Seduction in Ink - Dating the Devil series

Chapter 8: The Distant Demon

Amelia sat at her vanity, the cool night air seeping through the edges of her window, creating a gentle rustle in the curtains. Her gaze fixed on the reflection staring back at her, but her thoughts were tangled in the aftermath of a heated argument.

Scared.

The word hung in the air like an unspoken accusation. Lucian's accusation. Who does he think he is sending her to her room, like some little child, after he had already ordered her around on that chair? The memory stung, and became bitter when Amelia felt her body tingle all over as she recalled how he looked when he had her completely at his mercy on that chair.

"That damned demon is just toying with me," she muttered to the reflection, her voice brittle.

The flame of the solitary candle danced, casting a play of shadows on the worn wallpaper. Lucian's words lingered, echoing like a haunting refrain. He claimed she needed to trust him before he would delve into the intricacies of seduction.

Trust him. The notion struck her like a challenge. He was one to talk. In what kind of way did he show that he trusted her? And how could he ask her to trust him, a demon? Untrustworthy, that's what they are. His entire notion about 'first trust, then sex' seemed ludicrous.

"The bloody bastard," she muttered, her fingers tightening on the edge of the vanity. "He's just trying to manipulate me, so that I lose sight of my writings. Yes, that must be it. He doesn't want me to write all this down."

The internal monologue became a mantra, a desperate attempt to drown out the insidious doubt that Lucian's words had planted. She stood, pacing the room as if the rhythmic movement could dispel the unsettling thoughts.

"I'm not scared," she asserted, her voice growing louder, more insistent. "Why would I be scared? Intimacy is a natural part of life. It's how babies are born. Something every animal does, it's completely normal."

Each step was a defiance, a rebellion against the vulnerability that lurked beneath her bravado. Her simple nightdress clung to her skin as if mirroring the invisible weight on her shoulders.

A soft knock suddenly disrupted her internal battle. The door creaked open, revealing aunt Elspeth, her face brightening at the sight of Amelia up and out of bed. "Well, isn't this a blessing," she exclaimed, a bundle of dresses cradled in her arms.

Amelia managed a weak smile, the remnant of the night's turmoil still edged on her face. "Good morning, aunt. What's all this?" she asked, trying to divert her aunt's attention away from her turmoil.

Her aunt beamed, laying out the dresses with an air of excitement. "Ye can't attend the countesses Harvest Ball in just any dress, now can ye? These belonged to me when I was your age. A bit outdated, but I am sure they are proper attire. Ye'll be the belle of the ball."

A sigh escaped her aunt's lips as she pulled up one of the dresses. "Oh, the lavender silk will complement your complexion beautifully," she remarked, holding up a delicate gown adorned with intricate lace. "And this sapphire blue will make your eyes shimmer like precious jewels."

Amelia's gaze shifted from one gown to the next, a myriad of emotions crossing her face. She thought the first looked like a giant chrysanthemum and the second like she was wearing St Andrew's Cross with the white lace drawing all the attention to her chest.

"These are all very lovely," Amelia said diplomatically, her voice tinged with a hint of reluctance.

"But I won't be needing them."

"Nonsense, lass. You don't have anything proper to wear to a ball such as this. At least, try it on." her aunt insisted.

The first gown, a delicate lavender, clung awkwardly to her frame. The bodice was pushing her breasts up to her neck and the sleeves were a tad short. Aunt Elspeth, undeterred, chimed, "Oh, dear, yer diddies are a bit snug in there. Perhaps, I can let it out a smidge."

"I don't think a smidge will grand me any room to move or breath." Amelia gasped.

The second attempt wasn't much better. The faded St Andrew's Cross seemed determined to trip her over its overly long hem and the powder blue gave her pale complexion an air of death.

After being free from that monstrosity, Amelia couldn't help but voice her reservations. "Auntie, I appreciate these dresses, I do, but I won't be attending the Harvest ball with Lord Ciaran."

Her aunt waved a dismissive hand, humming to herself as she assessed the next contender – a regrettable shade of mustard. "Nonsense, lass. Lord Ciaran is a fine gentleman. A bit mysterious, but a lord nonetheless. Ye'll be the talk of Edinburgh, attending with him."

Amelia bit back a sigh. Aunt Elspeth was relentless in her praise of Lord Ciaran, blissfully unaware of the fact that beneath that polished surface lay a demon from the deepest pit in hell. The notion of her pious aunt had so much misplaced admiration for a demon both amused and frustrated her.

"He is not what he seems," Amelia wanted to scream, but the words died on her tongue.

Undeterred, her aunt continued her monologue on the virtues of a lord. But only the Lord himself could possible know who she was referring to. Amelia's attempts to elude to lord Ciaran's faults fell on deaf ears.

"Ye're lucky, lass," Elspeth enthused, holding a particularly frilly gown against Amelia. "A lord interested in ye. Ye'll have the whole city at yer feet."

The words echoed in Amelia's ears like a cruel taunt. "What luck, a lord who breaks his promises," she muttered more to herself than her aunt at this point.

Elspeth's brows furrowed, her eyes searching Amelia's face. "Broke his promise? What are ye talkin' about, lass?"

Amelia choked back the words threatening to spill, the truth too heavy to share. "I asked him to teach me something, and he promised. But when I hesitated even a little he walked away. He broke his promise," Amelia confessed, the weight of unshed tears heavy in her voice.

Elspeth's expression softened. She approached Amelia, enveloping her in a warm embrace. "Ye're upset about more than just a lesson, aren't ye, love?"

Amelia nodded, burying her face in her aunt's shoulder. The floodgates opened, tears streaming down her cheeks. But she couldn't bring herself to utter the real cause of her distress. What was she supposed to say? I looked at his willy and got scare—slightly flustered—aunt Elspeth would have her send to a nunnery instantly. 

"Hush now, lass," Elspeth murmured soothingly. "We'll sort this out. Lord Ciaran's a good man. I can feel it in my bones. Maybe there's a reason behind it all."

In that moment, beneath the weight of familial comfort, Amelia yearned for an escape, a sanctuary where she could reveal the truth without the fear of judgment.

The tender moment between them was disrupted far to quickly by a soft knock on the door. The maid, a timid figure, entered, carrying a bundle that eclipsed the worn dresses. "This came for ye, miss." She held out a breathtaking emerald green gown, a gift from Lord Ciaran.

Amelia's eyes widened, and her tears took on a new hue—part disbelief, and a small part relief. She took the dress, fingers grazing the fabric as if touching a dream. Aunt Elspeth watched, her heart swelling with pride.

"Looks like Lord Ciaran hasn't forgotten ye after all," her aunt remarked, a glimmer of triumph in her eyes.

Amelia, still clutching the gown, remained silent. Her gaze shifted between the extravagant green fabric and the dresses that lay discarded. What the hell was this demon's plan?