Page 25 of The Duke of Fire (The Dukes of Desire #1)

“ O h, do be more delicate, Amelia,” Octavia whined as her sister-in-law dabbed a damp cloth over her forehead. “Do not scrub me like a pot. I have sensitive skin.”

Amelia sighed. She was leaning over Octavia’s bed, supposedly to help cool down her fever.

“You do not feel hot at all,” she protested. “Perhaps you are just exhausted from growing your baby in you?”

She was really trying to be diplomatic because it would make things easier for both of them.

“I am not pretending, Amelia! Don’t you dare suggest that I am!” Octavia shrieked. “My baby gets stressed easily, and it raises my temperature. I have become more susceptible to fevers. I need rest, quiet, and someone who can soothe what I am feeling! Don’t you understand?”

“You are stressed,” Amelia said gently, holding on to her patience as much as she could. Her mind was on her plans to leave. It would not help if she aggravated Octavia. “Perhaps Finch should be by your side. The baby should also calm down when sensing both father and mother.”

“Are you trying to get away from your responsibilities?” Octavia demanded.

Amelia did her best not to roll her eyes at the word ‘responsibilities.’ She had done enough for the family.

She even bit her tongue when she saw Octavia wearing some of her mother’s jewelry.

The rest were missing. So, she could only assume that the woman had taken them.

“By the way, where is the letter from the dowager?”

It had been decided that all letters should be written by the dowager. This way, Octavia and Finch would keep believing that she was actually being sponsored by her and nothing more.

“What about her letter? Did you read it?” Amelia asked, feeling her hands go cold and clammy. She did not like this.

“Of course. I assumed it was important. After all, it was from the Dowager Duchess of Firaine. We needed to respond right away.”

We?

“What do you mean, respond right away?” she echoed.

“Oh, do not fret. I have already sent a message that you will not be attending this time because I am sick.”

“You did what ?” Amelia’s voice rose before she could stop it.

Octavia shrugged. “You would have embarrassed yourself, anyway. You ought to be grateful I saved you the trouble. Besides, someone must care for this household while I am unwell.”

Amelia clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. “But the letter was not addressed to you.”

“It was about you, therefore I had every right to open it,” Octavia said lightly, as if speaking to a child who had misbehaved.

Amelia’s throat felt like it was getting tighter and tighter. She could not breathe. Time and time again, she found ways to rise over her situation, and Finch and Octavia found their own ways to pull her down.

“Besides, I need you here. Can’t you see? You have been away so frequently. Surely the dowager can spare you for one evening?” Octavia flung an arm over her forehead, succumbing to her dramatics once more.

Amelia was breathing hard, trying to calm down.

She did not want to look at Octavia at that very moment.

She turned toward the writing desk. Then, she paused.

A parchment seemed to be hidden under Octavia’s shawls.

She sighed. Her sister-in-law could be so messy.

So, she attempted to organize her things.

Then, she saw the letter.

Amelia had no intention of reading it, but she saw some of the elegant scrawl and some of the passionate words. It was a love letter, and it was not in Finch’s handwriting. She did not need to read the whole thing. She had glimpsed the intimate phrasing and knew right away what it meant.

Octavia had a lover?

Tell me again that you are mine.

Her breath caught. Pulse pounding, she quickly tucked the letter back where it was.

The front door banged. Finch must have returned. He had been gone most nights, and Amelia wondered why, as it was not something he used to do in the past. It seemed that she did not know the people she lived with at all.

“How is my wife?” he immediately asked as he entered the room. Octavia had started nodding off.

“She is… not too well,” Amelia murmured, biting back some of the things she wanted to say.

“Octavia is never well whenever she wants something,” Finch muttered, surprising his sister.

Just when she was beginning to soften, he stared at her directly.

“As for you, stop this business with the dowager. She is wasting her time on you, time she could have used to sponsor someone else. No matter who sponsors you, nothing will change. No man will marry you. No man will take a maid’s daughter seriously. ”

“Finch,” she gasped. “T-that is unkind.”

“I am saying it so that you can stop dreaming,” he said in a low voice. “You need to face the truth. I know you might think of me as your enemy, but I am your brother, and I know what is best for you. You must stop hoping.”

