Page 18 of The Duke of Fire
She did not smile. He noticed.
She exhaled slowly, steadying herself. Pride was a luxury she could no longer afford. “I will not waste your time, Your Grace. I need your help.”
That amused him more. “Help? From me? What happened to the woman who swore she would not beg me for the world?”
His eyes sharpened, the amused glint turning razor-edged as his gaze roved over her, peeling away every layer of pretense. This time, he did not have to work to unearth her desperation—it was already clinging to her skin.
“I am not begging. That would imply I am on my knees, pleading for scraps. I am here to negotiate.” She lifted her chin, as if daring him to challenge her right to stand as his equal.
He studied her like a chessboard. “Ah. So, the queen folds her spine. Something has changed,” he murmured. He took a sip from his drink, then his blue eyes returned to her face. It was hard to look back at such a blatant assessment. “What is it? Were you banished from your home?”
Amelia glanced at him quickly. Then, her eyes dropped to the untouched glass of brandy. She was tempted. Her chest hurt so much she needed something to ease the feeling. But she needed her full senses to make smarter decisions. She paced, her hands in fists at her sides.
Her jaw tightened. “My brother discovered I had been working in secret. I translated manuscripts for a publisher. I saved every shilling I earned. I had planned to leave London and carve out a life of my own.”
His expression sharpened. “And?”
“He took everything. Said it would go to my dowry, though I know it will not. He means to keep me under his roof, under his thumb, serving his wife as her maid for the rest of my life. I wanted to begin a new life away from here.”
Her voice wavered, but she forced the emotion back down, burying it where it could not betray her. She had stopped mid-pace, staring at a point beyond the wall, though she could notsee it. The world blurred, but she refused to let the tears fall. Blinking furiously, she curled her fingers into fists, driving her nails into her palms until it hurt. She would not break. Not here. Not in front of him.
Sebastian circled her then—not like a man pacing, but like something untamed, feral, and curious. His eyes never left her.
“That is quite enterprising,” the duke murmured. His tone was not patronizing, but it made Amelia’s head snap in his direction. “How come you do not want to marry someone who would protect you like all the other ladies of theton?”
She nodded, as if accepting his words, not really sure if it was a compliment.
“I was proud of my work, if that was what you meant, Your Grace. Besides, given my mother’s past, I had no prospects in the marriage market.”
Sebastian stilled, his gaze unreadable, and for a fleeting moment, Amelia wondered if he had any inkling who she even was. A man like him had little reason to recall the daughter of a deceased viscount’s second wife. Especially when that wife had once been a maid. Her blood was considered diluted. No matter the pretense, no one in thetonwould truly want her as a wife. She had once dreamed of marriage. She had imagined a loving husband and many children whose laughter filled the home. But that dream had wilted over time. She knew better than to hope for it now.
“I have heard of you in passing. You are Miss Amelia Warton, the sister of the Viscount of Warton.”
“Half-sister,” she hissed, the correction sharper than intended.
That made the duke’s eyes widen, startled by her reaction.
“You said in the gardens that you could make dreams come true, Your Grace. That is why I am here,” Amelia pressed on, refusing to flinch under his assessing gaze.
“Tell me,” he said softly, “what could a woman like you possibly offer a man like me?”
“Perhaps a false courtship? Public appearances. That would silence my brother’s demands and, I imagine, ease your grandmother’s matchmaking ambitions. You would be free of the parade of simpering ladies. And I would be free—soon enough. It could be mutually beneficial, Your Grace.”
The duke’s gaze sharpened. He frowned as he circled her with eyes never leaving her. He did not pace like any other man who might do it for thinking. For collecting his thoughts. No. He was like a storm orbiting around a planet, finding a specific spot to strike.
His laughter was low and dangerous. “I do not pretend, Miss Warton. I do not wear leashes—certainly not the ones society tries to collar me with. I do not play by their rules. I only play by mine.”
Amelia’s heart sank. She had known this would be difficult. Foolishly, she had not expectedhimto be the obstacle. But she could see no other path that would make her escape her current situation. The next words tasted bitter before they even left her tongue.
“Name your terms,” she said, her voice steady despite her tremor. “Name your rules.” Her chin lifted, defiant, even as her insides quaked. “I will do anything,” she breathed. “Anything, if it means I can leave London.”
He stopped his pacing behind her.
“Anything?” he echoed, the word brushing her neck. “Even sell yourself to me?”
Her eyes flared then, and her whole body went still.
Of course. What was she thinking? She approached a rake who only cared about bedding women once, then moving on to the next conquest. He was searching for more prey. She was not just prey—she was scavenger’s feed, with nothing much to offer and with a desperation that choked her. It did not mean that she would not feel indignant.
