The Duke of Fire

Chapter One

“Amelia! Come here, right this instant!” Octavia’s shrill shriek broke through Amelia’s deep concentration.

She had been so focused on her work that it was too late when she heard her sister-in-law yelling for her. Knowing Octavia, though, she would not have called for her softly at all. She always demanded her presence for one errand or another.

I wonder what ridiculous request she has for me this time.

Struggling to stay still despite the constant screaming, she drew an elegant curve across the parchment she was writing on before she straightened up to attend to the woman in distress.

“I am coming!” she cried, although her teeth clenched from controlling her annoyance. She cursed under her breath as she had to close the two books she had been working on instantly and without her usual care and attention. One was a commissioned translation of a French book, while the other one was a translation of a scandalous book she was writing for… her personal amusement. She shoved both of them in her satchel, forgetting to carefully take note which was which.

They will have to wait. After all, someone’s world seems to be ending.

Amelia rushed to Octavia’s bedchambers, where her sister-in-law lay on her bed, rubbing a pregnant belly that was barely showing yet.

“What took you so long?” Octavia demanded from her throne of cushions. Her face was flushed more from irritation than actual discomfort and exertion; that much was obvious.

“I was occupied with… something. What do you need?” Amelia replied in a calm voice. If there was ever the sound of honest displeasure in her tone, she could not help it.

“Well, I must say you are incredibly selfish. You know well that your sister-in-law is with child, and could need your help any time.”

“I am sorry, Octavia. What do you need help with?”

“I was calling you to rub my feet, and you took your time before responding!” Octavia wailed.

Amelia looked at Octavia’s flat belly pointedly. Even as she did, the rest of her face remained expressionless while she stood with her hands clasped in front of her. She prepared herself for the usual manufactured woes.

“You are so irresponsible! What if anything were to have happened to me or my baby?”

“I was occupied with something important,” Amelia replied, still calm.

“Important? Do not make me laugh. The only people who consider reading those trivial books important are you and your silly friends.”

Amelia did not respond. She knew what a bait sounded like, and nothing good would come out of arguing with her half-brother’s wife. She was proud of her work, and she knew she was good at it, but saying so would be ill-advised at this point. If anyone knew she was working for a publisher in secret, she would end up being severely punished. Or worse. She took a deep breath instead.

I cannot risk losing my work, my only opportunity to escape. Not now.

“You have nothing to say, don’t you? So selfish,” Octavia repeated sullenly. “I have been waiting for you to bring me some tea and rub my feet. Do you know how hard carrying a child is? If you do not care about me, you should at least care about your brother and his baby.”

“I am more than willing to help you with anything you need, Octavia. But you could have rung for a maid to bring you tea and rub your feet,” Amelia responded reasonably. She tried to keep even the slightest edge from her tone because she knew Octavia would hear it and make a bigger fuss.

“If I were calling you, it is because I need you, not just any maid, Amelia. I think you know by now that I cannot trust the maids to prepare tea the way the baby likes it. What if something happens to him?”

Amelia very much doubted that the entire issue was about the baby. Octavia was doing her utmost best to sound so helpless when she had always been in the pink of health. No, this was about Octavia putting Amelia to her ‘place’.

“We have perfectly trustworthy maids, Octavia. Your baby is not due for several more months. I am sure all will be fine.”

However, Amelia knew there was no point arguing with a pregnant woman whose only intention was to make life difficult for her. This had been her behavior from the day she had set foot into the house. She now simply had a reason to justify it.

“I do not trust any of those envious chits around me or my husband. But you are Finch’s half-sister. I am certain that your mother trained you to take care of not just the household, but of everything else,” Octavia replied, sounding like a haughty matron even though she was two-and-twenty, only two years younger than Amelia.

At the mention of her mother, Amelia bit her inner cheeks. She should have been used to the insults by now. She was, after all, the daughter of a maid who had dared to fall in love with her employer and had risen in station. What she could never stomach, though, was the implication that her mother had been a fortune hunter. Shaking her head, she exhaled slowly.

