Page 7 of The Duke of Fire
For how could a woman who had not had lovers know of the things she wrote?
Chapter 3
Ninety times. That was how many times Amelia had brushed Octavia’s golden curls so far.
Wait. It could be ninety-eight, maybe one hundred. Her mind had been too full of that arrogant man from the brothel. She had lost count somewhere between his infuriating smirk and the way his eyes had devoured her. His gaze had not been crude, yet it had trespassed into places no man’s look should ever reach. It was assessing, daring—like he was silently listing every way she could be undone. As if heknewwhere to touch her without lifting a finger. As if her breath, her pulse, her pride were his to toy with.
“Again,” the pregnant tyrant commanded, reclining on the velvet chaise like a Roman empress, complete with the cruelty and need for slaves.
Amelia held on to her temper and combed her sister-in-law’s hair once more. One hundred. Her right arm burned from the repeated, controlled motion through tangled hair. She rolled her aching shoulders and did not even have time to wipe the sweat trickling down her nape. The strokes were labor for vanity whenshe knew her fingers were born to write stories and poetry, translations of her own imagination.
Not today.
Too soft, and Octavia complained. Too hard, and she would scream for her husband. Her arm had also been strained from polishing a dozen pairs of shoes and slippers earlier this afternoon. Her back made odd sounds that were unusual for someone her age. She had not even eaten since breakfast, and the afternoon light was already fading.
After she was done, she straightened herself. Perfect posture. Chin up. She was still a Warton, even though she had been mostly one in name these days. No matter what happened to her, she would make sure that her father and mother would be proud of her.
The man’s face flashed again. Would her father and mother be proud that she had flung herself into a brothel? That she hadallowedherself to be rattled by a man like that?An infuriating man. Worse, even now, she could recall the treacherous warmth that had unfurled inside her when he gave her that look. A look she felt in her chest, her throat, lower. She hated him for it.
“There you go,” she said, setting the brush aside. “Your hair is gleaming. It is perfect.”
Octavia raised her hand mirror and studied her reflection with one arched brow. “Seems adequate. We leave in an hour. I am not certain why Finch agreed to bring you along today, but make sure you hurry.”
Amelia’s body was sore, and she still had not begun to dress. Octavia had kept her busy throughout the day just because she refused to call a maid to assist her. Octavia was simply doingthis to torment her, to remind her of her place in this household. It was an unspoken truth, one that made Amelia rush to her bedchamber.
It was one of the few comforts she had in her life—keeping her childhood bedroom, while Octavia and Finch took over her father and mother’s chambers.
On her narrow canopy bed, Mary had already laid out a modest but elegant gown for her. It was pale blue silk with delicate, understated lace trim. Relief coursed over her. It was one less thing to worry about as she desperately hung on to the only thought that kept her sane lately.
Just a few more weeks, and I will have enough money to flee this place.
But then, she felt like she was forgetting something. The thought was fuzzy at first. Then, when her eyes fell on her writing desk, it became clear. Her heart lurched in her chest.
“Oh, no,” she whispered.
Her satchel was nowhere in sight.
She opened her desk drawers and wardrobe, but to no avail. The bag was nowhere to be found. It was a good enough size that it should not be easy to hide in her neat room.
“Miss Warton, what are you doing? You need to get dressed, or your brother will—”
“Mary,” she called through her rising panic. “Have you seen my satchel? The brown, scuffed one?”
“Miss, I believe you had it yesterday when you delivered that letter for Lady Warton,” the maid reminded her.
“You are right. I brought it with me, but…” she whispered. “I-I must have left it somewhere.”
“With the publisher?” the maid asked hopefully. She was not aware that she had stumbled into a brothel. It was shameful enough to hide even from her maid.
“I did not make it to the publisher because of the rain,” she finally admitted with dismay.
Her mind raced. She realized that she had shoved the scandalous story in her satchel because right now, the French translation the publisher needed was right on her desk. She dropped into the chair as relief rushed through her. But the relief was short-lived when she realized that someone could open her bag and see the manuscript there. What if someone read it?
Someone.
The face of the man from the brothel flashed in her mind’s eye for the umpteenth time that day, unbidden and forbidden. She could imagine his eyes burning embers on the manuscript, the way he had stared at her. Had he seen what was on it?
No. Of all people, it should not be him!
