Page 13

“My fault?” Stephen frowned, taking a step toward her.

“You left her here all alone and never visited. You knew that she was in here with no one. Annabelle is heavily pregnant—she can’t visit. What did you expect her to do? Wither away? Would you have preferred that?”

Stephen’s jaw tightened, and he momentarily looked away. Her blows were hitting the mark.

“Then theneighborwrites you some nonsense, and here you are to introduce order, ready to rip away the one thing that has made her happy in your absence. And yet you claim you are not cruel.”

Stephen seemed shaken, as if she had physically pushed him back.

Victoria was ready to speak more of her mind when he tilted his head and took another step toward her.

“Such passion,” he murmured.

She felt something dangerous coil around her, dark and seductive. Damn his blue eyes! Damn that deep voice that formed perfectly articulated words to torment her.

No!

She had self-respect and self-control. She was not going to sit and let him call her passionate as if it were a bad thing. She would show him passionate.

So, she laughed. In his face.

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “What would a man like you know about passion?”

She regretted it the moment she saw his eyes turn stormy. He moved slowly, stalking closer to her. She took a step back because he towered over her, even though she herself was tall.

“Are you certain I know nothing about passion?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her throat went dry. She went rigid and numb at the same time as he invaded her personal space.

What is going on?

“Quite certain,” she managed, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

His gaze flickered to her lips. Her heart stopped. Stephen leaned in, so close that she could feel the whisper of his breath on her skin. The scent of him, dark and rich, wrapped around her like an invisible snare. Brandy and firewood. And his natural musk, clean yet sharp.

Not fair.

For one tormenting moment, she thought he might actually kiss her, not out of passion, but simply to prove a point. To show her that he could, that he was in control, that he was passionate. Victoria was ready to surrender and scream that she believed him before he—they—did something disastrous.

He didn’t kiss her. Of course, he didn’t. Because the Duke of Colborne was a man of control, of discipline. And for the first time since they met, Victoria was grateful for those otherwise deplorable qualities.

But then she saw his arm rising, his fingers catching the edge of her jaw, a feather-light touch that sent something sharp and hot curling low in her stomach.

Victoria swallowed. Hard. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms as if the sting of it might ground her. No one had ever touched her like that. Even she wasn’t sure whatthatexactly was.

“Look at me!” he ordered.

It came out more like a growl than actual spoken words. His tone set her rebellious nature on fire. But that growl… His voice was laced with something so dark and searing that Victoria swayed just a little as if little-headed. But she, too, was a creature of tenacity, so she met his eyes. Ocean blue against sapphire. Ice and fire.

“When does your brother come back, Miss Victoria?”

“In a month.” Victoria was glad she could summon such information under his gaze.

“Well then,” he said lowly, “you are allowed to stay for a month. After that, you will go back to your brother.”

Victoria’s face fell. Going back to Maxwell meant clashing with him again.

Stephen seemed to notice her displeasure. He forced her straying eyes back to him. He frowned but said nothing. He didn’t care enough.