Page 6 of The Duke of Fire (The Dukes of Desire #1)
Soon, though, Serenity had found a way to steer her away from her problems through rumors and the latest fashion. It would be a momentary escape, but it was enough to make Amelia’s face break into a genuine smile.
“Do you know that the dowager’s grandson is here tonight?” Serenity asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I heard,” Serenity said, leaning in conspiratorially, “that the dowager had to fake her funeral to get her grandson to attend!”
“What? That is completely absurd!” Amelia exclaimed, not even bothering to lower her voice. “What sort of man does not visit his own grandmother until she pretends to die?”
“A cold, brooding, impossibly handsome one, I hear,” Serenity replied with a wink.
A fan snapped loudly a few feet to Amelia’s right. Just like that, her night was potentially over.
“Amelia!” Octavia called. “Bring me a drink. Then, find me a cushion.”
She scrambled to get all the things her sister-in-law asked for. Then, she went back to Serenity and said, “Please cover for me. I just need some time to breathe outside. Hide from her.”
“Go, Amelia,” her friend encouraged softly.
So, she slipped away and into the gardens.
She inhaled the night’s fresh air, thinking that she had finally found some peace.
The air was cooler here, heavy with roses and quiet laughter from inside.
She wandered down a stone path, grateful for the solitude.
But then she heard voices—low and urgent.
She crept closer. A woman was pleading.
“One more night, Sebastian, please.”
“I was clear about my rule, Portia. Never twice,” Sebastian insisted, trying to put some distance between them.
“We were good together—”
“I told you it was only for one night. And it is over.”
“But it felt so good, Sebastian. I know you felt the same. Let’s not pretend—”
He grabbed her wrists, not cruelly, but firmly enough that she stilled. “Let’s not pretend you did not know what this was. I told you what I am. And what I am not.”
The woman pressed her body closer to his, wrapping an arm around his neck.
She was so close, he could not breathe. He had once been drawn to her, he was sure of it—but now he wondered how he had not noticed her tendency to cling.
Or perhaps he simply had not minded it before. Now, it felt suffocating.
“What do you want from me, Portia?” he said, his voice darkening, pulling her away from him. “To have an understanding? A courtship? I was clear from the start that I do not do those things. We are done.”
The disgruntled woman opened her mouth, more likely to protest some more, but then they heard something.
A snap. A twig.
Someone had gotten too close. Sebastian’s gaze cut through the hedge.
Portia’s eyes widened. With a gasp, she ran off, leaving the duke to investigate the hedges. He would not be disappointed, for there stood a familiar silhouette. A familiar face. It was the soaked girl from the brothel.
“You again?” he asked wryly, pretending to mask his excitement.
He expected to be furious about the identity of his little stalker, but he felt amused. A smirk formed on his face. He felt other things, too.
Desire. Something seemed to tingle inside his brain. Who knew? He was used to another part of him twitching whenever he encountered beautiful women, and yes, he was so close to that, too, but something else was going on.
The woman looked mortified.
“Were you following me? Trying to listen to my conversations?” he demanded, striding toward where she stood frozen. “If so, then I am flattered. Very much so.”
Amelia floundered, her breath catching as she turned sharply toward him. “I was not following you. I did not know you and your… companion were here. I just needed some air.”
Sebastian folded his arms slowly, his expression unreadable. “That sounds far too convenient, don’t you think? If you wanted to speak with me, you need only ask.”
“I did not want to speak with you!” she snapped, taking a few steps back. “Your ego is sufficiently large without me contributing to its upkeep.”
“You are on fire,” he said, striding toward her without hesitation.
She blinked, momentarily thrown by the sudden shift in his tone. “Excuse me?” Her hand instinctively flew to her bodice as she stepped back, nearly stumbling over the hem of her gown.
He reached out, but did not touch her, merely pointed with a flick of his fingers. “Look at your dress,” he said, his voice edged with urgency now. “It is on fire.”
Amelia followed his eyes—only to see the faint glow at the hem of her gown, where it had swept too close to one of the lanterns set low among the hedges. A thin tendril of smoke curled upward. She shrieked, batting at the smoldering fabric with her hands.
“Stay still!”
Sebastian was already there. His jacket came off in one swift motion, and he smothered the fire without hesitation. Silence fell again, broken only by the sound of her shaky breath and the distant music from the ballroom.
“You are welcome,” he murmured, straightening.
She looked down at the singed edge of silk, then back up at him. “This is all your fault.”
“My fault?” he asked, amused, pointing at himself.
“Yes! If you had not started with your ridiculous accusations—”
“How is this my fault? You are the one who got soaked in the rain, lost your maid, went into a brothel by mistake, eavesdropped on a duke, and set yourself on fire. You are either cursed or terribly fascinating.”
“I am not cursed,” she replied, though he thought he saw uncertainty flicker in her eyes.
There was a pause as the two regarded each other. The fury momentarily left her face. Instead, something else flickered there as she assessed him. She must have felt it, too, he thought. Perhaps it was destiny that drove this accident-prone woman onto his path.
“I will settle with fascinating, then,” he said honestly.
Then he crouched before her, without asking, and lifted the hem of her dress. She stiffened as he touched her ankle. He felt it. It was a quick response.
So responsive.
“What are you doing?” Her voice trembled, but he could see shame in her eyes. She did not seem to enjoy being vulnerable. Soaked or on fire, she was still defiant. And exquisite.
He did not answer right away. His fingers lingered for a fraction too long, his thumb brushing a small singed patch near her ankle.
“Unhand me!”
“Be quiet,” he said, brushing his fingers lightly over her ankle again as if checking for further damage.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you?” he asked, rising smoothly to his feet, his expression unreadable. “We have plenty of time for that.”
“You are a rake with no manners! You think every woman will beg for you. Well, I will not! I would never beg you for the world!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing.
“Oh? We will see about that. For someone who writes salacious Latin fiction, you are surprisingly prudish. I merely wanted to examine your legs in case they were harmed by the fire,” he said with a shrug.
“What did you say? You have my papers?” Her face had quickly turned from red to white. Even with lips pale and eyes wide with shock, she was beautiful. Every expression on her face made him wonder more about her identity.
“You know where to find me if you want them back,” he said, his voice maddeningly smooth as he took a step backward.
“I will go nowhere near you,” she spluttered.
He tilted his head, smirking. “That is a shame. I suppose I will keep them, then… and read them a fourth time.”
“You read them!” she gasped.
“Of course! Every word.”
“Give them back.”
“Come find me,” he replied, turning on his heel with infuriating casualness, like he had not just set fire to the last of her dignity.
“As if I would ever come to find you!”
He paused, glancing over his shoulder, that arrogant half-smile playing on his lips. “Well, then, you will never get it back. Do you know why women come to me? Because I can make all their dreams come true. Anything they ask for.”
“Not mine,” she replied, lifting her chin.
Sebastian was enjoying this little game even more.
“It really is a shame,” he said in a near-whisper, stepping close again. “Because I could make every word you wrote come true.”
She staggered back, her cheeks flushed with a furious, mortified heat, but her eyes—damn her—were glassing with unshed tears. If a single tear escaped down her cheek, Sebastian was uncertain what would undo him more—the urge to wipe it away or the darker, far more disturbing urge to taste it.
“I am not like the women you have bedded and ruined.” She finally found the words.
“I certainly hope not,” he whispered. “Because those women bore me. But you—” he looked her over with his fiery gaze. “You might destroy me.”