“Octavia, this is ridiculous. Just because my mother was a maid before her marriage, it does not mean that I—”

“What is the matter here?” Finch, the Viscount of Warton, entered the room furiously. Amelia could see the scene through his eyes: his pregnant wife, red-faced and huffing, and his half-sister standing rigidly a few feet away.

How can he not see that Octavia is faking it?

Amelia almost shook her head in disbelief, but she controlled herself. She knew better by now that saying anything would only turn against her. Besides, Finch’s frown showed he had already drawn his conclusions.

“Thank goodness you are here, Finch!” Octavia gasped, fanning herself with her ornate fan as she slumped deeper into her pillows. “I am feeling faint, and… and Amelia is yelling at me. I asked her for a simple favor, but as always, she has been terrible to me. She believes I am merely being overdramatic! I was only asking for some water because I was too dizzy to get up!”

“That is not true!” Amelia began, her eyes widening in horror at the somewhat expected turn of events. “Finch, you know I would never—”

“Imagine if you had not come at this very moment,” Octavia continued lamenting, moving her head left and right—back and forth—on her pillows, so Amelia thought she would be truly dizzy soon. “I am worried about our baby, Finch. Overexertion cannot be good for him.”

The viscount quickly rushed to his wife, caressing her hair and kneeling at her side. Then, he turned to his sister and barked, “You should be ashamed of yourself. How can you treat a pregnant woman like that? She is not feeling well!”

Amelia thought about how the house used to be full of light when her father and mother were still alive, and Finch was still under their father’s discipline. Life had changed drastically after the accident that took them.

“Finch, she looks perfectly—” Amelia began, only to be interrupted again.

“Enough of that!” Finch bellowed while also taking his wife’s hand in his. The woman was still dramatically fanning herself. One would think she was close to giving birth at three months long. “You are constantly provoking her. But look at her, Amelia. She is with child! She is carrying my son! Do you not have a heart?”

Amelia looked. Oh, she did. But she knew that what she would see would differ from what Finch would see. Her brother saw a helpless wife, but she saw the smirk playing on Octavia’s lips. Amelia prided herself on her patience, but even saints would have to complain about her sister-in-law’s dramatic antics and abuse, and Finch’s blindness to what his wife truly was.

“I do have a heart, and you know it,” Amelia retorted. “However, I also know when ailments are imagined and fainting fits are used to—”

“I want you out of my sight!” Finch commanded, his face red with fury. It was a shade darker than his wife’s current coloring, although Octavia looked like she was already cooling down and relaxing. After all, she just had her daily source of entertainment—making Amelia’s life a living hell.

“I will gladly go,” Amelia replied, lifting her chin and straightening her spine.

However, a burst of miraculous recovery went through Octavia as she jumped out of bed and ran to her writing table. “No, wait. Before you go, Amelia, I need you to deliver a letter for me. It is urgent.”

“Right now? It is almost dark outside, and the footman will leave with the letters tomorrow morning,” Amelia pointed out.

“Amelia,” Octavia whined. “While I could have asked the footman, I would prefer your speed and discretion.”

Or simply to have me run errands and do chores to punish me.

Finch was quick to agree, nodding vigorously. Amelia wondered what had happened to the proud boy she once knew. Yes, her brother had never liked her—not really—but he was not anyone’s fool. Marriage had reduced the new viscount to just that.

“Do as Octavia says. Stop tiring her.” The warning was clear in his voice.

Amelia could only take a long breath and look at the heavens for some patience. “All right, then. I will take Mary, and we will deliver the letter.”

She pocketed the missive, at least glad that she could finally leave the room. She sought her lady’s maid, Mary, as she needed someone to accompany her. On the surface, Amelia looked as calm as usual. But anyone who looked closely enough would see her fingers trembling as she tied her bonnet.

At least I can stop by the publisher and hand in the translation.

“Mary, we have a duty to fulfill today,” she announced, with the same steady voice she used whenever she was trying to mask her unease. Meandering the streets after dark could be dangerous, and she was certain that neither Finch nor Octavia would care to look for her if she was late.

“Yes, Miss Warton,” Mary replied politely.

