Page 9 of The Duke of Fire
Sebastian raised a brow at his pale butler, whose hand trembled a little. Sebastian’s brow furrowed as he took the missive. The seal was familiar. He tore it open and began reading its contents furiously.
“My grandmother is dead?” The words felt foreign to his mouth. “How the hell is that possible?”
The Dowager Duchess of Firaine had been a force of nature—sharp-witted, commanding, indestructible. She had outlived scandals, wars, and the slow erosion of their family ties. The thought of her lying cold and still was inconceivable. She had been the last tether to his childhood. His blood.
She cannot be dead.
Even as his mind screamed that it was impossible, grief crashed all over him. His lungs tightened. It was not that she had raised him, not really. His parents had left him in the shadows, and she had been too late to rescue him from them. But she had tried—through letters, invitations, scoldings masked as affection. And he had pushed her away, like he did everyone. She was all that hehad left, and all he had done was ignore her.
“I-I do not know, Your Grace. My condolences on the passing of the dowager duchess,” stammered the stricken butler.
He swallowed hard. “When did it happen?”
“I-I cannot be certain. The letter says the funeral is in a few hours, Your Grace.”
Sebastian’s gaze snapped up. “A few hours? What sort of funeral is held at night?”
The butler gave a helpless shrug. “Her Grace was always… unconventional.”
Sebastian stood abruptly. Grief curdled into fury. “Someone kept this from me.”
His grandmother had always been an eccentric woman. Even in death, she had strange wishes. Her funeral would be in a few hours. How could that be? Hours after an announcement? Who was trying to keep the information from him? If her funeral was in mere hours, she had been dead for some time. Anger spurred him to think fast about how he could get ready at short notice.
Sebastian flung himself into the rushed preparations. Black coat. Black gloves. Black boots. Mourning garb for a farewell that should never have been rushed. Why fuss? He needed to know who had made such plans. Whoever organized this had known about his grandmother’s death for longer than a few hours.
And whoever this is, I will make sure they regret this.
Within minutes, he was on horseback, galloping through the darkness. The wind bit at him, but he welcomed the pain. His muscles burned, his mind churned. Tears rimmed his eyes, butthey did not fall. He did not have the luxury of weakness tonight.
It was a miracle that he was not met with any disaster on the road, for he saw almost nothing but the fiery rage that was choking him. His fists longed for someone to pummel when he reached there, a wish to ease the pangs of despair.
Lanterns glowed in the distance as he reached the estate. Carriages were parked outside, but something was off. There was no solemn air. No hush of mourning. It was understandable that people would come to her funeral at a moment’s notice.
And yet. Is that… music?
He listened. The music drifting from inside the house was not sorrowful. In fact, it was jolly, and the guests were grinning from ear to ear, their clothes gaudy and colorful. He would have to talk to someone. How dare they make it seem like a—wait.
Sebastian stopped and listened once more. No, it could not be.
Inside, guests twirled and laughed, dressed in vibrant colors. Wine flowed freely. A ball.
A bloody ball.
He stood at the threshold, teeth clenched, heart thundering in his chest.
“What the hell is this?” he growled, a sneer breaking into his face. “What have you done, Grandmother?”
It was not a funeral he was invited to.
It was a damned ball.
Chapter 4
“Where is she?”
Sebastian stormed the ball, dark as vengeance in his black mourning coat, his fury barely leashed. Relief throbbed beneath his rage, but he ignored it. The Dowager Duchess of Firaine was alive. Of course she was. He had always known that his grandmother would likely outlive them all. He should have known better. This stunt had her signature all over it.
He barely noticed the grandeur of the ballroom, only noting bits and pieces. Gold and crystal. Laughter floating in the air. He had imagined dim lighting and a coffin in the parlor. Even the string quartet sounded cheeky. Everything in the room seemed to mock the misery he felt on his way here. The rage he felt now made it impossible for him to focus on anything else.
