"Thank you, Rowan," she said without looking back, huddling into the welcome warmth.
"I'm sorry to have you disappointed," a low, smooth voice replied. "I'm not Rowan."
The voice was not her brother's neither was it the deep, familiar timber of Carcel Anderson. This voice was oily, like expensive hair tonic. It was a voice she knew, and a voice she hated.
Fear, sharp and cold, shot through Ines. She jumped up from the bench, spinning around so fast her green skirts whipped at her ankles. The heavy coat slid from her shoulders and puddled onto the damp stone.
It was not Rowan.
"Lord Westhaven," she sneered. The word felt like poison on her tongue.
He stood there, bathed in the moonlight, a perfect, predatory smile on his handsome face. He was precisely the kind of man her brother despised: too slick, too fashionable, with eyes that held no warmth at all.
"Yes, Ines. It's me." He took a slow step closer, his eyes traveling from her reddish-brown curls, down her neck, and lingering on the bodice of her gown. "You look beautiful tonight. That color suits you."
His gaze was heavy and hot. It made her feel like the ink-splattered manuscript in her drawer—something to be read, consumed, and soiled. She instinctively crossed her arms over her chest, her fan hanging limply from her wrist.
"What do you want, Lord Westhaven?" she asked. Her voice was cold, sharp. "Why are you here? Are you not enjoying the ball?"
"I was," he said, his smile widening, showing too many white teeth. "But then I saw you leave. A lady should not be alone in a garden, unprotected." He gestured to the coat he had placed on her. "I came to keep you company. And safe."
"That is not necessary, thank you," Ines said, her voice flat. She refused to be afraid of him. He was a nuisance, nothing more. "I am perfectly safe, and I prefer to be alone. You may leave."
She turned slightly, dismissing him, hoping he would take the hint.
He did not. He laughed, a soft, unpleasant sound.
"Drop the pretense, Ines," he said, the polite mask falling away. He stepped closer, invading her space, and she had to take a small step back. "We both know you are not here for the quiet. You are here because you are hiding."
"I have no idea what you mean."
"Oh, I think you do." He leaned against the back of the bench, making himself comfortable. "You aren't getting any younger, you know. It has been... what? Six years since your debut? Six seasons on the marriage mart, and still unwed."
Each word was a small, pointed dart. He was rubbing her face in it, in the failure that the ton perceived.
"Aren't you worried about what they think?" he continued, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur. "They whisper, you know. They call you the 'Icy Lady.' They wonder what is wrong with you. They wonder if you are even capable of… feeling."
Ines gripped her fan so tightly she felt one of the ivory sticks crack. She was worried, but not about the whispers of fools. She was worried her manuscript was not safe, that Rowan had seen Carcel, that this dreadful night would never end. She was not worried about Lord Westhaven.
She lifted her chin, her disinterest a shield. "Can you just leave? It is not proper for a man and a woman to be alone together. If you are so concerned with my reputation, you will return to the ballroom."
He looked at her, a long, calculating stare. He saw her composure not as strength, but as a desperate, lonely bluff.
"Propriety," he scoffed. "Propriety is for debutantes who have prospects. You and I, Ines, we are past that. We can be honest."
He pushed off the bench and stood directly in front of her. She could smell his wine-soaked breath.
"Be my mistress, Ines."
The world went silent. The distant music of the waltz, the rustling of the leaves, the very beating of her own heart—it all stopped. For one long, frozen second, her mind seemed to black out, unable to process the sheer, stunning arrogance of the words.
He wanted her to be his mistress.
Then, a tiny, soft giggle escaped her. It surprised her as much as it did him. The sound was high and thin in the cold air.
"Have you gone mad?" she asked. The giggle was gone, replaced by pure, icy disbelief. She looked him up and down as if he were a bug she had found on her teacake. "I, Lady Ines of the house of Hamilton, sister to the Duke of Ford, am to be your mistress?"
She straightened her dress, pulling herself up to her full, dignified height. "Did you have too much to drink or you hit your head while coming down here, my lord? You are dismissed."
She had no more words for him. He was not worth her anger. He was simply pathetic.
"Since you clearly do not intend to leave," she said, her voice dripping with finality, "then I will take my leave."
She turned, her back rigid, and took one step toward the archway that led back to the house.
She only made it one step.
His hand shot out and clamped around her wrist. His grip was not gentle; it was harsh. He yanked her back, hard, pulling her off balance. She stumbled, crying out in surprise and pain.
"Who do you think you are to walk away from me?" he snarled. His handsome face was twisted into an ugly mask of rage. The rejection, especially her laughter, had broken his pride.
Ines was truly frightened now. This was not a social slight; this was violence. She tried to pull her arm free, her gloves slipping against his tight grip.
"Let me go!" she gasped, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I said, let me go!"
"You think you are so much better than me?" he hissed, dragging her closer. He grabbed her other arm, his fingers digging into her skin just above the elbow. "You are a cold, lonely spinster. You should be begging me for this. I am offering you a chance to feel like a woman!"
Dark fire was in his eyes. It was a terrifying, hungry look.
"How dare you touch me!" Ines cried, twisting in his grasp. The garden, her safe place, was now a trap. The music from the ballroom seemed a thousand miles away. No one could hear her. "I demand you let me go!"
"You will listen to me—" he began, pulling her flush against him.
A new voice cut through the night, as cold and sharp as a shard of ice.
"The lady wants you to unhand her."
Ines and Westhaven both froze.
A dark figure leaned against the stone of the archway, blocking the only path out of the garden. He was a silhouette against the bright lights of the distant ballroom, tall and impossrunning to stand still.
"Or are you deaf?" the voice finished.