Dukes By the Dozen

“I’ll have a go of it, if you don’t mind, Your Grace.” Before he could protest, she pushed her sleeve’s dangling lace from her elbow and plunged her hand into the fire.

The brandy was warm, but even the flames were not hot where they whispered harmlessly over her skin. This was not nearly as frightening as she had always assumed. Her fingers skirted along the bottom, seeking out the lump of an unseen raisin. One brushed at her fingertips.

Blast. She’d missed it.

Her hand pushed forward and nudged the thing again. She chased it about the bowl, determined not only to catch the confounded thing, but to win the game. After all, when she won, she could choose her own prize.

Her arm was stretched out over the wide bowl now. The raisin couldn’t escape her now.

“Your Grace, mind your sleeve,” Lady Cecelia said in her gentle voice.

But the hunt was on. And one deft little grab was all Julia needed to grasp the raisin and win the game. Julia straightened and was met with a flash of light.

“You’re on fire,” Lady Bursbury exclaimed.

Julia jerked back, but the flames came with her. She was truly on fire.

FIRE, an all-consuming beast that destroyed everything in its wake, turning lives to ash. Years had passed, and yet still William could recall the torment of it on his skin, the flames licking over healthy flesh and burning it away.

He had lived in fear of it, never even smoking cheroots or getting too close to a hearth.

Until the moment Julia’s arm lit up with those wicked tongues of fire. He acted immediately, tugging his jacket free, wrapping her in it and using his own body to smother the flames.

Everyone stood in a moment of stunned silence before erupting in cheers and gasps of relief. He hardly heard them. He instead stared at the blossoming spots of red on Julia’s arm amid the singed lace. “You’re hurt.”

“Only a little.” She fingered the blackened edge of lace. “My gown is certainly ruined.”

“Oh, Julia, I’m terribly sorry.” Nancy rushed forward and pushed a wad of linen into William’s hand.

It was cold against his palm, the cloth filled with snow to act as a cooling compress. “I’ll see to her upstairs.”

Nancy blinked rapidly and dabbed at her glossy eyes. “Yes, of course,” she choked. “Please do let us know if you need anything.”

Bursbury was at his wife’s side at the show of distress, his arm around her. “Perhaps we should resume games tomorrow.” He snapped his fingers. “Bruiser, out.”

The white fluff of a dog slunk away from the table holding an abandoned pile of raisins.

“Naughty thing.” Julia gave a good-natured chuckle. A solid sign she was not severely injured.

“He must be used to someone feeding him the food meant for his betters,” William muttered and slid Julia a side glance. “Let’s get you seen to.”

In the few moments it took to arrive at their chambers, the Bursbury staff had already delivered a healing salve and fresh linen for binding. Hodges remained as the only servant in the room.

“Edith cannot tolerate the sight of injuries,” Julia said by way of explanation.

“How terribly inconvenient.” He extended her arm. “Let me see.”

Julia obeyed, shifting her elbow to display the burn. “I don’t get injured often.”

William nodded to Hodges, silently conveying he would see to Julia and the servant was dismissed. Hodges slipped from the room, while William studied the splotches of red on his wife’s forearm.

“Was it the fire?” Julia asked.

“I’m certain this did not come from feeding Bruiser under the table.” He lifted his gaze from her injury to meet her wide blue eyes.

“Not my arm,” she said softly. “Your parents.”

And just like that, with the simple reminder, the wound in his chest ripped open anew. “Yes.” He plucked the stopper from the salve.

“What happened?” she asked, her tone the vocal equivalent of a tiptoe.

I killed them. With my indecision and hesitation. I lived, and they died.

“I don’t talk about it.” He dipped his fingers in the greasy salve. “This may hurt.”

He was exceedingly careful when spreading the balm over her arm, almost not touching her at all. He remembered far too well how the slightest of brushes on charred skin brought pain. Her injury was not as bad as his had been, but he would not take any chances.

She did not flinch, not from the touch, nor from his refusal to answer. “Who did you live with after the fire?”

Her words prodded at his wounds, even as he so gently administered a balm to hers. “My aunt.”

“Until your maturity?”

“No.”

She bit her bottom lip and watched him with a quiet intensity. “How old were you when it happened?”

He put the top back on the jar of balm and wiped his hands clean on an extra square of linen. “Seven.”

She gave a soft cry. He jerked his attention back to her, thinking she’d injured the burned part of her arm. Instead, he found her staring at him in horror.

“Only seven?” Her fingertips went to her lips. “You were just a boy.”