Page 9 of The Duke of Fire (The Dukes of Desire #1)

T he Duke of Firaine’s study was all shadow—mahogany-paneled walls, low golden lamplight, and the faint scent of sandalwood and smoke was curling through the air.

A room designed for secrets. For seduction.

For power. It was not surprising. Here was a rake who had entertained dozens of women in his lifetime.

Amelia sat uneasily near the hearth, her hands clenched tightly in front of her, the hem of her gown trembling just slightly. She had waited no more than three minutes, but it felt like a lifetime—long enough for shame to creep in and whisper that she should flee while she still could.

Sin incarnate.

Those were the words that popped into her head as soon as the Duke of Firaine entered. He was a black-clad figure of unsettling poise, closing the door behind him with deliberate finality. He did not rush. His eyes met hers and held. And in that gaze was the promise of danger.

She braced herself for his ridicule, standing up from the cushioned chair as a sign of supposed respect. However, something else must have moved her. A cross between instinct and fear.

“Well, well,” he murmured. “And here I thought I would have to hunt you down.”

Amelia swallowed. Her voice caught somewhere between her throat and her pride. “Your Grace, apologies for showing up uninvited, but… I need a word with you.”

“You have my full attention,” he said, moving like a panther toward the sideboard.

He poured two fingers of brandy into a crystal glass.

“I worry about your lack of self-preservation, though. Unless, of course, you have brought a chaperone hidden under your skirts?” He offered her one glass, but she refused with a shake of her head.

Her hands were stiff, close to trembling.

Her lips tightened as she looked left and right. “Are your staff discreet?”

He watched her with an amused smile. “Impeccably. Nobody will know that you have been here without a chaperone unless you tell them.” His lips twitched. “But if anyone asks, I shall simply say you came to repay a debt in Latin.”

She did not smile. He noticed.

She exhaled slowly, steadying herself. Pride was a luxury she could no longer afford. “I will not waste your time, Your Grace. I need your help.”

That amused him more. “Help? From me? What happened to the woman who swore she would not beg me for the world?”

His eyes sharpened, the amused glint turning razor-edged as his gaze roved over her, peeling away every layer of pretense. This time, he did not have to work to unearth her desperation—it was already clinging to her skin.

“I am not begging. That would imply I am on my knees, pleading for scraps. I am here to negotiate.” She lifted her chin, as if daring him to challenge her right to stand as his equal.

He studied her like a chessboard. “Ah. So, the queen folds her spine. Something has changed,” he murmured. He took a sip from his drink, then his blue eyes returned to her face. It was hard to look back at such a blatant assessment. “What is it? Were you banished from your home?”

Amelia glanced at him quickly. Then, her eyes dropped to the untouched glass of brandy. She was tempted. Her chest hurt so much she needed something to ease the feeling. But she needed her full senses to make smarter decisions. She paced, her hands in fists at her sides.

Her jaw tightened. “My brother discovered I had been working in secret. I translated manuscripts for a publisher. I saved every shilling I earned. I had planned to leave London and carve out a life of my own.”

His expression sharpened. “And?”

“He took everything. Said it would go to my dowry, though I know it will not. He means to keep me under his roof, under his thumb, serving his wife as her maid for the rest of my life. I wanted to begin a new life away from here.”

Her voice wavered, but she forced the emotion back down, burying it where it could not betray her.

She had stopped mid-pace, staring at a point beyond the wall, though she could not see it.

The world blurred, but she refused to let the tears fall.

Blinking furiously, she curled her fingers into fists, driving her nails into her palms until it hurt.

She would not break. Not here. Not in front of him.

Sebastian circled her then—not like a man pacing, but like something untamed, feral, and curious. His eyes never left her.

“That is quite enterprising,” the duke murmured. His tone was not patronizing, but it made Amelia’s head snap in his direction. “How come you do not want to marry someone who would protect you like all the other ladies of the ton ?”

She nodded, as if accepting his words, not really sure if it was a compliment.

“I was proud of my work, if that was what you meant, Your Grace. Besides, given my mother’s past, I had no prospects in the marriage market.”

Sebastian stilled, his gaze unreadable, and for a fleeting moment, Amelia wondered if he had any inkling who she even was.

A man like him had little reason to recall the daughter of a deceased viscount’s second wife.

Especially when that wife had once been a maid.

Her blood was considered diluted. No matter the pretense, no one in the ton would truly want her as a wife.

She had once dreamed of marriage. She had imagined a loving husband and many children whose laughter filled the home.

But that dream had wilted over time. She knew better than to hope for it now.

“I have heard of you in passing. You are Miss Amelia Warton, the sister of the Viscount of Warton.”

“Half-sister,” she hissed, the correction sharper than intended.

That made the duke’s eyes widen, startled by her reaction.

“You said in the gardens that you could make dreams come true, Your Grace. That is why I am here,” Amelia pressed on, refusing to flinch under his assessing gaze.

