Page 3 of The Duke of Fire
Mary nodded with uncertainty. “There is the bookseller’s awning. I will wait for you there, Miss, if that is all right. I easily get sick.”
Amelia knew that Mary’s concern was warranted. If she ever got sick, Finch and Octavia would not hesitate to turn her away and replace her with someone sturdier. So, she picked up her pace and proceeded to deliver the letter to the scrawled address.
She knocked at the door, and a butler responded. When he saw the letter, he frowned, but there was no surprise on his face. He simply nodded at her and hastily closed the door. No greetings. No words.
Mission accomplished.Well, at least her mission for Octavia was accomplished. Even though she felt the butler was rude, it was done. Hopefully, that would be the last time she would personally have to deliver a letter for her sister-in-law.
Then, the droplets of rain fell, as if on cue. They quickly became harsh, pounding hard, stinging her face and arms.
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, trying to cover as much of herself with her shawl, but she was already drenched. “Mary!”
The rain seemed bent on punishing her just like Octavia enjoyed doing. This was her life now. It used to be a happy life once, even though she had never been accepted by theton, just because her mother was a maid who had married a viscount. At least, then, she had people who loved and cared for her.
“Mary?” she called when she reached the bookseller’s place.
There was no sign of her maid. She probably made a run for it after the rain started pouring, and it had no plans to die down anytime soon. As she walked a little more, everything seemed to whirl around her and fade to gray with the torrents, making her unable to discern anything.
What do I do now?
Chapter 2
“You cannot possibly be serious, Sebastian. If I did not know you well, I would not have believed a word of your stories.”
Sebastian Hargrove, the Duke of Firaine, turned his gaze from the warm flicker of the hearth to his friend, the Duke of Stonevale. A sardonic smile played at the corners of his mouth. Cassian, like Benedict, knew him too well—perhaps more than any man should.
“Too outlandish, you think?” he drawled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
“For you? Not nearly outlandish enough,” Benedict interjected, the glint in his eye betraying his amusement.
All his life, Sebastian had been raised to believe that money could buy anything—except affection. His parents played dutiful hosts to thetonand their perceived roles in society, but spared no warmth for their son. As a child, he waited behind locked doors, convinced that if he grew up respectable and unshakable, he might finally earn their attention. He never did. So hestopped trying. Now, he only sought what was easy to control—willing bodies, fleeting encounters. Affection had always been out of reach, so he made sure it stayed that way.
The three men sat amidst the smoke-laced luxury ofThe Blue Parrot, London’s most discreet brothel. Here, velvet-lined walls muffled secrets, and indulgence was the law. Sebastian inhaled deeply, the scent of sandalwood and sin intermingled in the air. It amused him that the brandy cost more than some of the women. That irony never grew old.
“Benedict bet you would fall in love and flee to the Alps,” Cassian said, mock-serious. “You owe me twenty guineas.”
“Me? In love?” Sebastian gave a sharp laugh. “Benedict must have been drinking too much of that swill they call champagne in Paris. You both know I never bed the same woman twice. It prevents… attachments.”
He said it simply, as if it were gospel. For him, perhaps it was.
His friends understood his rules. At first, his travels across the Continent had been about novelty—new faces, new games, new distractions. And he had found plenty. But it turned into a means of finding something that he had been looking for, and still had not found. Something to fill the void. He had found endless pleasure, but no peace. The hunger had not faded; it had sharpened. It lived in his bones now, a fever that refused to break.
“The French women entertained well enough,” he added, leaning back. “Though the roads nearly shattered my spine. I suspect the coachman was a sadist.”
His friends exchanged glances they probably thought he would not catch.
“Did you punish him with one of your infamous glares?” Cassian teased.
“I think a lecture from him is worse than his glare,” Benedict deadpanned, before he finished the brandy in his glass. “Although we know full well that he is the one who needs a lecture on his philandering ways.”
“Mock all you like, both of you hypocrites. All men have their own rules they live by, and so do you. I am simply more serious about mine,” Sebastian protested as he finished his drink.
“Yes, yes. No second rounds. Keeps it simple, you say.” Cassian stretched his injured leg and winced slightly. “But what of affection? Do you believe it is such a danger?”
Sebastian opened his mouth to reply. He knew his friends well, and neither of them was in a hurry to find a woman to love. Benedict organized his life around a strict set of goals, and Cassian had his heart shut to anyone who came too close. How could they pretend they knew better about affection?
Before he could say anything, though, a soft hand settled on his shoulder. He turned to see Clarice, a popular courtesan at the brothel. Clarice. He should have been alerted by her overly sweet, heavy scent.
“You vanished, Your Grace,” she purred, pressing her lips to his. He endured it for a moment, then pulled back. She did not seem to care that he recoiled. “You did not warn us you were about to leave for weeks!”