The maid followed her with no complaints. As they were walking down the street, Amelia could not help but peruse the letter. It bore no name, which was odd. Octavia also did not use a seal, but the letter carried a heavy perfume that Amelia was not familiar with. Her sister-in-law used a more subtle scent at home. She wrote her initials, though, like a signal for the receiver.

Who are you writing to, dear sister-in-law?

Amelia knew she could not linger on that question. She decided to use the evening outing to her advantage. The translation was done. Octavia’s timing was right in that regard. She had something to deliver to the publisher, provided that they would make it there in time before closing.

London felt unusually still and quiet for the hour. It was perhaps because the clouds were dark and low. With a glance at the sky, Mary hesitated for the first time while following her mistress.

“It is going to rain, Miss Warton,” the maid said. “Do you think we should turn back now? We did not bring an umbrella, and it is getting quite dark.”

For what it was worth, Amelia did not even bring a parasol. She rarely brought one, and for that, she was considered unfashionable. Umbrellas protected women from the rain, while parasols protected their complexions. She cared for neither. She was not exactly popular in the ton.

“This should not take long,” Amelia replied, gesturing with the letter in her hand. “However, you may take shelter if need be.”

Mary nodded with uncertainty. “There is the bookseller’s awning. I will wait for you there, Miss, if that is all right. I easily get sick.”

Amelia knew that Mary’s concern was warranted. If she ever got sick, Finch and Octavia would not hesitate to turn her away and replace her with someone sturdier. So, she picked up her pace and proceeded to deliver the letter to the scrawled address.

She knocked at the door, and a butler responded. When he saw the letter, he frowned, but there was no surprise on his face. He simply nodded at her and hastily closed the door. No greetings. No words.

Mission accomplished. Well, at least her mission for Octavia was accomplished. Even though she felt the butler was rude, it was done. Hopefully, that would be the last time she would personally have to deliver a letter for her sister-in-law.

Then, the droplets of rain fell, as if on cue. They quickly became harsh, pounding hard, stinging her face and arms.

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, trying to cover as much of herself with her shawl, but she was already drenched. “Mary!”

The rain seemed bent on punishing her just like Octavia enjoyed doing. This was her life now. It used to be a happy life once, even though she had never been accepted by the ton, just because her mother was a maid who had married a viscount. At least, then, she had people who loved and cared for her.

“Mary?” she called when she reached the bookseller’s place.

There was no sign of her maid. She probably made a run for it after the rain started pouring, and it had no plans to die down anytime soon. As she walked a little more, everything seemed to whirl around her and fade to gray with the torrents, making her unable to discern anything.

What do I do now?

Chapter Two

“You cannot possibly be serious, Sebastian. If I did not know you well, I would not have believed a word of your stories.”

Sebastian Hargrove, the Duke of Firaine, turned his gaze from the warm flicker of the hearth to his friend, the Duke of Stonevale. A sardonic smile played at the corners of his mouth. Cassian, like Benedict, knew him too well—perhaps more than any man should.

“Too outlandish, you think?” he drawled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

“For you? Not nearly outlandish enough,” Benedict interjected, the glint in his eye betraying his amusement.

All his life, Sebastian had been raised to believe that money could buy anything—except affection. His parents played dutiful hosts to the ton and their perceived roles in society, but spared no warmth for their son. As a child, he waited behind locked doors, convinced that if he grew up respectable and unshakable, he might finally earn their attention. He never did. So he stopped trying. Now, he only sought what was easy to control—willing bodies, fleeting encounters. Affection had always been out of reach, so he made sure it stayed that way.

The three men sat amidst the smoke-laced luxury of The Blue Parrot, London’s most discreet brothel. Here, velvet-lined walls muffled secrets, and indulgence was the law. Sebastian inhaled deeply, the scent of sandalwood and sin intermingled in the air. It amused him that the brandy cost more than some of the women. That irony never grew old.

“Benedict bet you would fall in love and flee to the Alps,” Cassian said, mock-serious. “You owe me twenty guineas.”

