CHAPTER 94: CHAPTER NINETY FOUR

The gray sky outside the library window wept.

It was a slow, steady rain, the kind that turned the world into a painting of slate, charcoal and damp green. Raindrops raced each other down the cold glass pane, distorting the view of the garden below, turning the rosebushes into shapeless, shivering blobs.

Ines stood at the window. Her forehead almost resting lightly against the cool glass, stealing a bit of its chill to soothe the constant, low-level fever of her anxiety. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her waist, her fingers interlaced so hard the tips were turning a waxy white. She looked like a statue of melancholy, dressed in a gown of pale sage green that seemed to fade right into the gloom of the afternoon. She was motionless, save for the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

"Ines."

The voice was sharp and familiar. It cut through the sound of the rain like a pair of scissors cutting through thread.

Ines jumped. She turned from the window too quickly. Her long ponytail, tied back with a simple ribbon, whipped around, brushing against her cheek.

"Oh," she breathed. "Gladys."

She had forgotten, for a moment, that she was not alone.

Gladys was sitting at the reading table. The lesson was over. Gladys was packing her materials. She stacked her books with a series of soft thuds, aligned her quills, and buckled her leather satchel with a decisive snap.

Gladys looked up. Her eyes, magnified slightly behind her spectacles, were narrowed. She was not just a tutor; she was a friend, and she knew Ines better than anyone.

"Why do you look so gloomy?" Gladys asked, her tone direct. "You are about to become a bride. In less than a month, you will be a Duchess. Most women in your position would be dancing on the tables or fainting from excitement. You look like you are attending a funeral."

Ines forced a smile to her lips. It felt thin and brittle, like a dried leaf.

"Maybe it is because of the rain," she lied. She gestured vaguely toward the window. "It is... relentless today. It makes the house feel small."

Gladys stood up. She picked up her bag, but she didn’t leave. Instead, she walked over to the window. She stood beside Ines, looking at her with a mixture of affection and suspicion.

She leaned in, raising one eyebrow.

"Hmmm...." Gladys hummed, a skeptical sound. "Not because the rain is wet, I think. Perhaps... it is because the Duke of Carleton left the mansion?"

Ines flinched.

She is very clever, Ines thought, a wave of anxiety washing over her. She sees and know too much.

It had been a week.

Seven days since the night of the ball. Seven days since the fight in the guest room. Seven days since Rowan had announced the engagement to the household with a face like thunder, and Carcel had packed his bags.

After our marriage was decided, Ines remembered, the scene playing in her mind like a play, Carcel moved out immediately.

He had gone the very next morning. His face had still been swollen, his lip cut. He had barely looked at her as he instructed the footmen with his trunks. He had purchased a small manor nearby—a well to do residence —and had moved in before noon.

This was because, she reasoned to herself, staring at a particularly large raindrop sliding down the glass, if it was known that we had such... relations... while living in the same house, there would be people whispering about my honor. It was the proper thing to do. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.

Rowan had insisted on it. Carcel had agreed without a word since it was his original plan to move out. But the silence he left behind was deafening.

Ines sighed, a long, shaky breath that fogged the glass. She turned back to watch the rain, unable to meet Gladys’s knowing gaze.

I said I didn’t want a loveless marriage, she thought, the irony tasting bitter in her mouth.

She remembered her arguments with Rowan. She remembered telling him she wanted a love like their parents had. She wanted passion. She wanted understanding.

But I ended up forcing a loveless marriage on the one I love, she realized, her heart aching.

Carcel didn’t want to marry. She knows. Rowan had told her. His past—the gun, the screaming, the fear—it was a wall he had built to keep himself safe. And she, with her "research", her curiosity and her selfishness , had smashed right through it. She had backed him into a corner where his honor forced him to do the one thing he feared most.

Even though I am marrying the one I love, she thought, my heart isn’t at peace. How can it be? I have trapped him.

Gladys watched the emotions play across Ines’s face. She saw the guilt, the longing, the fear.

She reached out and touched Ines’s shoulder gently.

"Ines," Gladys said softly. "Are you sure you are..."

Knock, knock.

The library door opened before Gladys could finish her question.

"My Lady?"

It was Edith.

The maid bustled into the room. She was smiling. In her arms, she carried a large, woven basket. It was overflowing with purple.

"A gift has arrived for you," Edith announced, her voice cheerful.

Ines and Gladys turned away from the window.

The scent hit them instantly.

It was a sharp, clean, floral scent. It smelled of summer. It smelled of sunshine.

It reminded her of him.

Gladys’s eyes widened. She hurried over to Edith and helped Ines take the heavy basket. They placed it on the reading table.

"Oh my," Gladys said, leaning in. "How beautiful."

She sniffed the flowers, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. "They smell so good. It smells like... like a garden in July. It smells expensive."

Ines stared at the basket. It was filled with hundreds of sprigs of dried and fresh lavender. The color was vibrant against the dark wood of the table.

There was a small, cream-colored card tucked into the purple blooms.

Ines reached for it. Her hand trembled slightly.

She opened the card. She recognized the handwriting immediately. It was bold, slashing, and decisive. It was the same handwriting that had written letters to Rowan.

She read the words.

This is lavender that blooms in the summer In southern France. I look forward to our trip to France.

Ines’s breath hitched.