Page 16 of The Duke of Fire (The Dukes of Desire #1)

S ebastian had finally fled the noise of the ballroom. It was both a relief and a disappointment. Amelia was proving to be quite an entertaining companion, and she had not even been in his bed.Yet.

His grandmother’s drawing room was quiet, a stark contrast to the ballroom with its loud music and eager chatter. Here, the clock ticking highlighted the stillness.

He stood by the fireplace, as if the flames had all the answers he needed. The dowager sat in a nearby chair, seemingly as fascinated by the hearth as he. The faint clink of a teacup against porcelain echoed as the dowager set her cup down with a quiet sigh.

“You know,” she said without looking up, “there was a time when you used to follow me around like a little shadow. Now I am lucky if I get more than a grunted reply in passing.”

“I came to your ball,” he said, turning to her, as if his attendance was something his grandmother had to be grateful for.“You summoned me,” he said simply. “And now I am here. What more would you like, Grandmother?”

“I am glad, but we both know you did not come here for me; you are here for Miss Warton,” she accused.

“Why would I do that for her?” he asked, although he damned well did it for Amelia.

“I know what I am saying. And I was talking to Miss Warton about precisely that,” the dowager murmured.

She finally looked at him—sharply, but not unkindly.

“I would like to spend time with my grandson without feeling as though I am begging for the privilege. You avoid me like the plague. What did I do to deserve that?”

“You are far too dramatic, Grandmother,” he replied.

“It clouds your judgment and, apparently, your memory, too. Do you know how many years I spent locked up in my room, so that I was not heard or seen? No one, not my parents, not you, not even the servants, cared to tend to me. Now that I can survive on my own, why do you insist on seeing me?”

The dowager stiffened. “Sebastian…”

“I remember,” he said, his voice cool. “I remember begging for your attention. For their attention. Father with his ledgers. Mother with her soirées. And you—off in Bath or London, fluttering about the edges of our lives with condolences and invitations sent by proxy.”

“I did what I could—”

“No,” he cut in, straightening from the mantel. “You did what was easy. What was polite . Now, suddenly, you want a grandson again? Don’t bother, Grandmother. I have made peace with my solitude.”

“You have certainly grown, Sebastian. I am also much older. Wiser, I hope. Even if you spend only a little time with me, I would deeply appreciate it. However, you never come when summoned but appear without warning. Then, you disappear after stirring up trouble.”

She sighed and looked away.

“You did invite me this time, do not forget.”

“To be here with me, not to hunt. I wish you would not keep me at a distance anymore, Sebastian. All we have left is one another.”

“We are older, yes, but some things have not changed. It seems that everything still has some conditions in place.”

“I am so sorry, Sebastian,” the dowager said. This time, there was a softness that he was not used to. “I should have been there for you. I should have stepped in when I saw what they were doing to you.”

Sebastian finally turned to his grandmother again.

“You did not do that. But now, do what you are best at—play matchmaker. Make sure Miss Warton is invited to every significant ball and social event on the calendar. Keep her entertained and celebrated. That is the only use I have for your influence.”

“She will certainly be noticed after you have danced with her,” the dowager told him. “Even without my help, Sebastian.”

“You will still do all you can to help her. I do not want any guesses. I want you to make certain that she is happy,” he insisted, his voice firm.

He had not meant to sound so… possessive. But the thought of Amelia being cornered by cruel gossip or leering glances sat uneasily in his chest. He hated the idea of her feeling alone at an event he had dragged her into, even indirectly.

“That woman,” the dowager said softly. “She is getting under your skin.”

He did not respond, but something flickered in his eyes.

“You care for Miss Warton,” his grandmother concluded, a sense of wonder evident in her voice.

“I do not. She is merely a diversion, an experiment to occupy my time,” he said smoothly.

It was a lie. And he hated how easily it fell from his lips.

But what was the truth? That she had captivated him from the moment he met her? That he had started noticing things he should not—the way she clutched her gloves when nervous, or how she tilted her chin just so when readying for battle? That she made him feel different?

No. That was not a path he would walk. He had built his life with rules, boundaries, a fortress of detachment. And there would be no exceptions.

