Page 35 of The Duke of Fire
He had not meant to sound so… possessive. But the thought of Amelia being cornered by cruel gossip or leering glances sat uneasily in his chest. He hated the idea of her feeling alone at an event he had dragged her into, even indirectly.
“That woman,” the dowager said softly. “She is getting under your skin.”
He did not respond, but something flickered in his eyes.
“You care for Miss Warton,” his grandmother concluded, a sense of wonder evident in her voice.
“I do not. She is merely a diversion, an experiment to occupy my time,” he said smoothly.
It was a lie. And he hated how easily it fell from his lips.
But what was the truth? That she had captivated him from the moment he met her? That he had started noticing things he should not—the way she clutched her gloves when nervous, or how she tilted her chin just so when readying for battle? That she made him feel different?
No. That was not a path he would walk. He had built his life with rules, boundaries, a fortress of detachment. And there would be no exceptions.
“Sebastian, you cannot keep your heart guarded forever,” his grandmother said gently.
He looked at her then, his eyes colder than they had been moments before. “Oh, but that is exactly what I intend to do. And no one—no one—will change that.”
Then, with the controlled elegance that masked his turmoil, he turned and left the room.
It is probably for the best, Amelia thought, after days upon days of boring social events became the norm for her. The excitement of being near the Duke of Firaine could send someone into a hopeless flutter.
“Chin up. Talk to them,” was the constant reminder from the dowager duchess.
Her mentorship had been quite helpful. Amelia was aware that without it, nobody would even look her way. Or, if anyone ever gave her any interest, it would be because they were intrigued that a maid’s daughter was garnering attention. Nobody dared say anything terrible about her now, though, not within earshot.
Tonight was different. Another note lay on her lap. She was dressed and restless, wondering if she should have been hoping for excitement after all.
Be ready for tonight. Wear the silver gown I sent you the other night.
As usual, he did not sign the note. He simply used the same parchment paper, and the scent of cedar emanated from it. The feel and touch of it were enough to send her to a different place.
There was no note sent with that particular gown. The duke knew that she would know it was from him. Nobody sent expensive things to someone other than their wives or their fiancées, at least that was what she understood.
“Where on earth are we going this time?” she wondered aloud while seated on her bed.
Soon, a carriage stopped just beyond the corner of Warton House. Amelia had been waiting for it by her window. She went downstairs stealthily, her slippered feet trying not to make a sound. She was afraid that she would be given an earful once Octavia realized she was leaving the house for a night of perceived leisure.
Amelia breathed a sigh of relief as soon as her skin made contact with the cool night air. Her heart was still pounding, and she placed her hand on her chest to feel its tremors ease little by little.
She thought that she would have to enter the carriage without seeing a soul, but the duke himself stood next to it. He was already waiting. Even in silhouette, he looked devilishly handsome. Dressed all in black with a smirk on his face and his cravat undone, he certainly looked like temptation.
What are you thinking? Get a hold of yourself!
The duke gestured for her to enter the carriage. He helped her up without a word. Then, he followed her inside just as quietly. Instead of sitting across from her as she expected, he sat beside her.
“Here, Miss Warton. You will need this,” he said, handing her a satin, dove-gray mask. It was simple but elegant, trimmed with tiny silver beads.
Amelia’s fingers trembled when she took the mask from the duke. It was the only sign of nervousness coming from her.
“Are we going to a masquerade ball? I was not aware of one being hosted in town,” she said, curiously fingering the beads on the mask. It would match her gown. That was why he insisted that she wear it.
“You have not heard of a masquerade ball because we are not going to one,” he said, his eyes sparkling in the darkness. “We are going to a hunt.”
“A hunt?” she exclaimed, shocked. As a lady, she was not usually invited to hunts, but this particular one was even more strange. She had a million questions. “At this hour? How can the participants see what they are hunting?”
The duke merely laughed, but Amelia thought of hunting animals, and her stomach sank. She did not think that she would be able to do that—kill them for sport. Of course, she was not naïve. Animals being served at the dining table had to have been hunted or reared to be killed. Still, the thought of laughing, competing, and celebrating over the death of an animal made her stomach churn.
