Page 2 of The Duke of Fire (The Dukes of Desire #1)

“ Y ou cannot possibly be serious, Sebastian. If I did not know you well, I would not have believed a word of your stories.”

Sebastian Hargrove, the Duke of Firaine, turned his gaze from the warm flicker of the hearth to his friend, the Duke of Stonevale. A sardonic smile played at the corners of his mouth. Cassian, like Benedict, knew him too well—perhaps more than any man should.

“Too outlandish, you think?” he drawled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

“For you? Not nearly outlandish enough,” Benedict interjected, the glint in his eye betraying his amusement.

All his life, Sebastian had been raised to believe that money could buy anything—except affection.

His parents played dutiful hosts to the ton and their perceived roles in society, but spared no warmth for their son.

As a child, he waited behind locked doors, convinced that if he grew up respectable and unshakable, he might finally earn their attention.

He never did. So he stopped trying. Now, he only sought what was easy to control—willing bodies, fleeting encounters.

Affection had always been out of reach, so he made sure it stayed that way.

The three men sat amidst the smoke-laced luxury of The Blue Parrot , London’s most discreet brothel.

Here, velvet-lined walls muffled secrets, and indulgence was the law.

Sebastian inhaled deeply, the scent of sandalwood and sin intermingled in the air.

It amused him that the brandy cost more than some of the women. That irony never grew old.

“Benedict bet you would fall in love and flee to the Alps,” Cassian said, mock-serious. “You owe me twenty guineas.”

“Me? In love?” Sebastian gave a sharp laugh. “Benedict must have been drinking too much of that swill they call champagne in Paris. You both know I never bed the same woman twice. It prevents… attachments.”

He said it simply, as if it were gospel. For him, perhaps it was.

His friends understood his rules. At first, his travels across the Continent had been about novelty—new faces, new games, new distractions.

And he had found plenty. But it turned into a means of finding something that he had been looking for, and still had not found.

Something to fill the void. He had found endless pleasure, but no peace.

The hunger had not faded; it had sharpened.

It lived in his bones now, a fever that refused to break.

“The French women entertained well enough,” he added, leaning back. “Though the roads nearly shattered my spine. I suspect the coachman was a sadist.”

His friends exchanged glances they probably thought he would not catch.

“Did you punish him with one of your infamous glares?” Cassian teased.

“I think a lecture from him is worse than his glare,” Benedict deadpanned, before he finished the brandy in his glass. “Although we know full well that he is the one who needs a lecture on his philandering ways.”

“Mock all you like, both of you hypocrites. All men have their own rules they live by, and so do you. I am simply more serious about mine,” Sebastian protested as he finished his drink.

“Yes, yes. No second rounds. Keeps it simple, you say.” Cassian stretched his injured leg and winced slightly. “But what of affection? Do you believe it is such a danger?”

Sebastian opened his mouth to reply. He knew his friends well, and neither of them was in a hurry to find a woman to love. Benedict organized his life around a strict set of goals, and Cassian had his heart shut to anyone who came too close. How could they pretend they knew better about affection?

Before he could say anything, though, a soft hand settled on his shoulder. He turned to see Clarice, a popular courtesan at the brothel. Clarice. He should have been alerted by her overly sweet, heavy scent.

“You vanished, Your Grace,” she purred, pressing her lips to his. He endured it for a moment, then pulled back. She did not seem to care that he recoiled. “You did not warn us you were about to leave for weeks!”

Sebastian, visibly irritated, caught her chin gently but firmly, disengaging from the woman.

“You know my rule, Clarice,” he said, firm but not cruel. “No repeats.”

“That is a shame,” she replied, pressing her lips into a thin line and straightening herself. “I am the best fun you will have on this side of town. Nobody expects you to marry someone from a brothel, you know.”

“Find me someone new,” he insisted. She left in a huff. Sebastian exhaled, unbothered.

She was clearly hurt, but Sebastian could do nothing about that. A woman in her trade should know better.

“Do you really intend to live by this rule forever?” Benedict murmured.

“That is the point,” Sebastian said, his face impassive. His expression was completely unreadable, something that he had mastered throughout the years he had pushed people away from him.

