Page 7 of The Duke of Fire (The Dukes of Desire #1)

“ W here were you, Amelia?” Serenity had asked her as soon as she rushed back into the ball, singed hem and all. “I thought you would just take some air, but you were out there for too long!”

“I was in the gardens,” she had replied simply.

With the most infuriatingly handsome man I have ever seen.

His voice still rang in her ears. His touch.

His gaze. The memory of his fingers brushing her ankles, the deliberate way his gaze devoured her—those were impossible to forget.

Her skin still tingled where his coat had smothered the fire, where his proximity had sparked a far more dangerous heat.

She remembered how he watched her as if she were the most enticing woman in the world. It must have worked with so many women.

No. Not with me. It should not work with me.

The brothel. The gardens. Why was it that the two brief moments in which her mundane life became more thrilling had to be in his presence? She blinked and saw his face.

“Oh, so you might have seen the Duke of Firaine storm out. Murmurs around the ballroom mentioned Lady Portia running after him. It was a good thing she was there. The duke is a rake. You should not be near him alone anywhere,” her friend had advised, looking concerned.

“Did you say the Duke of Firaine?”

It had been then that she realized that the rake who had her manuscript was even more dangerous. He not only had wealth but also influence. The party was enough proof of how some people were willing to bend for him and his grandmother.

“Yes. Apparently, those were the only ones missing for a few minutes. I highly doubt that, though. There are a few rakes here. They have their way of sweet-talking women to leave their chaperones,” her friend had continued. “Oh, there he is, talking to his grandmother once more.”

Amelia had followed her friend’s line of sight, and true enough, the infuriating man who had her manuscript had been talking to the Dowager Duchess of Firaine.

What a disaster.

Even back in her home, the duke’s amused blue eyes continued to follow her around. She could still hear his velvet voice caressing her ears.

Nobody had ever come close to calling her fascinating before. She was merely the daughter of a maid—already marked as a pariah and a spinster by the ton —who had to follow her sister-in-law’s commands. She translated documents to gather money and escape London.

So how dare he call her that?

“Amelia! Come here! I want you to arrange my ribbons by shade. The baby would not like inconsistency and disorganization!”

Sigh. Octavia.

Amelia forced a smile and an agreeable tone. There was no sense arguing with Octavia these days. It would only waste more of her time. She believed that if she ever complained about anything, she would get a more difficult task.

“Of course, Lady Warton,” she replied, as polite as ever.

Then, she went to work on the ribbons. It was easier said than done. Her fingers cramped from the repetitive movement.

Red ribbons for her anger. Yellow for the sunshine lost with her parents.

Orange for her repressed bitterness. Shades of blue for the loneliness that clung to her like a second skin.

Each color reminded her of what her life had become.

Then, she had to wet her hands when she was commanded to refill Octavia’s perfumed water.

Working for Octavia was sometimes better than the nights in her room, when she thought of what her life could have been.

There were always more tasks that had to be done, some of which her sister-in-law could have easily assigned to a maid.

But with no time and no rest, she could not finish her commissioned works.

She had become Octavia’s full-time maid.

How will I be able to work on my translations if I do not have a single minute to myself?

Amelia thought of one last solution to her problem. It would not be noble, but it might be necessary—fake an illness. It was the only thing she could think of. She wondered if this new transgression would haunt her one day.

She called Mary to inform Octavia, then crawled into her bed and groaned softly. She then groaned loudly as if she were in a lot of pain, which was not that far from the truth, really.

“Mary, please tell Lady Warton that I have taken ill. A headache. But it looks like the beginning of something worse,” she whispered.

The maid, who was very much aware of what Octavia had been doing to her mistress, looked at her with sympathy. “Yes, Miss.”

Once alone, Amelia reached beneath her bed for her manuscript and ran to her desk.

She scribbled in frantic French, pouring out words like blood.

Her eyes darted to the door every few moments.

Her ears strained for the slightest creak.

She translated with not just knowledge, but desperation.

Her cheeks still flushed when she remembered the duke and how his voice seemed to wind around her spine.

She hated him.

She hated the way his nearness unraveled her composure.

