Page 8 of The Duke of Fire
“Miss,” Mary urged. “You must dress for the ball. You are going to be late.”
Distracted and weary, Amelia could only nod. She went through the motions of her maid helping her into her gown. They no longer had time for an intricate hairstyle. Mary arranged Amelia’s hair into a neat chignon, allowing a few curls to frame her face.
Would there be time to dab a little powder? Perhaps. So, she did just that. Somehow, she looked prepared for a ball. She loathedspending time with her brother and his wife, yet tonight, she still wanted to go to the ball. Perhaps she would see a friendly face. And she sorely needed that.
“Amelia!”
She flinched at her brother’s shout.
“She is not ready yet?” Octavia asked. How she was surprised was something that Amelia could just ask the heavens. The shrill voice with its affected distress grated on her nerves, but she could do nothing about it.
“Amelia, we will have to leave if you do not come down this instant!” Finch grumbled.
Amelia grabbed her gloves and ran down the stairs. Of course, Octavia was waiting at the foot of the stairs. She had her hand over her belly, as if anyone would forget she was pregnant, and she had the other on her hip. She wore a bright rose gown with fluffy sleeves. She even wore peacock feathers in her hair.
“I am now certain that you are doing everything you can to upset me. You do not want this baby, do you? Because when it comes out, it will show you just how much—”
“Remember that I brushed your hair a hundred times and had to polish all your shoes. Not one—all fifty-seven of your pairs.” Amelia often tried to control her temper, but she was exhausted and sulky.
Her eyes were narrowed at her sister-in-law, not just because she meant to be on the offensive, but also because her eyes had become blurry from repressed rage.
“You watch your tone, Amelia. You ought to be grateful we decided to bring you along at all. We do not have to. You are aspinster who has no wish or prospects of marrying. One more word from you and we will leave you here with the staff where you belong,” Finch warned. He wore a scowl that reminded her of a large dog guarding its master. That was what her brother had become for his wife.
Finch had never truly loved her, but before Octavia, he was at least like a distant older brother who even carried her over puddles or teased her about her freckles. He had his moments, even though they were pretenses in front of their father, but all of them were gone when he became the new viscount.
Amelia bit back a retort. She reminded herself that she just needed to keep up with her work. Once she had enough money to become independent, she would leave. For good.
Sebastian sat alone in the gloom of his study, the only light a pair of candles flickering low beside his decanter. He had read the mysterious lady’s manuscript not once, but three times. Not a single page skipped, not a single word overlooked. It had ensnared him, bewitched him. He had poured himself a glass of whiskey, then forgotten it existed. He poured again, distracted, and the liquid spilled, dripping onto his desk.
“Damn,” he muttered. The word was sharp, but what followed was harsher—a string of curses that fell from his lips like blades.
He could not believe that a woman’s secret manuscript could be so bold, salacious, and witty all at the same time. Each time his fingers brushed the parchment, he imagined her instead—her skin warm and soft beneath his touch. He wondered what she was planning with her story. Why would she write it in Latin?He could still see her soaked and defiant, cheeks flushed with indignation, lips parted in breathless fury.
She haunted him.
Sebastian followed the story with more emotion than he had ever mustered for any woman, whether she be a rebellious society lady or a brothel madam. He had chuckled, groaned, and even felt himself tightening with desire.
“What is it you are planning? Surely you do not mean to publish this.” He leaned back in his chair, letting the shadows embrace him. “It would ruin you.”
Yet the pages said otherwise. This was not the work of a meek woman. It was the confessional of someone who had tasted desire—or craved it deeply.
Sebastian could still see her as if she were in front of him, the upper curves of her breasts peeking through her wet dress. In his mind, she was more perceptive, biting her lower lip as she watched him with heavy-lidded eyes. The duke groaned. That could not be further from the truth.
“Who are you?” he asked aloud, voice low, almost reverent.
She had stared at him like he was a villain. Good. Let her. He had always been cast that way. But no one had ever made him want to play the part so thoroughly. To chase. To hunt. To conquer.
He rubbed a hand down his face, dragging his fingers across his mouth. “You are not just a puzzle,” he murmured. “You are a temptation.”
The duke knew he had to find her. It was not a passing curiosity—it was a clawing need, sharp and relentless. He had never felt this kind of fixation before. Perhaps it was not abouther, notreally. It was the challenge, the intrigue, the way she had looked at him with defiance when most women would have fluttered and blushed.
A sharp knock shattered the quiet.
He sat upright, lips pressed into a line, fueled by annoyance and ready to give the person a piece of his mind. No one interrupted him in his sanctuary.
“Enter,” he called.
His butler stepped in, pale and breathless. A rare sight. “Your Grace. An urgent letter just arrived for you.”
