CHAPTER 95: CHAPTER NINETY FIVE

She continued reading, the next line coming out naturally from her lips.

Alone. All by ourselves.

He had underlined the word Alone twice. The ink was dark and thick.

He signed his name at the bottom. Just one word.

Your Husband to be,

Carcel.

Ines stood there, holding the card with both hands. Her heart did a strange, double beat.

Southern France?

Gladys peered over Ines’s shoulder, reading the card unabashedly. She let out a low whistle.

"Southern France?" Gladys asked, looking impressed. "Is that where you are going for the honeymoon? That is quite... exotic. Most couples just go to Bath."

Ines nodded slowly, her eyes still fixed on the ink.

"The Anderson family," she explained, her voice quiet, almost dreamlike, "has a villa in southern France. It is... it is by the sea. I once mentioned... just once... wanting to visit someday."

She remembered the conversation in the garden. She remembered how his eyes had looked when he described the water. Emeralds. He had said the water shone like emeralds. And he had said he would take her.

He remembers, she thought. He remembers the conversation in the garden. He remembers my disappointment when he suggested taking Rowan and Gladys. He remembers that I wanted to go with him.

Gladys dropped her bag onto the chair and looked at the basket again. She picked up a sprig of lavender and twirled it between her fingers.

"The Duke," Gladys said, a knowing smile playing on her lips, "is more romantic than I thought. He looks so serious. So... scary, sometimes. He always looks like he is about to declare war. But this?"

She gestured to the flowers.

"He remembers every little detail you mentioned," Gladys said. "That is rare, Ines. Most men don’t remember the color of their wife’s eyes, let alone a passing comment about a travel destination made weeks ago."

Ines didn’t reply.

She just continued looking out the window, the letter still clutched tightly in her hand against her chest. The scent of the lavender was surrounding her, warring with the smell of the rain, filling her head with memories of him.

That’s what makes it complicated, she thought, a knot forming in her throat.

If he were cold... if he were angry... it would be easier. She would know where she stood. She would know he hated her for trapping him. She could accept his hatred. She deserved it.

Because this marriage was due to circumstances, she reasoned, her mind spinning in circles, I thought he might cancel it. Or act half-heartedly. I thought he would do the bare minimum to save my reputation. I thought he would be a polite stranger.

But he wasn’t doing the bare minimum. He was doing... everything.

Yesterday, she listed in her head, counting the gestures like beads on a rosary, he sent me my favorite pastries. The lemon ones from the bakery across town that usually sells out by noon. He remembered I liked them from that one time we had tea three years ago.

The day before that, he sent me a collection of poems. From romantic writers. Byron. Keats. Books I didn’t have in the library. He must have gone to the bookseller himself.

And now this.

Anyone who sees this, she thought, looking at the extravagant basket, would say he is a devoted fiancé. They would say he is courting me perfectly. They would say I am the luckiest woman in London.

But there was a hole in the perfection. A large, silent, empty hole that no amount of lavender could fill.

But Carcel hasn’t shown his face for a week.

Since the morning he left, looking battered and grim, she hadn’t seen him. Not once. He hadn’t come for tea. He hadn’t come for dinner. He hadn’t even come to see Rowan for business. He was just a ghost who sent gifts.

Maybe, a small, terrified voice whispered in the back of her mind, maybe he doesn’t want to see me.

Maybe he can’t bear to look at me. Maybe when he looks at me, he sees the trap. He sees the woman who ruined his life and forced him to break his vow.

She touched the cold glass again, tracing the path of a raindrop as it fell, leaving a trail of water behind it like a tear.

She didn’t even notice when Gladys, sensing her need for solitude, quietly picked up her bag. Gladys gave her friend one last sympathetic look, then signaled to Edith. They both left the room, closing the heavy oak door with a soft click.

Ines was alone. Alone with the lavender and the rain and the ghosts of her own making.

She looked down at the card again. I look forward to our trip.

It was a promise on paper. But paper couldn’t hold you. Paper couldn’t warm you. Paper couldn’t look at you with dark, hungry eyes that made you feel beautiful.

She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the glass. The ache in her chest was so sharp it hurt.

"I would rather see his face," she whispered to the empty room. Her voice was small and broken.

"Just once."

She clutched the card to her chest, crumpling it slightly.

"I would rather see him," she said to herself, her voice low and breaking, "than receive all these gifts. I don’t want lavender. I don’t want pastries. I want him."

She turned away from the window and looked at the empty chair where he had sat during their "lessons."

Why won’t you come? she thought. Are you punishing me? Or are you punishing yourself?

She walked to the table and picked up a sprig of lavender. She brought it to her nose. It smelled like hope, and it smelled like goodbye.

She sank into the chair. She curled her legs up under her, hugging the velvet cushion he had leaned against.

She would wait but until she saw his eyes again, until she knew he didn’t hate her, she knew she would not find peace.