“Me? In love?” Sebastian gave a sharp laugh. “Benedict must have been drinking too much of that swill they call champagne in Paris. You both know I never bed the same woman twice. It prevents… attachments.”

He said it simply, as if it were gospel. For him, perhaps it was.

His friends understood his rules. At first, his travels across the Continent had been about novelty—new faces, new games, new distractions. And he had found plenty. But it turned into a means of finding something that he had been looking for, and still had not found. Something to fill the void. He had found endless pleasure, but no peace. The hunger had not faded; it had sharpened. It lived in his bones now, a fever that refused to break.

“The French women entertained well enough,” he added, leaning back. “Though the roads nearly shattered my spine. I suspect the coachman was a sadist.”

His friends exchanged glances they probably thought he would not catch.

“Did you punish him with one of your infamous glares?” Cassian teased.

“I think a lecture from him is worse than his glare,” Benedict deadpanned, before he finished the brandy in his glass. “Although we know full well that he is the one who needs a lecture on his philandering ways.”

“Mock all you like, both of you hypocrites. All men have their own rules they live by, and so do you. I am simply more serious about mine,” Sebastian protested as he finished his drink.

“Yes, yes. No second rounds. Keeps it simple, you say.” Cassian stretched his injured leg and winced slightly. “But what of affection? Do you believe it is such a danger?”

Sebastian opened his mouth to reply. He knew his friends well, and neither of them was in a hurry to find a woman to love. Benedict organized his life around a strict set of goals, and Cassian had his heart shut to anyone who came too close. How could they pretend they knew better about affection?

Before he could say anything, though, a soft hand settled on his shoulder. He turned to see Clarice, a popular courtesan at the brothel. Clarice. He should have been alerted by her overly sweet, heavy scent.

“You vanished, Your Grace,” she purred, pressing her lips to his. He endured it for a moment, then pulled back. She did not seem to care that he recoiled. “You did not warn us you were about to leave for weeks!”

Sebastian, visibly irritated, caught her chin gently but firmly, disengaging from the woman.

“You know my rule, Clarice,” he said, firm but not cruel. “No repeats.”

“That is a shame,” she replied, pressing her lips into a thin line and straightening herself. “I am the best fun you will have on this side of town. Nobody expects you to marry someone from a brothel, you know.”

“Find me someone new,” he insisted. She left in a huff. Sebastian exhaled, unbothered.

She was clearly hurt, but Sebastian could do nothing about that. A woman in her trade should know better.

“Do you really intend to live by this rule forever?” Benedict murmured.

“That is the point,” Sebastian said, his face impassive. His expression was completely unreadable, something that he had mastered throughout the years he had pushed people away from him.

“I cannot blame you, I suppose,” Cassian said as he stretched his injured leg again. The man had been hiding his limp valiantly. For a moment, Sebastian wondered what it was like to love something so much to fight for it, like Cassian did for his country.

Avoiding anything that would shift the mood of their evening, he gave a low chuckle instead. His amusement, however, would die a natural death as time passed, and no woman had been brought before him. Meanwhile, masculine laughter and feminine giggling could be heard elsewhere.

Sebastian’s brows furrowed. “That is odd,” he muttered. “Clarice is normally faster.”

“Perhaps you have exhausted the roster,” Benedict said dryly.

“It is not hard to imagine,” Cassian agreed, reaching for another bottle of brandy. “We can at least spend money on something else. Someone here is going through divine punishment.”

“Unlikely,” Sebastian growled. He rose, his movements smooth but edged with growing irritation. “I shall find out what is going on.”

Sebastian stood. It was not about need—he could go without a woman tonight. But it was a matter of principle. He came to The Blue Parrot to be served, not ignored. A courtesan had taken offense at something he said and disappeared without a word. That was unacceptable. No one walked away from him. Not without consequence.

With quick strides, he reached the front salon. The curtains all over the establishment were thick and drawn close, but he could tell that a storm raged outside. He heard the wind howl like a warning. A flash of lightning lit up the salon just as the front door slammed open. He uttered a curse.

