Lady Ines Scandalous Hobby-Chapter 87 - Eighty Seven

Ines stared up at the canopy of the bed. Her body felt heavy, like it had been turned into liquid gold and poured onto the mattress. Her breath was still coming in short, shallow gasps, and her heart hammered a wild rhythm against her ribs.

Writing this experience into a novel... she thought, her mind hazy and floating. I could never do that.

She had thought herself a good writer. She had thought Arthur Pendleton already knew everything there was to know about passion. She had used adjectives like "fiery" and "explosive." But now, lying here in the dim light of Carcel’s bedroom, those words felt flat. They felt like pale imitations of the real thing.

No matter what language I use, she realized, a sense of awe washing over her, none of them could accurately describe this pleasure.

Carcel moved. The mattress dipped as he shifted his weight. He crawled up her body, moving like a large, graceful cat, until he was hovering over her again. His hair was messy, falling over his forehead in ink-black strands. His lips were red and wet.

He looked at her with a gaze so intense, so full of adoration and heat, that Ines felt she might melt right through the sheets.

She reached out her hand. Her fingers were trembling slightly. She touched his face.

"Carcel," she said. Her voice was breathy, a broken whisper that barely carried in the silent room.

She traced the line of his jaw. Then, her thumb moved to his mouth.

There was moisture there. Her moisture. The evidence of what he had just done to her.

With a tenderness that surprised even herself, she cleaned the remaining fluids from his lips with the pad of her thumb. It was an intimate, possessive gesture. A claiming.

Carcel didn’t pull away. He turned his head slightly into her hand. He kissed her palm, his lips warm and soft against her skin. He closed his eyes for a second, savoring the touch.

Ines watched him. Her heart was full, but her mind, her restless mind, was already starting to churn. The pleasure was fading, leaving space for the fear to creep back in.

"I have a question to ask," she whispered.

Carcel opened his eyes. They were dark pools of patience. He looked like a man who would answer a thousand questions if it meant he could stay in this bed with her.

"Go ahead," he answered, his voice a low rumble.

Ines bit her lip. She looked away from his piercing gaze, focusing on the button of his shirt.

"After the ball," she began, creating a scenario she had half-seen, half-invented, "I accidentally stumbled on a maid and a footman. In the servants’ corridor. They were... being intimate with each other."

It was a small lie. She had seen two shadows. She had heard a giggle. But for the purpose of her question, it was enough.

"Do you think," she asked, her voice small, "they plan to get married?"

Carcel looked at her. He studied her face. He seemed to understand that this wasn’t really about a maid or a footman.

"I’m not sure," he replied honestly. He brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. "You don’t have to be in love to share intimacy. And you don’t have to get married to have... this."

The words stung. Just a little. You don’t have to be in love.

Ines frowned slightly. "It didn’t seem like the footman was forcing the maid," she said, defending the honor of the shadows she had seen. "It looked like the maid wanted it, too. She was... holding him."

A small smirk touched the corner of Carcel’s mouth. The mischievous glint returned to his eyes.

"So," he asked, raising an eyebrow, "you were watching them?"

Ines’s cheeks flushed. "No!" she defended herself quickly. "I was just... curious. I saw them for a second. I left there immediately. I am not a voyeur, Carcel."

Carcel chuckled, the sound vibrating against her chest.

"But," Ines continued, her voice turning serious again. "If they aren’t going to get married... doing such things..."

She stopped. The words died in her throat.

What am I saying? she thought, a cold wave of realization washing over her. Who am I to judge those two?

She looked at Carcel. She looked at herself, lying in his bed, her nightgown ruined, her body marked by his touch.

I am doing it, too.

Her mind spun, accusing her.

I have shared many intimate moments with Carcel, she admitted to herself. Perhaps, even more passionate and intense than those two servants. We have done things in the library, in... here.

Although, she reasoned, it was under the pretense of ’education’ for my writing... I was clearly enjoying it. I wasn’t taking notes. I was taking pleasure.

She felt a heavy stone of guilt settle in her stomach.

I waited for him each night, she thought. Just to touch my body. Just to feel him. I was the one who asked. I was the one who wrote the list.

She looked at Carcel’s face. He looked calm. He looked content.

I know well that Carcel is afraid of the notion of marriage, she remembered. Rowan’s voice echoed in her head: ’His mother shot herself... right in front of him.’

Carcel had trauma. He had scars that were deeper than anything she could see. To him, marriage was a cage. It was pain.

Asking this question, Ines realized with horror, asking about the maid and the footman... it almost sounds like I’m pushing for marriage. It sounds like I am asking him: ’What about us?’

It sounds like I’m forcing him to take responsibility. Like I am trapping him. When I was the one who clearly initiated all this.

She felt terrible. She didn’t want to be a trap. She didn’t want to be another source of fear for him.

Carcel sensed her shift in mood. He saw the light leave her eyes, replaced by a frantic, worried cloud.

He leaned down. He kissed her forehead. It was a soft, chaste, comforting kiss, at odds with the heat of a moment ago.

Ines blinked, startled.

"What is going through this head of yours?" he whispered against her skin.

He pulled back to look at her. His expression was tender.

"Stop thinking about it," he commanded softly. "Whatever stories you are spinning in that brilliant mind of yours... let them go."

He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand.

"Everyone has their reasons," he said, referring to the maid, the footman, and perhaps... himself. "And I am sure they have theirs. Just as we have ours."

Ours.

It was a small word. But it felt like a bridge.

Ines looked at him. She nodded slowly. "Okay."

She decided to let it go. For tonight. She would not ruin this lovely atmosphere.

Carcel smiled, relieved to see the worry fade from her face. He shifted, preparing to move, perhaps to pull the covers up, perhaps to hold her.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sound was faint, but in the dead silence of the night, it was unmistakable.

Ines froze. Carcel froze.

They were footsteps.

They were not the light, scurrying steps of a mouse. They were heavy. Deliberate. The steps of a person wearing boots.

And they were coming down the hallway. Towards the guest wing.

Towards this door.

Ines’s eyes widened in pure terror. She looked at the door, then back at Carcel.

"Who," she whispered, her voice barely a breath of air, "could it be by this hour?"