Page 5 of The Duke of Fire (The Dukes of Desire #1)

“ W here is she?”

Sebastian stormed the ball, dark as vengeance in his black mourning coat, his fury barely leashed.

Relief throbbed beneath his rage, but he ignored it.

The Dowager Duchess of Firaine was alive.

Of course she was. He had always known that his grandmother would likely outlive them all.

He should have known better. This stunt had her signature all over it.

He barely noticed the grandeur of the ballroom, only noting bits and pieces.

Gold and crystal. Laughter floating in the air.

He had imagined dim lighting and a coffin in the parlor.

Even the string quartet sounded cheeky. Everything in the room seemed to mock the misery he felt on his way here.

The rage he felt now made it impossible for him to focus on anything else.

And there she was.

The Dowager Duchess of Firaine was used to being the center of attention. She was surrounded by admirers, gesturing grandly in vivid purple—a deliberate mockery of mourning. The woman he had grieved less than an hour ago now laughed as if she had no single care in the world.

“…and that, my dears, is why Lord Arlington is still in Vienna, avoiding creditors and his third wife,” she said, more likely relaying the last few bits of some juicy gossip while everyone listened to her every word.

“What about your grandson, Your Grace? Will he be coming this time?” one overly rouged lady about thirty years Sebastian’s senior asked.

“We heard that you two have fallen out, have not spoken in months,” a man bravely commented.

The dowager glared at him, expectedly offended by the question. “Fallen out? Of course, he will be here! Sebastian would not dare disobey his grandmother. I expect him any mo—”

“What is the meaning of this?”

The words cracked like a whip across the ballroom.

The dowager’s eyes lit up in triumph. She turned to her friends with a look that said ‘ I told you so’ before facing him with a beaming, utterly unrepentant smile. “Sebastian, dear,” she called sweetly, as if she had not just faked her own funeral. “I told them you would come. See? I was right.”

One of her friends, eyeing Sebastian’s black attire, murmured, “Well, at least he dressed for the occasion.”

Another leaned closer to the group and whispered, not quietly enough, “I am just glad he is not carrying a sword.”

The dowager clucked her tongue. “Do not be ridiculous. He left it at the door. My boy has manners.”

Sebastian strode toward her, murder in his eyes. “You. Are. Not. Dead.”

“Obviously,” she said, lifting her champagne. “But you came, did you not? That was the point.”

He stalked forward, his boots striking the marble with deliberate force. His grandmother’s admirers—those gossips and vipers—parted like a curtain, their faces glinting with amusement. They did not even pretend to look scandalized. They wanted a scene.

“You faked your death,” he snarled, his voice low and dangerous, “just to drag me here?”

The dowager arched a brow, unruffled. “You have ignored my letters for six months, my boy. I had to get creative.”

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You call this creative ?”

“Desperate times,” she said smoothly, lifting a delicate hand as if that excused everything . “I cannot even recall the last time you set foot in my home, and then you left for the Continent without a word. A grandmother must adapt.”

Goddamn, but she had a point. A sharp, wounding point. But no . He was not letting her antics slide. Not this time.

“You crossed the line.”

“You will get over it.”

“You will regret this. You may not see me again.”

For a fleeting moment, her expression faltered. Then, just as swiftly, she straightened. “Please, Sebastian. Do not be like that,” she cooed. “Why do you not try to have a good time and forget about this whole thing? For me?”

That was the only time the dowager displayed some kind of emotion, her eyes blinking quickly. For a brief moment, he thought he had seen some sorrow on her face. But they were family, and they never showed weakness in front of other people. It was not how they were built.

“I will not forgive this easily,” he warned, all eyes now glued on him.

“I know you will be back, grandson,” she said, but her voice faltered a bit in a way that only Sebastian could detect.

He knew her well enough, but he did not know that she would go as far as pretending to be dead just to see him.

He turned on his heel. He needed air. He needed distance. His head was spinning from anger. Some whiskey and hours upon hours of sleep should remedy tonight’s nonsense. However, it was not meant to be. By the entrance stood Cassian and Benedict. They looked as if they had been waiting for him.

“Sebastian,” Cassian called out, his voice smooth and cool as ever. “Leaving so soon? You only just arrived.”

