Page 27 of The Duke of Fire (The Dukes of Desire #1)

S ebastian froze.

It was hard to control the emotions that threatened to burst through.

Frustration. Excitement. Anger.

“I heard that she will be attending with her family,” the dowager said, although she said the last word with some disdain. “Finally, Lady Warton is prepared to release Miss Warton.”

“That has always been the case. When Lady Warton cannot attend,” Cassian interjected, “then Miss Warton would not be allowed to attend, either.”

“It is true,” Benedict added. “Lady Warton seems the sort who practices misery-loving company.”

But Sebastian’s mind did not want to dwell on Amelia’s sister-in-law. He wanted to know more about Amelia and why his grandmother had to visit to announce her appearance at the ball.

“How do you know Miss Warton will be coming to the ball?” he asked.

He tried to ignore how Benedict’s mouth twitched and how Cassian tried to hide his smile behind his glass.

“You still do not know me after all these years?” his grandmother demanded, looking offended. “I know everything worth knowing. People come to me freely. You should come to Lady Ashcombe’s ball, and you must promise not to ruin everyone’s evening.”

“How did I not hear about this ball?” he wondered aloud.

“Simple,” Cassian replied. “You were too preoccupied with—”

“All right, then. Enough of that,” Sebastian snapped.

“It looks like I made the right decision to come look for you, after all,” the dowager declared, eyeing her grandson shrewdly.

“You should not be here all day, drinking and glowering at the fire. You are fortunate you have friends to watch you while you self-destruct, instead of leaving you alone to wallow in your sorrows.”

“Your Grace, we did try to stop him,” Benedict protested, as if afraid to offend the dowager duchess.

“Let’s say I believe you, boys. The three of you must now freshen up and be ready for tonight’s ball. Wear your best coats, and do not growl at the chaperones,” she advised.

“I do not… I should not,” Sebastian muttered as he rubbed his forehead. “Why should I even go? These balls are often terrible, anyway.”

“Even with Miss Warton there?” his grandmother asked, raising an eyebrow. “Even though you are not courting her, remember that I am sponsoring the young lady. You are supposed to help me by dancing with her and introducing her to many eligible gentlemen.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes at his grandmother. Why was she so reasonable while also giving him more of a headache?

“Even if that is not how you see it, anything is better than you remaining here to sit and suffer,” she said, still looking as calm as ever. “I do recommend approaching Miss Warton before her dance card fills up.”

Benedict shook his head slowly as he made a sympathetic noise. “Be quick about it, Sebastian.”

“Less talk, more action. I believe we should start preparing for the ball as early as now, unless you want to attend looking like a drunk pirate,” Cassian said, rising and moving toward Sebastian.

The latter stiffened. “We need to get that cravat back, I suppose, or you may need some fresh clothes.”

Everyone in the room knew that they must obey the dowager in this case, not because they feared her but because they knew that Sebastian must cease his days and nights of gloom and doom.

“Good man, Cassian,” the dowager said, sounding pleased. But when her eyes met Sebastian’s, he could see the bit of unease there.

“Grandmother, let me be. I know what I am doing. I have survived my childhood without much assistance, remember?” he reminded her gruffly.

She nodded, then. Even though she came in like a storm, he saw through her guilt and fear.

Hours later, Sebastian found himself recovering from a headache in Lady Ashcombe’s ballroom.

It was an impressive place. The chandeliers looked like stars, and the floor gleamed.

He could imagine the staff must have worked so hard to make the ballroom appear so spotless.

However, the guests also contributed to the glamor.

Silk and lace in different colors shimmered and glided with the music.

Sebastian shook his head. He should not be waxing poetic. Balls like this were typical in his life, although he often avoided them. Now, he noticed every little thing as if it conveyed some sort of magic.

Heads turned when he stepped into the ballroom. Fans snapped, on alert, and with it, the whispers grew louder, or perhaps it was all in his head. But soon, the buzzing tapered down, and the rest of his background faded away.

She was right there.

Amelia.

She was standing near the refreshment table, wearing a garnet velvet dress. Of course. She did not seem to be one who would wear pastel lace. She had worn the style before, but it did not feel like her; however, he suspected he would like her in whatever dress.

