The carriage ride was long, dusty, and vibrating with an unspoken tension. For three hours, Ines had sat opposite the two men, pretending to be absorbed in the passing scenery. Rowan was reading his estate reports. Carcel, however, had not. He had stared, grimly, out his own window, looking for all the world like a man being marched to his own execution. It was, Ines had thought, utterly delightful.
When they finally arrived, the Clifford family's hunting grounds were exactly as she'd imagined: sprawling, wild, and smelling faintly of horses and damp earth.
Ines stepped down from the carriage, her body stiff from the ride. She smoothed the skirts of her violet traveling dress, a deep, lovely color she had chosen with great care. She adjusted her hat, making sure the small, fashionable brim was angled just so.
