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Page 4 of The Duke of Fire (The Dukes of Desire #1)

N inety times. That was how many times Amelia had brushed Octavia’s golden curls so far.

Wait. It could be ninety-eight, maybe one hundred .

Her mind had been too full of that arrogant man from the brothel.

She had lost count somewhere between his infuriating smirk and the way his eyes had devoured her.

His gaze had not been crude, yet it had trespassed into places no man’s look should ever reach.

It was assessing, daring—like he was silently listing every way she could be undone.

As if he knew where to touch her without lifting a finger.

As if her breath, her pulse, her pride were his to toy with.

“Again,” the pregnant tyrant commanded, reclining on the velvet chaise like a Roman empress, complete with the cruelty and need for slaves.

Amelia held on to her temper and combed her sister-in-law’s hair once more.

One hundred. Her right arm burned from the repeated, controlled motion through tangled hair.

She rolled her aching shoulders and did not even have time to wipe the sweat trickling down her nape.

The strokes were labor for vanity when she knew her fingers were born to write stories and poetry, translations of her own imagination.

Not today.

Too soft, and Octavia complained. Too hard, and she would scream for her husband.

Her arm had also been strained from polishing a dozen pairs of shoes and slippers earlier this afternoon.

Her back made odd sounds that were unusual for someone her age.

She had not even eaten since breakfast, and the afternoon light was already fading.

After she was done, she straightened herself. Perfect posture. Chin up. She was still a Warton, even though she had been mostly one in name these days. No matter what happened to her, she would make sure that her father and mother would be proud of her.

The man’s face flashed again. Would her father and mother be proud that she had flung herself into a brothel?

That she had allowed herself to be rattled by a man like that?

An infuriating man . Worse, even now, she could recall the treacherous warmth that had unfurled inside her when he gave her that look.

A look she felt in her chest, her throat, lower. She hated him for it.

“There you go,” she said, setting the brush aside. “Your hair is gleaming. It is perfect.”

Octavia raised her hand mirror and studied her reflection with one arched brow. “Seems adequate. We leave in an hour. I am not certain why Finch agreed to bring you along today, but make sure you hurry.”

Amelia’s body was sore, and she still had not begun to dress.

Octavia had kept her busy throughout the day just because she refused to call a maid to assist her.

Octavia was simply doing this to torment her, to remind her of her place in this household.

It was an unspoken truth, one that made Amelia rush to her bedchamber.

It was one of the few comforts she had in her life—keeping her childhood bedroom, while Octavia and Finch took over her father and mother’s chambers.

On her narrow canopy bed, Mary had already laid out a modest but elegant gown for her. It was pale blue silk with delicate, understated lace trim. Relief coursed over her. It was one less thing to worry about as she desperately hung on to the only thought that kept her sane lately.

Just a few more weeks, and I will have enough money to flee this place.

But then, she felt like she was forgetting something. The thought was fuzzy at first. Then, when her eyes fell on her writing desk, it became clear. Her heart lurched in her chest.

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

Her satchel was nowhere in sight.

She opened her desk drawers and wardrobe, but to no avail. The bag was nowhere to be found. It was a good enough size that it should not be easy to hide in her neat room.

“Miss Warton, what are you doing? You need to get dressed, or your brother will—”

“Mary,” she called through her rising panic. “Have you seen my satchel? The brown, scuffed one?”

“Miss, I believe you had it yesterday when you delivered that letter for Lady Warton,” the maid reminded her.

“You are right. I brought it with me, but…” she whispered. “I-I must have left it somewhere.”

“With the publisher?” the maid asked hopefully. She was not aware that she had stumbled into a brothel. It was shameful enough to hide even from her maid.

“I did not make it to the publisher because of the rain,” she finally admitted with dismay.

Her mind raced. She realized that she had shoved the scandalous story in her satchel because right now, the French translation the publisher needed was right on her desk.

She dropped into the chair as relief rushed through her.

But the relief was short-lived when she realized that someone could open her bag and see the manuscript there. What if someone read it?

Someone.