Sebastian did not slow down for his friends. Instead, he snapped, “Do not tempt me to return. I am trying to control myself. Few people can say they have confronted their grandmother at her own wake.”

“You did not even take a glass of anything,” Benedict added, clapping him on the back.

Sebastian turned to his friends in suspicion, narrowing his eyes. “Did you two know about this?”

“Well… she said she had a plan, and made us promise not to tell you anything, and that she would handle it,” Cassian replied, looking at his glass of brandy as if it had become the most interesting object in the ball. “She said that you would absolutely understand.”

Absolutely understand? That was a lie.

“What am I supposed to understand? She pretended to die!”

“She said you would only come for a funeral.”

“And you agreed? Are you two in cahoots with my grandmother now?” Sebastian could not believe it. “Not only do I come rushing, wondering why I had not been informed about my grandmother’s death early enough, but my own friends are here to mock me?”

“We are not here to mock you,” Benedict reassured. “You know your grandmother well. We are worried about you,” Benedict said. “You have not been yourself lately, especially after that day at The Blue Parrot , you—”

“I still feel you find this amusing.”

“Not amusing. No,” Cassian replied, shaking his head vigorously.

“We are simply fully aware that you would not have come if your grandmother said this would be a ball. Admit it now,” Benedict said, his voice becoming a little rough. “When you thought she died, you were here in no time in full funeral regalia. What does that say about you?”

“Benedict is right. We are worried about you, man,” Cassian added.

“I do not need nursemaids,” Sebastian grunted, pushing the door open.

He had to get to the gardens. He could not breathe, not when his heart thundered in his chest. For a moment, he had calmed down.

The cool air bit his skin, and the smell of roses overpowered his lungs.

At least, these things were real. He did not have to be reminded of how this night took a turn.

He had barely been out when he heard something rustling near him.

Amelia had expected little of the dowager duchess’s infamous ball, but she had hoped, at the very least, to survive it with her sanity intact. Instead, she found herself scurrying to fetch drinks, cushions, and all manner of things for her sister-in-law.

“Everything hurts, Amelia,” Octavia moaned, fanning herself from the chaise. “My corset is too tight, my feet are swollen, and I swear I am close to fainting.”

“I hope you did not make Sarah tighten your corset more than she should,” Amelia replied.

Before Octavia could respond, her husband called her over, providing Amelia a moment of reprieve. She took it gratefully, slipping through the crowd to find a familiar face.

Then, she spotted Serenity Dawson, a good friend of hers, and heaved a sigh of relief. She rushed to her, hoping for some peace and normalcy.

“Serenity!” she exclaimed.

“Amelia, thank heavens. You look like a woman on the verge of murder.”

“I feel like one,” Amelia replied. “Octavia has made me her personal maid tonight. I would not be surprised if she asked me to peel her grapes next,” Amelia said in a rush, knowing that her time with her friend was ticking away.

Serenity giggled, probably imagining each scenario. Then, she sobered a little. “It is so terrible that your sister-in-law treats you like a servant.”

Amelia sighed. “I have somehow gotten used to it. I am more upset about losing some of my translations, though.”

Serenity blinked. “Not the scandalous ones?”

Amelia nodded miserably. It had once been a silly joke between her and Serenity—how they used to sneak scandalous novels from the bookstore and, for amusement, Amelia would translate the raciest bits into Latin.

It was their way of pretending to be proper while reading.

The coded language made it feel safe, harmless.

Now she had threatened to expose their secret.

“Amelia! What if someone finds them? What if they read them aloud?”

“I will die. I will truly, physically die of embarrassment. I may have to earn money more quickly so I can banish myself from London forever!”

The two young women giggled at the thought.

“Well, nobody knows you wrote them,” Serenity whispered. “Hopefully, you did not write your name as the author.”

“Of course not. I am not a fool.”

“Then do not worry. It is just a story, and not everyone can read Latin. No one will know. Besides, you are almost at your goal, are you not?”

Amelia nodded again. “Yes, I only need a little more money, and I can finally leave all this behind.”

They shared a wistful silence.

Even though the ton had never welcomed her into its snobbish arms, this was still her home. Leaving it behind was frightening. But it was the only way to escape a life where she was little more than a servant under Finch’s roof.