“Sebastian, you cannot keep your heart guarded forever,” his grandmother said gently.

He looked at her then, his eyes colder than they had been moments before. “Oh, but that is exactly what I intend to do. And no one— no one —will change that.”

Then, with the controlled elegance that masked his turmoil, he turned and left the room.

It is probably for the best , Amelia thought, after days upon days of boring social events became the norm for her. The excitement of being near the Duke of Firaine could send someone into a hopeless flutter.

“Chin up. Talk to them,” was the constant reminder from the dowager duchess.

Her mentorship had been quite helpful. Amelia was aware that without it, nobody would even look her way.

Or, if anyone ever gave her any interest, it would be because they were intrigued that a maid’s daughter was garnering attention.

Nobody dared say anything terrible about her now, though, not within earshot.

Tonight was different. Another note lay on her lap. She was dressed and restless, wondering if she should have been hoping for excitement after all.

Be ready for tonight. Wear the silver gown I sent you the other night.

As usual, he did not sign the note. He simply used the same parchment paper, and the scent of cedar emanated from it. The feel and touch of it were enough to send her to a different place.

There was no note sent with that particular gown. The duke knew that she would know it was from him. Nobody sent expensive things to someone other than their wives or their fiancées, at least that was what she understood.

“Where on earth are we going this time?” she wondered aloud while seated on her bed.

Soon, a carriage stopped just beyond the corner of Warton House.

Amelia had been waiting for it by her window.

She went downstairs stealthily, her slippered feet trying not to make a sound.

She was afraid that she would be given an earful once Octavia realized she was leaving the house for a night of perceived leisure.

Amelia breathed a sigh of relief as soon as her skin made contact with the cool night air. Her heart was still pounding, and she placed her hand on her chest to feel its tremors ease little by little.

She thought that she would have to enter the carriage without seeing a soul, but the duke himself stood next to it. He was already waiting. Even in silhouette, he looked devilishly handsome. Dressed all in black with a smirk on his face and his cravat undone, he certainly looked like temptation.

What are you thinking? Get a hold of yourself!

The duke gestured for her to enter the carriage. He helped her up without a word. Then, he followed her inside just as quietly. Instead of sitting across from her as she expected, he sat beside her.

“Here, Miss Warton. You will need this,” he said, handing her a satin, dove-gray mask. It was simple but elegant, trimmed with tiny silver beads.

Amelia’s fingers trembled when she took the mask from the duke. It was the only sign of nervousness coming from her.

“Are we going to a masquerade ball? I was not aware of one being hosted in town,” she said, curiously fingering the beads on the mask. It would match her gown. That was why he insisted that she wear it.

“You have not heard of a masquerade ball because we are not going to one,” he said, his eyes sparkling in the darkness. “We are going to a hunt.”

“A hunt?” she exclaimed, shocked. As a lady, she was not usually invited to hunts, but this particular one was even more strange. She had a million questions. “At this hour? How can the participants see what they are hunting?”

The duke merely laughed, but Amelia thought of hunting animals, and her stomach sank.

She did not think that she would be able to do that—kill them for sport.

Of course, she was not na?ve. Animals being served at the dining table had to have been hunted or reared to be killed.

Still, the thought of laughing, competing, and celebrating over the death of an animal made her stomach churn.

“Your Grace, I will have you know that I am not in favor of killing innocent animals for sport. What will people be hunting at this hour anyway? Foxes?”

“You will find out soon enough,” the duke replied with a smirk.

He turned his gaze to the front panel of the carriage as if it held more interest than she did.

Infuriating man.

Amelia crossed her arms, watching him out of the corner of her eye. The flicker of lantern light caught on the sharp cut of his jaw and the high bridge of his nose. His profile was sculpted, aristocratic, and irritatingly perfect.

Why did he have to look like that?

She bit the inside of her cheek. This was not the time for noticing such things. Not when he was clearly enjoying keeping her in the dark—literally and figuratively.

A hunt under moonlight.

She shifted on the bench, the velvet cushions offering little comfort for her restless limbs. “So do you think this… event … is something I will enjoy?”

“No,” he said simply, his gaze dragging over her as if assessing her anew. “But I think it will show me what kind of woman you really are.”