A woman stumbled inside, looking disoriented. She was also soaked to the bone, trembling, but still devastatingly beautiful. She pressed a hand to her chest, gasping. It looked like she had run through the rain with nothing to protect her. Her eyes, unfocused as they might be at the moment, were luminous and wide.

 Sebastian froze.

With him, time also did.

The lady, as he surmised she was, wore a modest dress. However, she was drenched through, her dress clinging obscenely to her form. What should have been modest was rendered indecent by the rain. Her curves were outlined in wicked, silken detail. Chest heaving. Lips parted. Eyes wild.

For a moment, Sebastian remained speechless. His eyes greedily scanning the clear outline of her curves. Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath. Her brown hair must have been braided in an updo, but soft tendrils now fell to her face, some clinging to her temples. Despite her disheveled state, he could not help but notice her pretty face. Those full cherry lips. He tried not to look back at her bosom.

“What the devil…” he muttered.

The woman glanced at him—startled, defiant.

“What are you doing in a place like this?” Sebastian finally found his voice.

“I might ask you the same thing, sir,” she shot back, straightening despite her shiver.

Sebastian tilted his head to the side. What was going on here? He tilted his head, intrigued. That accent. That posture. A lady, clearly. And yet, what was she doing here?

“Well, I do belong here,” he said with a smirk. “Can you say the same?”

“Of course, I have every right,” she snapped. “I will have you know that this is my business,” she said defiantly, anger flashing from her eyes. Something told him she was not having a good day. “You may find out that I have as much right to be here as any man.”

God, she was furious. And exquisite.

He folded his arms across his chest, chuckling softly. “That is a bold and radical statement, I would say.” Brave, this one. She was also obviously lost.

He stepped forward and took her arm. Not roughly—but insistently. He felt compelled to hide her, take her away from the prying eyes of others. She gasped as he steered her behind the wooden divider that obscured the parlor inside whenever people entered the front salon.

“W-what are you doing? Unhand me!” she commanded, trying to twist her arm away from him.

“Saving you. You have no idea where you are,” he whispered.

Or who I am, he wanted to add. But somehow, there was something thrilling about a woman not knowing who they were dealing with.

“I know perfectly well where I am,” she retorted. “I was to deliver some translated manuscripts to Mr. Featherstone by tomorrow,” she said smugly, still unaware of where she was and how delicious she looked.

Sebastian blinked. Then chuckled.

That explains her confusion.

“Well, Featherstone’s office is across the square,” Sebastian replied, enunciating each word carefully while regarding the lady. “This little establishment here, founded for the pleasures of men, and perhaps some like-minded women, is The Blue Parrot.”

“The Blue Parrot?”

“Yes. A brothel.”

Color drained from her face.

“No,” she whispered in pure horror. Her gaze darted beyond the divider. Velvet drapery. Giggling courtesans. Pawing men. She covered her eyes. “No!”

“Well? How would you mistake a publisher’s office with a brothel?”

“I could not see a thing in that rain, and when I got in, I thought the publisher must have changed the drapery to something gaudy for a reason,” she whispered, her cheeks red with embarrassment.

Sebastian could not help but laugh. She glared at him and whirled around, intent on leaving the brothel. He sighed and stepped in front of her, using his tall and broad body to stop her from further humiliating herself.

“Move,” she ordered.

“You are not going anywhere.”

“How dare you? You cannot keep me in this… this…”

“Look at yourself,” he said. “You cannot walk into the street looking like that.”

“Looking like what?” The poor woman could not be this oblivious all the time, could she? The thought made him want to follow her everywhere, protect her from men. Protect her from herself.

He let his gaze trail slowly down her body. Her breath caught.

“Your dress leaves nothing to the imagination. It is soaked and transparent. You were already about to give everyone here a glimpse of heaven. Do not tell me you will also expose yourself outside,” he said reasonably.

Sebastian could not help but give her another look. She had a lovely, innocent face, a lady with a courtesan’s body. Her eyes widened when she realized her state of dress and how his eyes were traveling all over her body. Color surged into her cheeks. Somehow, he had seen the woman change into different colors in the short period they had been acquainted.

“You could have told me sooner, so that I-I could have covered myself better,” she stammered, trying helplessly to cover herself with her dainty hands.

