"Her moans could be heard but she bit her lower lip to muffle them as his kisses kept her excited."
The heavy silence of the bedroom was broken only by the sound of a quill pen scratching against fine, cream-colored paper. Ines sat hunched over her reading table, the candlelight turning the loose curls of her reddish-brown hair into strokes of fire.
"She couldn’t stop that man’s hand from pulling her stockings off. Her moans filling the stables."
Ines spoke the words softly, her own voice sounding strange in the quiet room. Her hazel eyes scanned the line, and she bit her small lip. She dipped the pen back into the dark inkwell. A small, satisfied smile touched her mouth before she continued writing, her heart thumping a low, secret rhythm against her ribs.
This is it, she thought. This is the part.
The whinny sound of the carriage horses pulling up to the front entrance drifted through her open window, sharp and impatient on the cool night air. They were ready.
She ignored it. She had to finish the draft before her tutor comes during the weekend.
"She couldn’t stop his hands from slipping up her leg and teasing her thighs."
Ines paused, her own breath catching. She could feel the rough texture of Stefan’s glove, the heat of his skin. She was no longer in her bedroom; she was in the stables with Doris, her heroine. She leaned closer to the paper, the scent of ink and wax filling her nose.
"Your Grace...that place... you shouldn’t touch there. Said Doris, her voice a little breathy."
The quill scratched faster now, racing to keep up with the image in her mind.
"Why shouldn’t I... Stefan replied, removing his shirt. You are already mine. I want all of you Doris. Tell me you don’t want it and I will stop, Doris. Just tell me No and I will leave this place."
She brought the lantern closer to the paper. " Should Doris say yes or no?" She thought to herself waited for another source of inspiration. "Despite Doris’s resistance, his hands..."
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound was so sharp, so real, that Ines jumped violently. Her hand jerked, sending a single, fat droplet of black ink splattering across the page, right over the word "hands."
"Oh, blast!" she whispered, her heart leaping into her throat. She slammed the leather-bound manuscript shut, her cheeks burning with a heat that had nothing to do with the candles.
"My lady?" a voice called through the solid oak door. It was Edith, her maid. "My lady, His Grace, your brother, is awaiting your presence at the grand foyer. He insists you make haste, else you both will be late for the ball."
Ines stared at the closed book. It felt hot to the touch, a dangerous, wonderful secret. Rowan. He was waiting. Rowan, who hated lateness more than he hated poorly polished boots.
"Tell him I’ll be down in a moment, Edith!" she called out, pleased that her voice sounded mostly steady.
The moment Edith’s footsteps retreated, Ines sprang into action. She grabbed the manuscript. She pulled open the bottom drawer, the one filled with letter she received from her brother when he was at war and dried-up bottles of ink. She shoved the manuscript underneath the letters, pushing it far into the back where it vanished into the shadows.
She slammed the drawer shut and locked it with a small, iron key.
Now, the key. This was the most important part. Her maids keep finding it and she keeps looking for new places to hide it. She looked around her room, her eyes darting. Where do I hide you? She thought to herself, her eyes looking for a safe place. Then they landed on her vanity. Her jewelry box. Of course.
She hurried to her vanity and opened the large decorated box. It was filled with the respectable, boring pearls, gems necklaces and earrings and garnets her mother had left her. She took the small iron key and slipped it underneath the plush velvet lining, where it lay cold and flat against the wood. No one would look there. No one ever touched her jewelry box but her.
She let out a long breath. Safe. It’s safe for now.
She turned and finally caught her reflection in the large vanity mirror.
Her reddish-brown hair was, as usual, defying its pins. A few curls had sprung loose, framing her face. Her hazel eyes looked far too bright, almost feverish. Her small lips were pressed into a tight, guilty line. She looked exactly like a woman who had just been visualizing about a man named Stefan taking off his shirt with a hungry look in his eyes.
You look like a harlot, a nasty little voice in her head whispered.
No I don’t . I just look excited, she argued back at her reflection.
She pinched her cheeks, hard, trying to blame the flush on rouge. She lightly tapped her cheeks, smoothed the skirts of her deep green ballgown, straightened her shoulders, and forced a look of calm, aristocratic boredom onto her face. It was a good mask. The one she wore to balls. Oh how she hated balls.
Taking one last, steadying breath, Ines opened her bedroom door and walked toward the stairs.