The face of the man from the brothel flashed in her mind’s eye for the umpteenth time that day, unbidden and forbidden. She could imagine his eyes burning embers on the manuscript, the way he had stared at her. Had he seen what was on it?

No. Of all people, it should not be him!

“Miss,” Mary urged. “You must dress for the ball. You are going to be late.”

Distracted and weary, Amelia could only nod. She went through the motions of her maid helping her into her gown. They no longer had time for an intricate hairstyle. Mary arranged Amelia’s hair into a neat chignon, allowing a few curls to frame her face.

Would there be time to dab a little powder? Perhaps. So, she did just that. Somehow, she looked prepared for a ball. She loathed spending time with her brother and his wife, yet tonight, she still wanted to go to the ball. Perhaps she would see a friendly face. And she sorely needed that.

“Amelia!”

She flinched at her brother’s shout.

“She is not ready yet?” Octavia asked. How she was surprised was something that Amelia could just ask the heavens. The shrill voice with its affected distress grated on her nerves, but she could do nothing about it.

“Amelia, we will have to leave if you do not come down this instant!” Finch grumbled.

Amelia grabbed her gloves and ran down the stairs.

Of course, Octavia was waiting at the foot of the stairs.

She had her hand over her belly, as if anyone would forget she was pregnant, and she had the other on her hip.

She wore a bright rose gown with fluffy sleeves.

She even wore peacock feathers in her hair.

“I am now certain that you are doing everything you can to upset me. You do not want this baby, do you? Because when it comes out, it will show you just how much—”

“Remember that I brushed your hair a hundred times and had to polish all your shoes. Not one—all fifty-seven of your pairs.” Amelia often tried to control her temper, but she was exhausted and sulky.

Her eyes were narrowed at her sister-in-law, not just because she meant to be on the offensive, but also because her eyes had become blurry from repressed rage.

“You watch your tone, Amelia. You ought to be grateful we decided to bring you along at all. We do not have to. You are a spinster who has no wish or prospects of marrying. One more word from you and we will leave you here with the staff where you belong,” Finch warned.

He wore a scowl that reminded her of a large dog guarding its master.

That was what her brother had become for his wife.

Finch had never truly loved her, but before Octavia, he was at least like a distant older brother who even carried her over puddles or teased her about her freckles.

He had his moments, even though they were pretenses in front of their father, but all of them were gone when he became the new viscount.

Amelia bit back a retort. She reminded herself that she just needed to keep up with her work. Once she had enough money to become independent, she would leave. For good.

Sebastian sat alone in the gloom of his study, the only light a pair of candles flickering low beside his decanter.

He had read the mysterious lady’s manuscript not once, but three times.

Not a single page skipped, not a single word overlooked.

It had ensnared him, bewitched him. He had poured himself a glass of whiskey, then forgotten it existed.

He poured again, distracted, and the liquid spilled, dripping onto his desk.

“Damn,” he muttered. The word was sharp, but what followed was harsher—a string of curses that fell from his lips like blades.

He could not believe that a woman’s secret manuscript could be so bold, salacious, and witty all at the same time.

Each time his fingers brushed the parchment, he imagined her instead—her skin warm and soft beneath his touch.

He wondered what she was planning with her story.

Why would she write it in Latin? He could still see her soaked and defiant, cheeks flushed with indignation, lips parted in breathless fury.

She haunted him.

Sebastian followed the story with more emotion than he had ever mustered for any woman, whether she be a rebellious society lady or a brothel madam. He had chuckled, groaned, and even felt himself tightening with desire.

“What is it you are planning? Surely you do not mean to publish this.” He leaned back in his chair, letting the shadows embrace him. “It would ruin you.”

Yet the pages said otherwise. This was not the work of a meek woman. It was the confessional of someone who had tasted desire—or craved it deeply.

Sebastian could still see her as if she were in front of him, the upper curves of her breasts peeking through her wet dress. In his mind, she was more perceptive, biting her lower lip as she watched him with heavy-lidded eyes. The duke groaned. That could not be further from the truth.

“Who are you?” he asked aloud, voice low, almost reverent.

