Page 12 of The Duke of Fire (The Dukes of Desire #1)

“ A n important letter has arrived for you, Finch,” Amelia said softly, as she stood rigidly only a few inches from the drawing room’s entrance.

The place was quickly becoming less her own, but it still carried her name.

It was all that she could hold on to. She did not make any decisions in her own home, but that was expected of a woman left under a male heir’s wing.

At least, that was what she told herself often—that her situation was normal.

“What kind of letter?” Finch asked, not lowering his newspaper, his gaze gliding over the top edge with sharp, indifferent calculation.

His tone was neutral, but Amelia knew better. Being careful was always the right move around her brother and his wife.

“A letter from the Dowager Duchess of Firaine.”

She had rehearsed these words countless times in her room, yet her voice still faltered on the last syllable. It came out too stiff, too formal, as if the words had to wedge themselves free of the tight coil in her chest. Her tongue felt like sandpaper.

“What did you just say, Amelia?” Octavia drawled, not even bothering to lift her head from her lounging pose, her eyebrow arched in exaggerated boredom.

“The Dowager Duchess of Firaine,” Amelia repeated, more firmly this time. “She offered to sponsor me for the Season and wants to ensure that I have everything in order. Manners. Clothes.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” There was a beat of silence. Then Octavia rose with sudden, stiff-backed disbelief and snatched the letter from Amelia’s hand and passed it to Finch.

“Why did this letter not reach me first, and why would the Dowager want to be associated with the likes of you?” he asked, his voice dismissive and cruel.

“I am not certain,” Amelia replied, keeping her calm despite the growing anxiety and resentment she was feeling. “But I believe she found our conversation at the ball… enlightening.”

“You talked to her at length?” Finch asked, sounding almost beleaguered. “How could she suddenly decide that she wants to sponsor you when you barely talked? You are—”

“Stupid? Irrelevant?” interrupted Octavia with a smirk. “I dare say the Dowager Duchess wants a little birdie to experiment on.”

“Our conversation was rather brief, but I suppose she must have taken a liking to me,” she said, not really wanting a complete discussion of what might have been said between her and the Dowager, whom she had not spoken to.

Octavia scoffed. “How desperate the Dowager must be. I am not surprised, though, considering her own grandson refused to visit her until she invited him to her supposed funeral.”

Amelia’s ears perked. They knew about that? She wondered how much of the ton knew about that night.

“Perhaps she has also lost her mind,” Finch snorted as he read the letter carefully.

“Perhaps she is desperate. I cannot speak of her motives,” Amelia said, trying for a different tactic. “However, it does not change that I cannot disregard such an offer from a dowager duchess. It would reflect very badly on our family name.”

“I admit that I find this whole affair absurd, but we cannot offend the dowager. Though I warn you to be very cautious. I would not have the Warton name tainted when you disappoint her.”

When? Was that the word he chose? When, not if.

“I will. Her Grace has requested that I join her for dinner tonight. I will do my best to make you proud,” she insisted, sniffing a little.

“Mm. Perhaps that is what you need to finally start acting like a lady,” said Octavia, fanning herself dramatically. “Go then, so that the dowager would have to deal with your insolence for now.”

“Thank you,” Amelia said dryly.

Relief exploded within her, but she remained impassive. She turned her heel and left the drawing room, blinking rapidly. She did not want Finch and Octavia to see her crying.

One last chance. This might be her only chance to rise above her increasingly dim situation, and she vowed not to waste it.

Amelia’s fingers trembled as she stepped out of the carriage. The Firaine estate loomed above her, dark and vast, its imposing silhouette illuminated only by the dim glow of a single lantern. The side entrance was discreet, just as promised. No grand welcome. No witnesses.

“What was I thinking?” Amelia whispered to herself as soon as she was led to the door. It was dark when she arrived, as planned. The coachman knew what he was doing, driving the carriage to the side.

Amelia raised her right hand to knock, but before her knuckles even met the wood, the door opened. A tall, shadowed figure emerged.

Sebastian.

“You made it,” the Duke of Firaine said quietly.

She curtsied stiffly, masking the tremor in her spine. “Your Grace.”

He narrowed his eyes at her briefly, but his face took on a more passive expression when he gestured to her to follow him.

“Come. Quietly.”

