Page 15 of The Duke of Fire
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 theton—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.