She had stared at him like he was a villain. Good. Let her. He had always been cast that way. But no one had ever made him want to play the part so thoroughly. To chase. To hunt. To conquer.

He rubbed a hand down his face, dragging his fingers across his mouth. “You are not just a puzzle,” he murmured. “You are a temptation.”

The duke knew he had to find her. It was not a passing curiosity—it was a clawing need, sharp and relentless.

He had never felt this kind of fixation before.

Perhaps it was not about her , not really.

It was the challenge, the intrigue, the way she had looked at him with defiance when most women would have fluttered and blushed.

A sharp knock shattered the quiet.

He sat upright, lips pressed into a line, fueled by annoyance and ready to give the person a piece of his mind. No one interrupted him in his sanctuary.

“Enter,” he called.

His butler stepped in, pale and breathless. A rare sight. “Your Grace. An urgent letter just arrived for you.”

Sebastian raised a brow at his pale butler, whose hand trembled a little. Sebastian’s brow furrowed as he took the missive. The seal was familiar. He tore it open and began reading its contents furiously.

“My grandmother is dead?” The words felt foreign to his mouth. “How the hell is that possible?”

The Dowager Duchess of Firaine had been a force of nature—sharp-witted, commanding, indestructible. She had outlived scandals, wars, and the slow erosion of their family ties. The thought of her lying cold and still was inconceivable. She had been the last tether to his childhood. His blood.

She cannot be dead.

Even as his mind screamed that it was impossible, grief crashed all over him.

His lungs tightened. It was not that she had raised him, not really.

His parents had left him in the shadows, and she had been too late to rescue him from them.

But she had tried—through letters, invitations, scoldings masked as affection.

And he had pushed her away, like he did everyone.

She was all that he had left, and all he had done was ignore her.

“I-I do not know, Your Grace. My condolences on the passing of the dowager duchess,” stammered the stricken butler.

He swallowed hard. “When did it happen?”

“I-I cannot be certain. The letter says the funeral is in a few hours, Your Grace.”

Sebastian’s gaze snapped up. “A few hours? What sort of funeral is held at night?”

The butler gave a helpless shrug. “Her Grace was always… unconventional.”

Sebastian stood abruptly. Grief curdled into fury. “Someone kept this from me.”

His grandmother had always been an eccentric woman.

Even in death, she had strange wishes. Her funeral would be in a few hours.

How could that be? Hours after an announcement?

Who was trying to keep the information from him?

If her funeral was in mere hours, she had been dead for some time.

Anger spurred him to think fast about how he could get ready at short notice.

Sebastian flung himself into the rushed preparations.

Black coat. Black gloves. Black boots. Mourning garb for a farewell that should never have been rushed.

Why fuss? He needed to know who had made such plans.

Whoever organized this had known about his grandmother’s death for longer than a few hours.

And whoever this is, I will make sure they regret this.

Within minutes, he was on horseback, galloping through the darkness. The wind bit at him, but he welcomed the pain. His muscles burned, his mind churned. Tears rimmed his eyes, but they did not fall. He did not have the luxury of weakness tonight.

It was a miracle that he was not met with any disaster on the road, for he saw almost nothing but the fiery rage that was choking him. His fists longed for someone to pummel when he reached there, a wish to ease the pangs of despair.

Lanterns glowed in the distance as he reached the estate. Carriages were parked outside, but something was off. There was no solemn air. No hush of mourning. It was understandable that people would come to her funeral at a moment’s notice.

And yet. Is that… music?

He listened. The music drifting from inside the house was not sorrowful. In fact, it was jolly, and the guests were grinning from ear to ear, their clothes gaudy and colorful. He would have to talk to someone. How dare they make it seem like a—wait.

Sebastian stopped and listened once more. No, it could not be.

Inside, guests twirled and laughed, dressed in vibrant colors. Wine flowed freely. A ball.

A bloody ball.

He stood at the threshold, teeth clenched, heart thundering in his chest.

“What the hell is this?” he growled, a sneer breaking into his face. “What have you done, Grandmother?”

It was not a funeral he was invited to.

It was a damned ball.

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