Lady Ines Scandalous Hobby-Chapter 74 - Seventy Four

The gravel driveway of the Hamilton estate, usually so quiet and orderly, had become a river of expensive noise.

It was a few days later. The night of the ball.

Carriage after carriage rolled to a stop, their black lacquered sides gleaming under the light of a hundred torches. The horses stamped their hooves, impatient in the cool evening air. Footmen in the Hamilton uniform moved quickly, opening doors and offering gloved hands to the ladies descending.

The air was alive. There was the soft, continuous swish-swish of heavy silk skirts brushing against the stone steps, and the low, buzzing murmur of excited chatter.

"Lady Dalton!" the butler, Huxley, boomed, his voice echoing off the high, painted ceiling of the entrance hall. "And Lord Dalton!"

Ines stood next to her brother. She was the lady of the house. She was the hostess.

She was smiling. Her face felt stiff, as if the smile were made of porcelain and might crack if she moved too quickly. She wore the new dress Amelia had insisted upon—not orange, but a deep, shimmering gold that matched the flecks in her hazel eyes. It was beautiful. It was tight. It made her feel like a very expensive doll.

"You are welcome," Ines said, for the fiftieth time. She nodded her head, a graceful, practiced movement. "Thank you for coming."

Rowan stood beside her. He looked magnificent. He was wearing his full dress uniform, the red sash cutting across his chest, his medals gleaming under the chandelier. He was beaming. He looked like a king surveying his kingdom.

"Lord Berbrooke! Lady Berbrooke!" Huxley announced.

"Welcome," Rowan said, his voice warm and charming. He shook hands. He bowed to the ladies. His eyes were sparkling with a genuine, eager welcome. He was happy.

Ines, however, had a job.

As the hostess, she held a small, silver basket. Inside were the dance cards. They were small, white cards with tiny, gold pencils attached by a silk string. They were the currency of the evening.

She handed one to a young debutante in pink. "Please, enjoy the evening," Ines said softly.

The girl took it, her eyes already darting over Ines’s shoulder, looking for eligible men. She barely noticed Ines.

This continued for an hour. The stream of guests seemed endless. The grand entrance hall filled up, then spilled over into the ballroom. The sound of the orchestra tuning their instruments—a violin string snapping, a cello humming—drifted through the open double doors.

Finally, the flow of guests slowed. The ballroom was full.

Ines walked into the main room. It was a sea of color. Women in pastels and jewels fluttered their fans like butterflies. Men in stark black and white stood in clusters, talking about politics, businesses and horses. The heat from hundreds of candles in the crystal chandeliers made the air warm and heavy.

Ines stood near a large pillar, trying to catch her breath.

There are too many people here, she thought, a wave of familiar, suffocating panic rising in her chest.

The noise was a physical weight. The laughter was too loud. The perfume was too strong. She felt small. She felt invisible, yet exposed.

I want to go home, she thought desperately.

She raised her hand and lightly smacked her own forehead.

I am already at home.

The realization was both funny and tragic. She was trapped in her own house. There was nowhere to run. She couldn’t stay in any hiding place ; it would be potentially full of guests looking for a quiet corner. She couldn’t go to her room either; Rowan would send Edith to fetch her.

She sighed, smoothing the gold silk of her skirt. She remembered the conversation she had with her brother just an hour ago, in the drawing room before the guests arrived.

Rowan had held her by the shoulders. He had looked her in the eye, serious and loving.

"You are the main focus tonight, Ines," he had said. "You know that, right? Everyone is coming to see you. You are the lady of the house."

Ines looked around the room now.

She saw a group of young ladies giggling behind their fans. They were not looking at her.

She saw a group of older matrons whispering, their heads close together. They were looking at the refreshments table.

She saw the men. They were looking at the debutantes.

Contrary to my brother’s thoughts of me being the ’main focus,’ Ines thought, a dry observation taking over her panic, nobody cares that I am here.

Her eyes swept the room.

The attention of the people is focused on those two.

She looked toward the center of the room, near the fireplace. There was a large crowd there. A gravitational pull.

In the middle of the circle stood two men.

Rowan was laughing, holding a glass of champagne. He was radiant. The ladies were flocking to him, their eyes wide, their smiles bright. He was the Golden Duke. The catch of the season.

And beside him stood Carcel.

Ines felt her breath hitch.

Carcel had returned this morning. He had arrived just as the house was waking up, dusty from the road, his face grim. He had gone straight to his room to change.

Now, he stood in his formal evening wear. Black coat, white waistcoat, a perfectly tied cravat and a neatly styled hair. He looked... incredibly handsome.

He was not laughing. He was chatting with a group of gentlemen—politicians, mostly. He held a glass, but he wasn’t drinking. He looked tall, dark, and impossibly imposing.

Since he came back this morning, Ines thought, watching him from the safety of her pillar, he has been... serious.

He nodded at something a man said, his expression unreadable.

He looks so far away, she thought. Miles away.

Just then, as if he had heard her thought across the crowded room, Carcel turned his head.

He didn’t scan the room. He didn’t look around searching.

He looked straight at the pillar. Straight at her.

Their eyes met.

The noise of the ballroom seemed to drop away. The music faded. The chatter of the guests became a dull hum.

He was staring at her.

His eyes were dark, intense, and burning with a quiet, terrifying focus. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t waving. He was just... looking. As if he were checking to make sure she was still there. As if he were memorizing her in the gold dress.

Ines’s heart started to race.

Thump-thump-thump.

How? she wondered, her hand drifting to her throat. How did he spot me in this crowd? I am hiding. I am in the shadows. There are a hundred people between us.

But he had found her. Instantly.

She wanted to wave. She wanted to smile. She wanted to mouth the words "Bonsoir."

She took a small step forward, away from the pillar.

"Lady Hamilton."

The voice came from directly behind her.

It was a smooth, cool, feminine voice. A voice that sounded like expensive silk sliding over marble.

Ines jumped. The connection with Carcel broke. She spun around, her heart hammering for a different reason now.

A woman was standing there.

She was tall. She was slender. She was wearing a dress of pale, icy silver that shimmered with every breath she took. Her hair was blonde, arranged in a style so perfect it looked like a sculpture. She was beautiful. Not in the warm, bright way Amelia was beautiful. She was beautiful in the way a diamond is beautiful—cold, hard, and flawless.

Ines knew her. Everyone knew her.

It was Lady Priscilla Alworth. The woman society had deemed "The Perfect Match" for Carcel.