The way her skin had betrayed her under his gaze, flushing with heat not born of shame alone.

And yet, she could not stop thinking about him reading her words or imagining his long, capable fingers trailing down each page.

Rough palms holding the papers, stroking the edges with reverence or perhaps hunger.

No, this was madness. She was on a deadline and could not afford a distraction, but he haunted her. Would he imagine her as the woman in the text—bare, breathless, and undone? Her breath hitched at her indecent thoughts, and her quill trembled in her hand.

Just as she finished the final stanza, the door swung open.

“I knew it!” Octavia shrieked, sounding stronger than anyone in the house. “You liar!”

Amelia bumped her knee, rising quickly from her chair. Ink spilled on her wooden desk.

“You were not sick at all. You have been writing! Sarah saw you were not resting! Who are you writing to?”

“I am not writing to anyone,” she protested, standing up.

“Well, then. What is this? Let me take a look.” Octavia strode toward Amelia to inspect the papers the latter was trying to hide. “What language is this? Do you have a French lover, Amelia?”

“What? No!” Amelia rushed to explain. “I am… working as a translator.”

“You have been working like an ordinary tradeswoman?”

For Octavia, that would have been a vile accusation. However, for Amelia, it was not. She liked the idea of working for her money, of creating something with her own hands, instead of simply being given an allowance.

“Please. You have not allowed me to work on these for days. I have done everything you asked of me and more.” Amelia did not like that her voice sounded like she was begging. She probably was.

It was too late to beg Octavia for anything, though. The pregnant woman had already tugged at the bellpull. A maid came rushing in.

“Call His Lordship for me at once,” she ordered harshly, sending the maid on a mad dash. The staff was aware of just how vicious their mistress could be if disobeyed.

“Octavia, please. Just let me—”

Before she could even finish, Finch barged in. His eyes were blazing as he took in his wife standing by the doorway and his half-sister by her desk.

“What is going on again?” he demanded as he quickly entered the room, putting himself between the two women.

“Amelia has been lying to us, Finch!” Octavia wailed. “She pretended to be sick so that she could get away from helping me feel better. Now, I know she has been rushing to her room to earn money behind our backs. Tell me, Finch, what kind of lady works a trade?”

The viscount approached Amelia’s desk and picked up some of the scattered pages. Frowning, he perused each of them. Amelia’s body trembled and her heart pounded as her half-brother pored through her writing. Then, he looked back at her and shook his head in disapproval.

“Is what Octavia said true?” he asked, brows furrowed. “You have been working behind our backs?”

“I translate books. I use a male pseudonym. So, do not worry. Nobody else knows that I am working,” she said in a rush, hoping that the family’s reputation was his only concern. They could always spin the story that the maid’s daughter needed employment, just like her mother.

“So you have been earning your own money all this time?” Finch closed the gap between the two of them, a sinister smile on his face. “Where do you keep your savings, then, Amelia?”

She had not even been able to nod when he strode toward her wardrobe. Without asking permission, he rummaged through the drawers. He even tore open the seam of her mattress. There, he found a small pouch of coins that she had been carefully saving.

Amelia could feel all the blood drain from her body. At first, she could not move, except for her pale, trembling fingers. Even before it happened, she knew what was to come.

Finch held the pouch up with one hand.

“I will take your savings and add them to your dowry. You do not seem to plan on marrying anytime soon. So, I can keep your money safe for you,” he said, his eyes taking on a glint she did not like.

“No!” Amelia cried, finally able to move. “You have no right to do that! I earned it myself. It is mine! I need it, I—”

Sobs wracked her body, trapped within her chest. She needed to let them out, but she could not. It was like watching her life unfold before her eyes, and she could not even do anything about it.

“I have every right. In case you have forgotten, Amelia,” Finch snapped. “You are living in this household. Everything you have—food, clothes—comes from me. Do you think you can earn a living like a man and hide your money behind our backs?” he asked, sounding as pompous as he had been of late.

“She is just like her mother, Finch. She works for her money like a commoner, or so she believes she should,” Octavia added, her eyes dancing. “Next thing we know, she will try to climb her way in society like that harlot.”