Page 58 of The Duke of Fire
“All right, then. Enough of that,” Sebastian snapped.
“It looks like I made the right decision to come look for you, after all,” the dowager declared, eyeing her grandson shrewdly. “You should not be here all day, drinking and glowering at the fire. You are fortunate you have friends to watch you while you self-destruct, instead of leaving you alone to wallow in your sorrows.”
“Your Grace, we did try to stop him,” Benedict protested, as if afraid to offend the dowager duchess.
“Let’s say I believe you, boys. The three of you must now freshen up and be ready for tonight’s ball. Wear your best coats, and do not growl at the chaperones,” she advised.
“I do not… I should not,” Sebastian muttered as he rubbed his forehead. “Why should I even go? These balls are often terrible, anyway.”
“Even with Miss Warton there?” his grandmother asked, raising an eyebrow. “Even though you are not courting her, remember that I am sponsoring the young lady. You are supposed to help me by dancing with her and introducing her to many eligiblegentlemen.”
Sebastian narrowed his eyes at his grandmother. Why was she so reasonable while also giving him more of a headache?
“Even if that is not how you see it, anything is better than you remaining here to sit and suffer,” she said, still looking as calm as ever. “I do recommend approaching Miss Warton before her dance card fills up.”
Benedict shook his head slowly as he made a sympathetic noise. “Be quick about it, Sebastian.”
“Less talk, more action. I believe we should start preparing for the ball as early as now, unless you want to attend looking like a drunk pirate,” Cassian said, rising and moving toward Sebastian. The latter stiffened. “We need to get that cravat back, I suppose, or you may need some fresh clothes.”
Everyone in the room knew that they must obey the dowager in this case, not because they feared her but because they knew that Sebastian must cease his days and nights of gloom and doom.
“Good man, Cassian,” the dowager said, sounding pleased. But when her eyes met Sebastian’s, he could see the bit of unease there.
“Grandmother, let me be. I know what I am doing. I have survived my childhood without much assistance, remember?” he reminded her gruffly.
She nodded, then. Even though she came in like a storm, he saw through her guilt and fear.
Hours later, Sebastian found himself recovering from a headache in Lady Ashcombe’s ballroom. It was an impressive place. The chandeliers looked like stars, and the floor gleamed. He could imagine the staff must have worked so hard to make the ballroom appear so spotless. However, the guests also contributed to the glamor. Silk and lace in different colors shimmered and glided with the music.
Sebastian shook his head. He should not be waxing poetic. Balls like this were typical in his life, although he often avoided them. Now, he noticed every little thing as if it conveyed some sort of magic.
Heads turned when he stepped into the ballroom. Fans snapped, on alert, and with it, the whispers grew louder, or perhaps it was all in his head. But soon, the buzzing tapered down, and the rest of his background faded away.
She was right there.
Amelia.
She was standing near the refreshment table, wearing a garnet velvet dress. Of course. She did not seem to be one who would wear pastel lace. She had worn the style before, but it did not feel like her; however, he suspected he would like her in whatever dress.
Sebastian could not help but notice how the bodice hugged her form, while the skirt flowed. Her hair was pinned up neatly, with only a few loose curls. She looked like a woman who was here to seek a husband, not one who was merely here to escape.
Stop looking at her like that. You have already tasted her—and yet, somehow, it is not enough.
He tried to shake away the remnants of his imagination. Then, he focused on her and how her face lit up when she laughed. It seemed like her friend had whispered something in her ear. As she laughed, her hand touched her throat. What could it be? Mannerism, anxiety, or modesty?
Their eyes met.
Before Sebastian, Amelia transformed into something else. The laughter had died, and the light on her face seemed to have faded. The shoulders that were shaking with mirth had stilled.
Sebastian crossed the room, a predator stalking his prey. His eyes were focused, and his movements were hurried and easy. He could barely register the greetings of the other members of theton. They let him move in the midst of them, made way for the Duke of Firaine. Just when he had gotten close enough to see the flush spread from her cheeks to her chest, the music began. A waltz.
Her eyes became panicked. She glanced at her friend. For a brief moment, there was silent communication between the two. Then, she turned to leave.
“Don’t,” he commanded. “Not again.”
Amelia halted, then. She turned around, and her face had transformed into something else again. Her mask was up, and she seemed indifferent, like a stranger.
But no stranger would have the same defiance in her eyes or the tilt of her chin. The straight posture could, however, be thought of as merely being proper.
