CHAPTER 98: CHAPTER NINETY EIGHT

Carcel looked at her. He looked at the woman standing stiffly in front of him, her chin held high, her eyes flashing with a cold fire he had never seen before. She was angry.

He felt a flicker of confusion. He had expected... well, he wasn’t sure what he had expected. Tears, perhaps? Relief? A shy smile? But not this wall of ice.

He took a step closer, but he stopped when he saw her flinch.

"I sent several letters," Carcel said, his voice low and earnest. "But I never received a reply. Not one."

Ines blinked. The anger in her chest faltered, replaced by a sudden jolt of confusion.

Letters? she thought.

She thought of the basket of lavender. She thought of the box of lemon pastries. She thought of the volume of poetry.

Yes, there had been cards. Small, cream-colored cards tucked into the gifts.

"I look forward to our trip."

"These reminded me of you."

"Read this when you miss me."

She had read them. She had pressed them into her journal. She had slept with the one about the lavender under her pillow.

Unbelievable! she thought to herself, her mind reeling. So... those phrases... those short notes attached to the gifts... they were sent to me to reply?

She looked at him, surprised. She had thought they were just... gestures. Tokens. She hadn’t realized he was sitting in his lonely manor, waiting for a letter back. She hadn’t realized he was waiting for a conversation.

"I..." she started, her voice losing its sharp edge. "I thought they were just... notes. With the gifts."

Carcel ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration. "They were letters, Ines. Short ones, perhaps, because my head was pounding and my eye was swollen shut, but they were letters. I asked how you were. I asked about your day."

He sighed, dropping his hand. He looked at the ink stain on her finger again. He wanted to bridge the distance between them. He wanted to talk about the thing that connected them.

He asked another question, his voice softer. "Have you been busy with your novel?"

Ines looked down at her hand. She rubbed the spot of ink with her thumb.

The novel.

"I..." she began. She looked at the desk where her manuscript once laid, untouched for weeks.

"I haven’t been able to write the novel all this time," she admitted quietly.

Carcel frowned. He stepped closer, his concern overriding his hesitation. "Why’s that?"

He knew how much it meant to her. He knew she wrote when she was happy, when she was sad, when she was bored. Writing was her breath. If she wasn’t writing...

Ines looked at the floor. She couldn’t tell him the truth. Not the whole truth.

Why? she asked herself.

Because I realized... I am the only one who wants to see you.

She thought of the long, empty days. The rain. The silence.

I was sorting out my feelings, she thought, the ache in her chest returning. Because I feared this might ruin your future. I feared that by marrying me, you were destroying yourself.

I couldn’t focus on the novel, she realized. I couldn’t write about romance when my own love story felt like a tragedy.

She couldn’t write about passion when the man she desired was staying away from her. She couldn’t write about happy endings when she felt she was trapping him in a cage.

She looked up at him. She looked at his healed face. He was so handsome. He was so good. He had taken a beating for her. He had protected her secret. He had offered her his name, his title, his life.

And what had she given him?

Trouble. Scandal. A broken friendship with Rowan.

She took a deep breath. Her hands were shaking. She clasped them together in front of her dress to stop the trembling.

"Carcel..." she whispered. "I have something to tell you."

Carcel looked at her. He saw the seriousness in her eyes. He thought, perhaps, she was going to tell him she missed him. Or that she was scared about the wedding.

He smiled. It was a gentle, encouraging smile. The smile of a man who was ready to listen.

"Go ahead," he said softly.

Ines hesitated.

She looked at that smile. It was the smile she wanted to see every morning for the rest of her life. It was the smile she wanted to be the last thing she saw before she closed her eyes at night.

But she couldn’t be selfish. Not anymore.

Carcel’s smile began to falter as the silence stretched on. He saw the pain in her eyes. He saw the way she was twisting her fingers together.

"Ines?" he asked, worry creeping into his voice.

Ines played with her fingers, pulling at a loose thread on her glove.

Honestly, she thought, her heart screaming the truth, I crave a life where I can see him every day. I want to wake up next to him. I want to go to France. I want to argue about books.

I’m selfish, she admitted to herself. That’s the kind of person I am. It was my selfishness that brought us here in the first place. My curiosity. My lists. My desire.

She looked at the ring on her finger. The heavy ruby ring of the Carleton family. It felt like a shackle on her hand.

But I have to say this for his sake, she decided. The resolve was cold and hard, like a stone.

I have already ruined his relationship with Rowan, she thought. They were polite, yes. But the warmth was gone. The easy laughter was gone. They were formal strangers now.

And I have trapped him in a marriage he has to take responsibility for.

She remembered Rowan’s words. He has no intention of marrying. He is afraid.

He was doing this for duty. For honor. Because he had compromised her.

I don’t want him to have resentment, she thought, tears pricking her eyes. I don’t want him to wake up in ten years, look at me across the breakfast table, and regret marrying me. I don’t want to be his cage.

She looked at him. She loved him enough to let him go.

Carcel saw the tears. He saw the way her chin trembled.

He moved. He couldn’t stand the distance anymore. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to hold her, just as he had in the guest room.

He reached out. He wanted to cup her face, to wipe away the sadness he saw there.

"Ines," he said, his voice tender. "Did something happen while I was away? Did someone say something?"

He stepped closer, his hand reaching for her cheek.

Ines saw his hand coming. It was the hand that had given her pleasure. It was the hand that had signed the marriage contract.

She couldn’t let him touch her. If he touched her, her resolve would crumble. If he touched her, she would beg him to stay.

She avoided his touch.

She took a sharp step back.

Carcel’s hand froze in mid-air. He looked at his empty hand, then at her face. He looked hurt. Confused.

Ines stood straight. She looked him in the eye. She forced her voice to be steady. She forced her heart to stop beating.

"Carcel," she said.

The room was silent.

"It’s better," she whispered, the words tearing her throat, "we call our marriage off."