“Tell me,” he said softly, “what could a woman like you possibly offer a man like me?”

“Perhaps a false courtship? Public appearances. That would silence my brother’s demands and, I imagine, ease your grandmother’s matchmaking ambitions. You would be free of the parade of simpering ladies. And I would be free—soon enough. It could be mutually beneficial, Your Grace.”

The duke’s gaze sharpened. He frowned as he circled her with eyes never leaving her. He did not pace like any other man who might do it for thinking. For collecting his thoughts. No. He was like a storm orbiting around a planet, finding a specific spot to strike.

His laughter was low and dangerous. “I do not pretend, Miss Warton. I do not wear leashes—certainly not the ones society tries to collar me with. I do not play by their rules. I only play by mine.”

Amelia’s heart sank. She had known this would be difficult. Foolishly, she had not expected him to be the obstacle. But she could see no other path that would make her escape her current situation. The next words tasted bitter before they even left her tongue.

“Name your terms,” she said, her voice steady despite her tremor. “Name your rules.” Her chin lifted, defiant, even as her insides quaked. “I will do anything,” she breathed. “Anything, if it means I can leave London.”

He stopped his pacing behind her.

“Anything?” he echoed, the word brushing her neck. “Even sell yourself to me?”

Her eyes flared then, and her whole body went still.

Of course. What was she thinking? She approached a rake who only cared about bedding women once, then moving on to the next conquest. He was searching for more prey.

She was not just prey—she was scavenger’s feed, with nothing much to offer and with a desperation that choked her.

It did not mean that she would not feel indignant.

“You—” she spun, hand rising, eyes blazing. “How dare you—”

Her hand seemed to have a mind of its own. It rose to slap him, but he caught her wrist midair, his grip firm, but not cruel. He stepped closer, so close she could feel the heat rolling off him, smell the brandy on his breath.

“Careful,” he warned, his voice velvet-edged in steel. “You are about to strike the man you have just asked to save you. Is that wise? Too much fire. You must stop and think. Do not forget who you are dealing with.”

The advice made sense, much to Amelia’s dismay. He was right. Beggars could not be choosers. She must know how to play her cards right, even when offended. She could have just left. There was no need to throw insults and violence. Then again, she was still there.

Her chest heaved. “Let go of me.”

But he did not. His hand was firm but gentle around her wrist. He did not immediately let go, and she had not struggled.

Instead, his gaze slid to her cheek. His fingers loosened on her wrist and lifted toward her face.

When his thumb brushed her skin, she flinched.

It was at that moment that she realized that it still stung.

Finch had used his backhand. His ring had caught her skin.

“Who did this to you?” he asked, his words sounding like a soft growl, like an animal lying low but about to leap and bite—someone else, not her.

Amelia flinched under his scrutiny. “Nobody. It does not matter—”

“It does.” His eyes darkened. “Because if you were mine, no one would dare raise a hand to you, or they would have to answer to me. Do you understand?”

With his free hand, he gently caressed the bruised skin. His fingers were rough, but the movement was soft. Everything about this man was surprising. Contradictory.

“Yours?” she echoed, her breath catching.

“Yes. Mine to protect. Mine to command. Mine to touch.”

She blinked, shocked.

“Do you accept my terms?”

His thumb brushed her cheek. It was then that she realized in horror that a tear had rolled down there. Nobody should see her cry, and yet she had been breaking all her rules recently. Why would she be offering to follow the Duke of Firaine’s rules?

“What are they?” she whispered.

“Obedience. Discretion. No lies. You come to me when I call for you. And in return…” He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“You get your freedom. If you need my assistance, financial or otherwise, you have it. You will have my protection. You do not have to do anything that you do not want.”

Her heart hammered in her chest. She came without a concrete plan. Now, the duke had agreed and offered more. Why? Confusion roiled inside her.

“Do you accept my terms, Miss Warton?” he asked, leaning in closer.

She stared at him. She knew what he could see on her face—fear, awe, and hope. He stared back with an intensity that she could not understand. Perhaps that was how men with his power did. Amelia felt her resolve unravel thread by thread. Her head nodded before she could stop it.

His smile was slow and wicked. “Very well.”

Then, his fingers reached out for her chin and tilted it. He bent to kiss her, and for the life of her, Amelia did not know why she did not push him. Her eyes closed instead, almost like a surrender.

We are sealing the deal. That is all this is about.

It was not gentle or chaste for a first kiss. It was firm and demanding, with him nibbling her lower lip, grazing it with his teeth as if marking her. It was a kiss that broke through the icy shell around her. A kiss of promise. Of fire.

He pulled back, his eyes glazed as he looked down at her. Her lips were swollen, her eyes dazed.

“I will send for you,” he promised.

And just like that, she was dismissed. But as she stumbled from the room, her lips still burning, Amelia realized something terrifying.

She had just struck a deal with the devil.

And some part of her liked it.