Lady Ines Scandalous Hobby-Chapter 81 - Eighty One

"I can see many books here that I couldn’t find elsewhere. Not in London." Evans continued.

Ines walked further into the room. "My father loved to collect," she explained softly. "And my brother... well, even though Rowan constantly nags me about reading too much, and tells me I will ruin my eyes or my marriage prospects..."

She laughed lightly. "He always found the books I wanted. No matter how hard it was to find them, if I asked, they would appear on this desk a week later."

She looked at Evans, who was now gently pulling a book from the shelf, treating it as if it were made of spun glass.

"If you want to read," Ines offered, her voice warm, "please, feel free to come anytime. Truly. And if there is a book you want to take back to your estate to finish, you can borrow it."

Evans turned to her, clutching the book to his chest. His face was lit with joy.

"My brother would be happy, too," Ines added. "He likes it when the books are used."

"Really?" Evans asked, his eyes shining. "Thank you. Thank you so much, Lady Ines. That is... incredibly generous."

He turned back to the shelves. He spotted a volume on the higher tier. He moved the rolling ladder into place with ease.

Ines watched him.

He climbed the ladder, his movements light and agile. He wasn’t heavy or imposing. He reached up, scanning the titles, humming a quiet, happy little tune under his breath.

Ines leaned against the back of the heavy leather armchair. She studied Evans. She looked at him with the critical eye of an author developing a character.

He seems like a good person, she thought.

There was no malice in him. There was no hidden agenda.

He isn’t even ’boring’ as Rowan puts it, she corrected herself. He is just... quiet. There is a difference.

She remembered their walk from the ballroom. The conversation we had on our way to the library was quite pleasant. Easy. It is rare to find someone who shares such common interests. He didn’t ask about the weather. He asked about stories.

She looked at his profile as he pulled a book from the top shelf.

And he is good-looking, too, she admitted. In a pale, poetic sort of way. He has kind eyes. He has gentle hands.

Her mind began to project a future. A potential timeline.

If I were to marry someone like him... she mused.

She pictured it. A quiet estate in the north. Long winter evenings sitting by a fire, each of them reading a different book in comfortable silence. No arguments. No tension. No fear of anger or violence.

Life would surely be peaceful, she thought. Safe. Respectable.

But then, the question rose up, unbidden and sharp.

But... could I love you?

Evans began to descend the ladder, the prize tucked under his arm.

Ines watched him come down. She waited for a feeling. A spark. A flutter.

Nothing.

When I look at him, she realized, her hand drifting to her chest, my heart doesn’t race. It beats steadily. Calmly.

I don’t feel my body heating up. I don’t feel the air getting thin. I don’t feel the urge to touch him, just to see if he is real.

And then, as if summoned by her denial, he appeared in her mind.

Carcel.

The image of him overlay the image of Evans. Carcel, dark and intense. Carcel, with his sleeves rolled up in the garden. Carcel, with his eyes black with desire in this very room.

The person who makes me feel that way, she thought, a sudden, sharp ache piercing her heart.

She looked at the desk. She could almost see him there, leaning back, challenging her, teaching her.

The person who makes me feel that way... not only doesn’t love me... but also has no thought of marriage.

She remembered Rowan’s story on the balcony. The gun. The trauma. The fear.

He is afraid, she thought sadly. And because he is afraid, he is impossible.

She looked back at Evans, who was now walking toward the reading table.

In the end, she scolded herself, I am still thinking about Carcel again. Even when a perfectly good, perfect man is standing right in front of me.

Evans placed the book on the table. He pulled out the chair and sat down.

He looked up at her. He paused. He seemed to study her face for a moment, his expression shifting from excitement to a gentle, knowing sympathy.

"Ines," he said softly.

She started, pulled from her reverie. "Yes?"

Evans rested his hands on the table. "You are thinking about the marriage, right?"

Ines froze. She blinked rapidly. "I... pardon?"

"The match," Evans clarified, a small, wry smile touching his lips. "What our siblings are plotting. The grand ’union of the bookworms.’"

Ines felt her cheeks heat up. She waved her hands frantically. "No! No, it’s not like that! I wasn’t..."

"It is okay," Evans said, raising a hand to stop her. His voice was kind. Wonderfully, surprisingly kind.

He leaned back in the chair, looking relieved.

"I am not interested either," he said simply.

Ines stopped waving her hands. She stared at him. "You... you aren’t?"

"No," Evans chuckled softly. "I know what they say. That we are perfect for each other because we both prefer paper to people. And you are lovely, Lady Ines. Truly. You are intelligent and kind."

He looked down at his hands, his expression turning slightly melancholy.

"But I don’t think I can keep a woman happy," he confessed. "I am... I am not a strong man. I am not a passionate man. I am selfish with my time."

He looked back up at her, his blue eyes honest.

"Besides," he said, tapping the cover of the book, "you could say I love my books more than anything else. More than people, perhaps. And I am not ready to take a step forward into the world of the married. It seems... loud. And complicated."

Ines felt a wave of relief so strong her knees almost buckled.

He understood. He was rejecting the situation because he, too, just wanted to be left alone to read.

She smiled. A real, genuine smile.

"I understand," she said softly. "I understand completely."

Evans smiled back. The tension in the room vanished, replaced by a comfortable, easy camaraderie. They were not suitors. They were allies.

"Can we still be friends?" Evans asked, hopeful. "And... does your offer still stand? About the books?"

Ines laughed. It was a light, happy sound. "Of course. On both counts. We shall be friends who read together in silence. It will be a glorious friendship."

"Glorious," Evans agreed.

It was a nice moment. . A moment of peace in a chaotic week.

And then, the atmosphere in the room changed.

It didn’t change slowly. It shattered.

The air grew heavy. The temperature seemed to drop. The hair on the back of Ines’s neck stood up, a primal warning signal she had come to recognize.

She heard a footstep behind her. Heavy. Deliberate.

Evans looked up, his eyes widening slightly as he looked past Ines’s shoulder toward the open door.

"May I come in?"

The voice was deep. It was smooth. And it was laced with a cold, sharp, menacing steel that made Ines’s breath catch in her throat.

She turned slowly.

Carcel stood at the door.

He was leaning against the frame, much as he had the night before, but there was nothing relaxed about his posture now.

He was not smiling.

His dark eyes swept over the scene. He looked at Evans, sitting comfortably in the chair. He looked at the book on the table.

And then, his gaze landed on Ines.

He looked at her golden dress. He looked at her flushed face. He looked at the smile that was fading from her lips.

His eyes were burning.

He pushed off the doorframe and took a step into the room. He did not wait for an answer. He walked in as if he owned the room, the books, and the very air they were breathing.

"I hope," Carcel said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble as he walked toward them, "I am not interrupting anything... private."