Sebastian could not help but notice how the bodice hugged her form, while the skirt flowed. Her hair was pinned up neatly, with only a few loose curls. She looked like a woman who was here to seek a husband, not one who was merely here to escape.

Stop looking at her like that. You have already tasted her—and yet, somehow, it is not enough.

He tried to shake away the remnants of his imagination. Then, he focused on her and how her face lit up when she laughed. It seemed like her friend had whispered something in her ear. As she laughed, her hand touched her throat. What could it be? Mannerism, anxiety, or modesty?

Their eyes met.

Before Sebastian, Amelia transformed into something else. The laughter had died, and the light on her face seemed to have faded. The shoulders that were shaking with mirth had stilled.

Sebastian crossed the room, a predator stalking his prey.

His eyes were focused, and his movements were hurried and easy.

He could barely register the greetings of the other members of the ton .

They let him move in the midst of them, made way for the Duke of Firaine.

Just when he had gotten close enough to see the flush spread from her cheeks to her chest, the music began. A waltz.

Her eyes became panicked. She glanced at her friend. For a brief moment, there was silent communication between the two. Then, she turned to leave.

“Don’t,” he commanded. “Not again.”

Amelia halted, then. She turned around, and her face had transformed into something else again. Her mask was up, and she seemed indifferent, like a stranger.

But no stranger would have the same defiance in her eyes or the tilt of her chin. The straight posture could, however, be thought of as merely being proper.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” she said. Her words were respectful, but her tone was icy.

“You did not come,” he said simply, knowing that she would know what he was talking about.

“I… I could not,” she whispered.

That was all that he needed. A crack that he could enter. She was not as unbothered as she pretended to be.

“Oh, is that so?” he asked. “Perhaps, you did not intend to? You did not even care to inform me. If it were not for my grandmother’s meddling, I would not even know you were attending this ball.”

“Don’t tell me that you would not have come to this ball if I were not here?” she asked, her eyes wide. She truly wanted to know his answer. He could tell.

“That is precisely what I am telling you,” he replied huskily.

Her eyes darted to different parts of the ballroom. He knew what she was thinking. People would be watching them, listening in. Some members of the ton had eyes and ears only for scandal and gossip.

“The discussion you want is not for here. Not for a ball,” she said softly.

“Then where?” he asked, clearly frustrated.

He was impatient enough to have thought of leading her to a spot, choosing it for her. He groaned as he caught Amelia staring at someone else behind him. His grandmother seemed to have the best timing for everything.

The dowager suddenly appeared and stole Amelia from him. She held the young lady’s hand by the elbow. It was not something people would be whispering about. After all, his grandmother was sponsoring the woman who could not let him sleep in peace.

“My dear,” the dowager addressed Amelia, linking her arms with hers. “I believe Lady Rivington wants to talk to you about your gown. She likes that it stands out in the crowd. She wants to know if you have chosen it and which modiste made it for you. Do come along with me.”

Sebastian’s brows knitted together at his grandmother’s maneuvering. The older woman looked at him with her usual wide-eyed innocence. After batting her eyelashes at him, she gave him a wink.

What was that?

He stood on the edge of the ballroom, trying to avoid small talk or the gazes of women who were trying to catch his eye, hoping that he would dance with them.

After a few moments, his grandmother was back. She linked arms with him, as well, loudly saying, “I know you do not feel too well tonight, but you still came. Thank you, my dear boy.”

“Grandmother?” he whispered.

“Hush, and play along, Sebastian,” she chided softly.

She shepherded him away from the crowd, presumably to provide him the opportunity to rest and feel better.

They passed through an archway that led to a short corridor with walls covered with eerie portraits that seemed to be watching him.

Finally, they entered a side room, hidden in velvet curtains.

Inside, there was one lamp, dimly lighting the secret space.

“Do not take long,” his grandmother advised.

Sebastian was still confused when the door clicked closed and the hush seemed to hum around him. He turned to see Amelia standing in a corner, looking every bit as bewildered as he was.