“But what about—”

“The servants are discreet, and my grandmother is having her dinner in her chambers tonight. We will not be disturbed.”

Amelia followed, her pulse thrumming. She did not know what to expect. She thought perhaps the duke would wear his usual self-satisfied smirk, but the late night had apparently taken away his attitude.

His steps were deliberate, echoing through the narrow, dim corridors. The cold stone walls seemed to close in around her, but she did not hesitate. She would not give him the satisfaction.

As they ascended a flight of stairs, she felt the strange pull of adrenaline—the odd thrill of disobedience—overwhelming the dread. When they reached a chamber at the end of a hallway, the duke pushed the door open, and lavender-scented warmth enveloped her.

That scent reminds me of something.

She found it strange that as soon as they entered the room, she smelled not just firewood, but also lavender. She scanned the room, realizing that it led to a bath. The adjoining door was open, allowing her to see the massive copper tub.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“What is this?” she asked, her palms feeling cold and sweaty, as she turned to face him.

The duke’s lips quirked. “This is where our game begins.”

Her heart slammed into her ribs. “Do remember that I am not your mistress, Your Grace. I did not come here for this.”

This was a mistake. She should never have come to his house.

“Miss Warton, I am not like other men who would wield their wealth and power to get what they want. I will not force you to do anything. You have my word,” he promised. “I will wait for the day that you will beg. And you will.”

“You cannot possibly believe that I will beg you, Your Grace,” she gritted out. “That is quite an assumption. I may be struggling at the moment, but that does not mean I would debase myself so.”

“Perhaps.” His smirk deepened. “Let’s play a harmless game, then. Cards. A simple contest of chance. Lose, and you will shed an article of clothing.”

Amelia did not know if there was ever a harmless bone in the Duke of Firaine’s body. She doubted it.

Her breath caught. “I refuse.”

“You may. But if you stay, you will follow my rules.”

The cards appeared between his fingers like magic. She could see how this would unravel her. And yet—

“One round,” she said, setting her chin high as she sat across from him. Why was she always afraid? There was no need to hide anymore.

She stopped then. Her eyes were drawn by the cards in his long-fingered hands, as if they had the answers to all her questions. Her heart was pounding, and her cheeks were warm from the fire in the hearth. Her growing defiance made her think of it as a challenge.

They drew their cards, Amelia holding her breath. They seated as she placed her card on the table. Her eight to his ten.

She lost. She slipped off her gloves with careful precision, as if it were merely an exercise in etiquette. The duke watched her, not with lust, but with maddening curiosity.

“One more round?” he asked smoothly, earning a quirk of the eyebrow from her.

She should have left. But she did not. She was still there for some reason, drawing her card not long after he declared another round. She picked a three. When she hissed a curse at his five, he just chuckled.

With her chin up, she eased out of her shoes. She gave them a kick for effect.

“Again.”

“Ah. I knew you were smart. I mean, I read your work. Did I not?”

Amelia made a less-than-graceful grunt. She was in the game. When fortune tipped toward her, she was surprised. The hand that held her nine trembled next to his six. It was a small victory, but it sent her heart racing.

But what would she do with her win? The man who lost looked at her like he was the winner, with that wicked smirk on his face. He did not protest when he pulled at his cravat. The flames illuminated the line of his throat. How could a small sliver of flesh make her feel so unsettled?

She drew a card. A ten. She made a little yelp of triumph, but it was soon vanquished by his queen.

“No, sweetheart. I am sorry, but you need to remove one more article of clothing,” he crooned.

So, she took off her pelisse, glad that she remembered to wear one. She thought that she needed to be as respectable as possible. She had believed the dowager duchess would welcome her.

When she won with a queen to his jack, he merely laughed.

He took off his shirt with deliberate slowness, revealing his broad shoulders and strong arms. Once the shirt was completely off, Amelia had to press her lips together to avoid gaping at his chiseled chest. She had never seen a naked man before, and her imagination was running wild.

After that, Amelia lost again and again until she was down to her chemise. Each time she lost, her heart beat a little faster. Her cheeks were flaming, but her back remained straight. She looked at the duke with defiance, even through her humiliation.

“More?” he asked, his voice softening a little. “You can stop at any time, Miss Warton.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No.”