The drawing room, which had, for one, brief, miraculous moment, felt safe, was now a stage. And Ines, sitting on the sofa, felt the hot, bright, uncomfortable lights of social expectation shining directly on her.
Amelia Beaufort was like a force. She had not, Ines noted, paused for breath since she had sat down. She was charming, she was witty, and she was, Ines realized with a small, sinking feeling, exhausting.
After arranging her perfect, peacock-blue, silk skirts, Amelia turned her full, bright, high-wattage attention to the dark, silent, and, Ines thought, sulking, figure of the Duke of Carleton.
"Now, you," Amelia said, her voice a bright, teasing, musical chime. She pointed her closed, lace fan directly at Carcel.
Carcel, who had been a silent statue by the window, his arms crossed, his face a mask of cold stone, simply raised one, dark, questioning eyebrow.
