Page 22 of The Duke of Fire (The Dukes of Desire #1)

“Now, it is your turn,” she reminded him, looking down at her nearly empty plate. She had not eaten this much in such a long time. Finch and Octavia constantly reminded her that feeding her was costing them.

Amelia realized that she was staring into space, and Sebastian was watching her curiously.

“Well?” she asked, pretending as if she had been waiting for his answers all along.

“This is ridiculous,” he grumbled, straightening his back. He had grown rigid, and Amelia almost expected him to leave the small private dining room he must have had servants especially prepared for her.

“I played. So, you must play, or else you lose,” she said.

That made his jaw tick. Amelia was right. The prospect of losing was unwelcome. The duke would play for the sake of not losing, even though there were no rules laid out.

“Well, I own a vineyard in France. I was once challenged to a duel in Italy, where I shot a man in the leg. I cannot whistle to save my life.”

None of the statements was something Amelia had hoped to hear. They could be facts about him, but each one felt too detached. They made him a colorful being, but that still did not tell her what she needed to know.

“You shot someone. That is the lie,” she said, not really certain. She suspected she was wrong.

He chuckled, seemingly pleased to have won.

“Incorrect,” he said smugly.

“You actually shot someone?” she asked, incredulous. Instead of moving away from this dangerous man, she leaned forward, wanting to know more.

“He challenged me. I did not mean to kill him, thus the shot in the leg,” he murmured.

“Was it about a woman?” she asked, her fingers trembling. She was not afraid of him. She was afraid of his answer.

“No,” he said simply. “He was a sore loser at cards. It was an unforgettable trip to Italy. I only told Benedict and Cassian about my various experiences. And now, you. Grandmother wants to spend more time with me, but I wonder if she would appreciate the kind of stories I have in store for her.”

She scoffed at that.“You are terrible at this game.”

“This game is about getting to know each other,” he continued. “Is it not? There are no clear winners.”

“I demand another round,” she insisted, leaning back against her chair like a queen. “This time, use facts that you would not use to impress others. Choose something real. I dare you.”

“Are you certain you want real, Miss Warton? You might not be able to handle that,” he said gruffly, raising a brow.

“I can. I want you to choose something that you would not say at White’s.”

“You are cheating, woman. Shouldn’t it be your turn?”

Her response was only a smug arch of her eyebrows. Her mockingly regal posture remained. He sighed.

“I spent a solitary winter in Scotland when I was twelve. I broke my left arm when I fell from my pony when I was ten.” A telltale pause. He was unraveling. “I have never been in love.”

“You cannot possibly have been alone for a whole winter at that age. That is the lie,” she guessed with narrowed eyes, sensing a shift in Sebastian.

“No, Miss Warton.” He laughed bitterly. “My parents sent me to our estate in Scotland so that I would be out of their way for the whole winter. And I broke my right arm when I tried to teach myself how to ride, thus the emphasis on which arm.”

He looked off into the distance, jaw clenched.

“They were supposed to come for Christmas. They did not. I waited by the window for two days straight—thinking they might surprise me. I convinced myself I would hear my father’s voice calling my name.

Eventually, the housekeeper told me they had gone to Italy.

My mother said in her letter that the weather would be better for her health. ”

His voice darkened, quiet. “I was not even angry. That is the worst part. I thought, perhaps, it was my fault. That I was not clever or charming enough to be missed. I spent that winter in near silence, reading the same four books over and over, talking to myself so I would not forget the sound of my own voice. Some days, I would not speak at all. I was surrounded by staff who were instructed not to coddle or dote. It was… disciplined isolation.”

He drew a sharp breath, clearly unused to saying any of it aloud.

“I did not break my arm during some wild, boyish adventure. I fell because no one taught me how to ride. I watched the stable boys and tried to mimic them. I told no one I was going out. The pony spooked when I tried to mount. I went down on the ice, hard. I remember crawling half a mile back to the house, the bone sticking at the wrong angle. It was three days before a doctor was summoned. And when he came, he said I was lucky the break had not cost me the use of the arm.”

“Sebastian… I am so sorry this happened to you.” Amelia was at a loss for words. When she had asked for real, that was the least of what she had expected.

“Do not be.” His voice faltered, but he forced a laugh. “That winter was the first time I understood that I was an inconvenience to my family. And that I needed to learn how to survive on my own.”

She was taken aback. None of those statements was pleasant. Not at all. She knew that his parents had been neglectful, but he must have been terrified being all alone all the time. “Then… is the truth that you have never been in love?”

His gaze fixed on her, and for a moment she thought he might deflect. But then he gave a slow nod.

“Correct,” he said simply. “I have never been in love.”

Amelia let out a breath she did not realize she was holding. Why that answer relieved her, she did not know. Or maybe she did.

“Not even once?” she asked, her voice quieter.

“Not even close,” he said. His tone was calm, but there was something beneath it—something hard-earned and deeply buried. “Attachment is… dangerous. Temporary. And overrated.”

Amelia studied him. He sounded like a man reciting something he had told himself for years.

“You do not believe that,” she said softly, not to provoke him, but because she had thought…

For a moment there, the duke’s walls had gone down, letting her peek into his mind. It was brief, but it was there, and it rendered Amelia speechless. Then, he quickly changed the subject.

“Well, I want to hear about your hopes and dreams, Miss Warton. You are clearly not getting them under your brother’s thumb. I want not a truth, not a lie, but simply your dream. What do you plan to do when you leave?”

She eyed him warily. Was this another one of his clever tactics? He had not liked being the subject of her game, yet here he was, inviting something raw. Something real. But he had asked. And despite everything, she wanted him to know her. Even if it changed nothing.

“I want a home, a place to feel safe. I had always wanted to marry for love and have several children, but I cannot have it here, where everyone thinks of me as the maid’s daughter. But believe me, my mother was more honorable than many women of the ton .”

“I believe you,” he said, nodding sagely.

“It is why I am willing to do… anything to achieve freedom. Once I have enough money, I can leave this place. I shall have no titles. Perhaps one day I can marry simply. A farmer. A storekeeper. It does not really matter if I achieve that or not. However, it would be nice to have a man who cares for me. This way, we could have children and the happiness that comes with them.”

“Happiness is not guaranteed,” he said, sounding irritated—though she was not sure if it was at her or at himself.

“Perhaps not. But finding someone who loves me for who I am would give me a greater chance of achieving just that,” Amelia insisted.“And if not, I can always find some work to sustain myself.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. His throat worked as he swallowed, as if he had something to say and could not shape it into words. She could not read his expression. It was not disdain. It was not pity. No, it was something… heavier.

“Then, why do you need to leave London for that? You may find a husband right here,” he said, his voice sounding muffled for some reason.

“I told you,” she said patiently. “I cannot stay in London. Everyone knows who I am. Who my mother was. Leaving gives me a clean slate. A chance at a new life.” She looked up at him—at this impossible man who had watched her so closely tonight, as if he saw something even she had not dared to admit. Her chest tightened.

“I should want that distance. I should want to leave.” Her voice trembled at the edge. “I should not want London. I should not want you .”

She had added the last part before she realized what she was saying. Her mouth always had a way of saying what her heart was not ready to admit.

Sebastian leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his gaze sharp and unreadable.

“Is that the lie?” he asked, his voice turning deeper and lower.