“I have,” she replied, with a straight face. “I have stopped hoping, Finch. Can’t you just let me enjoy one Season?”

Amelia tried to make it sound like he was merely taking advantage of the connections, which was what she should be doing. However, it would be a lie. Deep inside her, her half-brother’s words stung.

She retreated to her room. The door clicked shut behind her, muffling the world. For a moment, Amelia stood still, breathing in the silence.

Perhaps Octavia did the right thing by saying I could not attend .

The last time she had been with Sebastian, she had surrendered everything—her restraint, her dignity, her carefully crafted walls. And for what? A single night of stolen pleasure and the echo of a man she could never truly have?

Control. That was what she had left. And control was what had helped her survive.

She walked to her dressing table, her eyes catching the edge of a velvet jewelry box. There were still a few things she could sell—fine gloves, hairpins, a few of the gowns the duke had sent. Octavia might have stolen her mother’s jewelry, but Amelia would salvage what she could.

“No man would ever marry me,” she whispered, gazing at herself in the mirror.

And maybe that was fine. She did not need a titled husband or a Season full of suitors. What she needed was freedom.

Just a little longer. To make enough from what she had. And then she would leave. London. The ton . Sebastian.

All of it.

Sebastian roughly pulled at his cravat, almost not feeling the tug. He was that frustrated. Soon, the cravat found itself flung at the nearest armchair. It slid down the velvet surface, like a flag of surrender.

But the Duke of Firaine? He was not the type to surrender.

“She dares ignore me,” he grumbled, as he yanked at the rest of his clothes. A button popped, but he did not care.

“Interesting. You are talking to yourself again,” Cassian said, relaxing in the chair opposite him.

Sebastian was almost surprised. He had been so caught up in his thoughts that he almost forgot his friend was there.

“Am I?” he asked, clearly still on edge.

He quickly moved to the cabinet and took a bottle of brandy. He filled his glass with unsteady hands. So, the liquid almost went past the rim. “Well, very good, then, Cassian. At least, someone was listening to me.”

“You are acting as if you are jilted at the altar, my man,” Benedict boomed from behind him. That one simply did not bother to sit down in a proper chair. Instead, he chose an ottoman. His legs were wide apart, with his elbows resting on his thighs.

“Of course, I am not jilted. What do you think? This… what we have is not even real. She simply did not come.”

“Not just for one day, but for more than that,” Benedict reminded him, scrubbing salt in the wound. However, his tone remained even, as if he was calculating the situation.

“Oh, have you been counting?” Sebastian asked, shooting his friend a sharp look. “Thank you.”

“You must admit something is amiss,” Cassian said, with the same infuriating smile. “It is unlike you to care. You usually prefer them gone by the next morning. Those who manage to remain by afternoon have something unique about them, but you still discard them.”

“This is not the same situation. My grandmother is sponsoring her. We have an understanding. You know that.”

His words sounded hollow even to himself. He had said the same words over and over to his friends.

“I think you need to revisit that statement,” Benedict said, sounding more serious. He took a deep breath and leaned forward. He did not sound like he was teasing anymore. “Think about what you really feel about Miss Warton.”

“I have been helping her achieve her freedom. Then, she hides from me after… what would you think if you were me? That is all there is to it,” Sebastian insisted, as he gripped his glass tightly.

Silence greeted his statement, but his two friends exchanged a glance. He knew what that meant. They did not believe him. He could not blame them because he was not sure he believed himself.

And yet.

He had never been in a place of vulnerability like this. Sebastian downed his brandy. At the very moment he slammed his glass on the table, the fire crackled in the hearth.

“It was supposed to be all so simple,” he admitted. “The whole thing was about sharing pleasure, and nothing more.”

“You know what this is. You have denied it before. Do not tell me that we will all be caught in a cycle. What if, after you see her again, she disappears again, and then we will have this conversation once more,” Benedict wondered.

Sebastian did not answer. Cassian merely watched as he reached for another bottle, this time whiskey. The decanter was ostensibly empty.

“You look like a man who no longer finds joy in the things you used to do,” he remarked, shaking his head slowly.

“I am guessing White’s no longer makes you feel the way it used to,” Benedict observed. “Don’t you even want to come and wager with someone about what could happen if you bed a lady more than once?”