just cruel, isn’t it? It is un-neighborly."

Carcel’s jaw, Ines noted, seemed to tighten. He did not, however, uncross his arms.

"My apologies, Amelia," he said, his voice a low, smooth, and utterly, infuriatingly, calm rumble. "My business with Rowan has been... demanding."

"Oh, ’business’!" Amelia scoffed, flashing him a smile that was all bright, white, teeth, and pure, cutting, steel. "You men. You are always so busy. It is a wonder you find time to breathe."

She let out a long, dramatic, world-weary sigh, as if she were carrying the weight of all of society on her small, elegant, shoulders.

"I was thinking of returning to the north," she said, her voice dropping. "My husband, you know, is quite... lost... without me." Her tone suggested, quite clearly, that the Count Beaufort was, in all probability, having a wonderful, quiet, and very peaceful, time.

"But," she said, her voice, all of a sudden, becoming sharp, and focused, and serious, "I really must get Evans married this season."

Ines, who had been enjoying the sight of Carcel being, for once, on the receiving end of a woman’s frustration, blinked.

"Evans?" she asked, her voice small.

Amelia turned, her full, bright attention, her entire energy, now focused, with a terrifying, single-minded, intensity, on Ines.

"Yes, Evans!" she said, as if it were the most obvious, most important, thing in the world. "My younger brother. You must meet him. He is the Earl Montclair. He is... he is a dear. Truly."

She leaned in, her perfume, a heady, expensive, cloud of jasmine and roses, enveloping Ines.

"He is the kindest, and the best, and the gentlest, person in the entire world," she whispered. "But..."

She leaned back, her perfectly-plucked, eyebrows rising, in a gesture of pure, sisterly, despair.

"...he has no interest in women. None. Whatsoever. He is always," she said, and she rolled her bright, blue, eyes, "always... buried in a book."

Ines felt the words pass through her, entering her left ear and leaving the right one. They were like... like echoes. They were... familiar.

Buried... in books?

"If I don’t push him," Amelia finished, her voice full of a deep, profound, frustration, "he will not even think about marriage. He will just... he will fossilize. He will turn into a... a... a page. In his own, dreadful, dusty, library. It is," she concluded, "a tragedy."

Before Ines could even process this, before she could even form a polite, neutral, nothing of a response...

"He sounds just like my Ines!"

Rowan’s voice, which had been silent, boomed from his armchair. He was not, Ines realized, with a sinking, cold, dreadful feeling, just ’making conversation.’

He was beaming.

He was beaming, with the pure, triumphant joy, of a man who had just, after weeks of agonizing, brilliantly, solved his own, personal, and very difficult, puzzle.

Oh, no, Ines’s mind whispered.

"Ah, yes," her inner voice continued, its tone one of pure, dull, resignation. "There it is. That’s the culprit. I knew... I just knew... I had heard something similar to this before."

She could see the trap. It was large. It was gilded. It was... it was perfect. And she was, at this very moment, sitting, helplessly, right in the middle of it.

Rowan, now that he had an ally, an accomplice in this dreadful, matchmaking, plot, stood up. He began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back, his voice full of a new, bright energy. He was, Ines realized, sending her off.

"Amelia, you would not believe it," he said, his voice full of a shared frustration. "My Ines... she is so absorbed in books. It is her... her only passion!"

Ines sank a little deeper into the sofa cushions. She could feel Carcel’s eyes on her. A heavy, hot, unreadable weight.

"Not only," Rowan continued, now in full, frustrated, ’problem-sister’ mode, "does she not want a husband... she hardly ever goes out! She dislikes balls! She dislikes gatherings! I just... I just don’t know what to do with her!"

"They really do," Amelia said, her own, blue, eyes sparkling with the same, terrifying, planning light that was in Rowan’s. "They really do have so much in common."

Rowan turned, his bright plotting face, to Ines. "A man who loves books, Ines! Isn’t that... isn’t that just wonderful?"

Ines was done.

She was so done.

She ignored them. She ignored the pleasant, cheerful, ghastly, chattering sound of the two matchmakers, who were now, quite happily, and quite loudly, designing a future for their two, difficult, book-loving, problems.

This was, she thought, her hands clenching in her lap, the single, most, humiliating conversation of her entire life. They were discussing her as if she were a broodmare. A... a damaged one, at that.

Her gaze, as it always, always, did, when she was in trouble... when she was lost...

It drifted. It sought him out.

Carcel.

He was the only other person in the room who was not, at this moment, plotting her entire, unwanted, future.

He was not pacing. He was not smiling. He had, at some point, in the midst of Rowan’s speech, moved.

He had left the window. He was in the armchair. The one he had occupied that morning. The one that was set, just slightly, apart from their cozy, conversational, little group.

He just... sat.

He was leaning. His elbow was on the padded armrest, his head resting on his hand. His long, strong, fingers were pressed, hard, against his temple, as if... as if he, too, had a headache.

He was not looking at Rowan. He was not looking at the bright, chattering, brilliant Countess Beaufort.

He was looking at her. And his expression...

Ines’s heart, which had been beating with a low, dull, angry rhythm, gave a small, confused, frightened, lurch.

He looked... Angry.

His jaw was clenched. So tightly, she could see the muscle, a small, hard, knot, jumping, just beneath his tanned skin.

Or is he annoyed?

His mouth, the mouth that had... that had kissed her... that had tasted every inch of her body... was a thin, hard, white, furious line.

He looked... Frustrated.

He was staring at her. This dark, silent, furious man. He was staring at her, across the room, as her brother, his best friend, and his own, beautiful, charming, relative...cheerfully, and loudly, and happily... planned to marry her off to someone else.

Ines felt a strange, cold, shiver. It was not fear. It was... confusion.

She pulled her eyes off him. She looked down. At her own hands. At her own gray, dress.

Why? she thought, her mind a complete, and total, blank.

Why... why is he looking at me like that?