“I was distracted,” he admitted. “You are… hard to ignore,” he murmured, again scanning her body boldly. “I was also enjoying the view.”

“You are a cad.”

“True. But a lady of polite society like you should be more careful. Wolves are lurking everywhere…”

“I am not… I would not call myself a society lady,” she gritted out, her eyes flashing even more. He wondered if she had something against society. Interesting.

“Even better,” he said approvingly.

“My lady?” Her chaperone called from outside. Her panic rose.

“T-that is my maid, my chaperone. I must leave,” she said, her voice shaking now.

“You must not. Not like this. People will look at you, a lady bursting out of a brothel in transparent clothes. Setting foot in here is scandalous enough. Think of your reputation.”

She hesitated, uncertain. Sebastian was suddenly pulled by the urge to comfort her, but he stopped himself. He could help her get out of the situation at least.

“You need a change of clothes,” he said. “And an umbrella.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you… offering to help me undress? You said you belonged here in this brothel. Do you want to take advantage of me?”

“Sweetheart, if I wanted to take advantage, you would know.” Sebastian drawled. He laughed again, this time a little louder. He saw how the red traveled from her cheeks to her chest. So responsive. He tried to push the inappropriate thoughts from his head. “I do not need to take advantage of anyone. Usually, women come to me.”

“Y-you are unbelievably arrogant,” she stuttered in fury.

“Does that mean you want me to help you undress?” he asked, a smirk slowly spreading on his face.

Her eyes widened in outrage. It tempted him to goad her further, but he sighed and called one of the courtesans. Yes, he was a rake, but he rarely dealt with maidens. They were more trouble than they were worth.

He laughed, then turned. “Marla!”

A girl of about twenty, with warm brown eyes, appeared before them.

“What is it, Your Grace? How can I help?” she asked, almost like a lady’s maid would.

“Please find a modest change of clothes for this lady. She had been caught in the torrents outside and got lost. She will need an umbrella, as well.”

Marla’s eyes widened. He could not blame her. It was not every day that a lady came bursting into a brothel by accident. There were two instances of married ladies raiding The Blue Parrot, wearing their maids’ clothes while looking for their errant husbands. He chuckled, remembering one instant he was present for.

“Come, my lady. I will help you.” Marla beckoned the yet-unnamed, drenched woman in his company.

As Marla and the lady left to have the latter change, Sebastian wondered. Who was she?

He waited for her at the front salon, glancing furtively at the patrons flirting with the courtesans. She was taking too long. What was it about women today? Perhaps he was simply becoming impatient, but he needed to see her, ask her name before she left.

Twenty minutes later, he saw Marla walking back to the front salon, but the mysterious woman was not with her.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“S-she… well, Your Grace, I believe she must have left through the back door.”

Then, he noticed her bag. She had left it on the floor. Perhaps it could give him some clues about her identity.

Curious, he opened it and saw a sheaf of papers. He began to read, the Latin flowing easily in his mind. Then he froze. Latin? That alone gave him pause. Not many women could read it, let alone write in it with such fluency—and abandon. His interest deepened. Who the devil was she?

“She tossed her head in abandon as his mouth descended on her—” he read aloud. “Wait a minute…”

There was more of it. Detailed writing. In Latin.

He pressed her against the leather chair, and she cried out, not in pain but absolute surrender.

The lady might have the face of an angel, but her writing was full of sin. His hands tightened around the sheaf of papers, but he could not stop reading. The writing grew bolder. Darker. Delicious.

Sebastian stared at the pages, heat settling heavy between his thighs.

How? She seemed so prim and furious. Even the way her eyes sparkled with innocence and indignation. But if these were her fantasies, then there was more to this lady than she presented to the world.

“Well, then,” he murmured. “What could you be hiding?”

He licked his lips. He would find her again. He would know everything about her. Her name, her address, and all her secrets.

And when he did, he would make sure that she would lie beneath him and forget the name of every man who came before.

For how could a woman who had not had lovers know of the things she wrote?

Chapter Three

Ninety 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.