“I cannot blame you, I suppose,” Cassian said as he stretched his injured leg again. The man had been hiding his limp valiantly. For a moment, Sebastian wondered what it was like to love something so much to fight for it, like Cassian did for his country.

Avoiding anything that would shift the mood of their evening, he gave a low chuckle instead. His amusement, however, would die a natural death as time passed, and no woman had been brought before him. Meanwhile, masculine laughter and feminine giggling could be heard elsewhere.

Sebastian’s brows furrowed. “That is odd,” he muttered. “Clarice is normally faster.”

“Perhaps you have exhausted the roster,” Benedict said dryly.

“It is not hard to imagine,” Cassian agreed, reaching for another bottle of brandy. “We can at least spend money on something else. Someone here is going through divine punishment.”

“Unlikely,” Sebastian growled. He rose, his movements smooth but edged with growing irritation. “I shall find out what is going on.”

Sebastian stood. It was not about need—he could go without a woman tonight.

But it was a matter of principle. He came to The Blue Parrot to be served, not ignored.

A courtesan had taken offense at something he said and disappeared without a word.

That was unacceptable. No one walked away from him. Not without consequence.

With quick strides, he reached the front salon. The curtains all over the establishment were thick and drawn close, but he could tell that a storm raged outside. He heard the wind howl like a warning. A flash of lightning lit up the salon just as the front door slammed open. He uttered a curse.

A woman stumbled inside, looking disoriented.

She was also soaked to the bone, trembling, but still devastatingly beautiful.

She pressed a hand to her chest, gasping.

It looked like she had run through the rain with nothing to protect her.

Her eyes, unfocused as they might be at the moment, were luminous and wide.

Sebastian froze.

With him, time also did.

The lady, as he surmised she was, wore a modest dress. However, she was drenched through, her dress clinging obscenely to her form. What should have been modest was rendered indecent by the rain. Her curves were outlined in wicked, silken detail. Chest heaving. Lips parted. Eyes wild.

For a moment, Sebastian remained speechless.

His eyes greedily scanning the clear outline of her curves.

Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath.

Her brown hair must have been braided in an updo, but soft tendrils now fell to her face, some clinging to her temples.

Despite her disheveled state, he could not help but notice her pretty face.

Those full cherry lips. He tried not to look back at her bosom.

“What the devil…” he muttered.

The woman glanced at him—startled, defiant.

“What are you doing in a place like this?” Sebastian finally found his voice.

“I might ask you the same thing, sir,” she shot back, straightening despite her shiver.

Sebastian tilted his head to the side. What was going on here? He tilted his head, intrigued. That accent. That posture. A lady, clearly. And yet, what was she doing here?

“Well, I do belong here,” he said with a smirk. “Can you say the same?”

“Of course, I have every right,” she snapped. “I will have you know that this is my business,” she said defiantly, anger flashing from her eyes. Something told him she was not having a good day. “You may find out that I have as much right to be here as any man.”

God, she was furious. And exquisite.

He folded his arms across his chest, chuckling softly. “That is a bold and radical statement, I would say.” Brave, this one. She was also obviously lost.

He stepped forward and took her arm. Not roughly—but insistently. He felt compelled to hide her, take her away from the prying eyes of others. She gasped as he steered her behind the wooden divider that obscured the parlor inside whenever people entered the front salon.

“W-what are you doing? Unhand me!” she commanded, trying to twist her arm away from him.

“Saving you. You have no idea where you are,” he whispered.

Or who I am , he wanted to add. But somehow, there was something thrilling about a woman not knowing who they were dealing with.

“I know perfectly well where I am,” she retorted. “I was to deliver some translated manuscripts to Mr. Featherstone by tomorrow,” she said smugly, still unaware of where she was and how delicious she looked.

Sebastian blinked. Then chuckled.

That explains her confusion.

“Well, Featherstone’s office is across the square,” Sebastian replied, enunciating each word carefully while regarding the lady. “This little establishment here, founded for the pleasures of men, and perhaps some like-minded women, is The Blue Parrot .”

“ The Blue Parrot? ”

“Yes. A brothel.”

Color drained from her face.

“No,” she whispered in pure horror. Her gaze darted beyond the divider. Velvet drapery. Giggling courtesans. Pawing men. She covered her eyes. “No!”