Page 10 of Duke of Pride (Sinful Dukes #4)

CHAPTER 10

Luncheon

S tephen had been watching Victoria for the past few days, and he pretended it was to make sure that everything was done properly. He could have figured out that everything was from observing her the first day. But he couldn’t stop.

Victoria was taking care of literally everything regarding the preparations for the house party. With the elegance and the efficiency of—and it pained him to admit it—a gently bred lady. No, even that was unfair to her. She was doing a much better job.

She talked to the servants with authority but with respect as well. She managed, not ordered, and she spared some witty comments to dispel their anxiety over making things right or on time. She also was annoyingly efficient in managing numbers, from budget to inventory to foreseeable expenses.

“Ah, our Victoria is doing an amazing job, don’t you think, Stephen?” his mother commented at the breakfast table.

“Miss Victoria is… adequate,” he answered.

He wanted to smirk at seeing Victoria so angry at him, but he held back. He was lying, of course, but he would never admit out loud that Victoria’s help was indispensable.

“Dorothy,” Victoria said softly. “Will you come with me to pick the new drapes for Annabelle’s room?”

“Ah, the old ones were ruined by mold, right?”

“Yes. Plus, I wouldn’t want Annabelle to suffer that dreadful color. Will you join me?”

“I have asked the mason to come today to talk about repaving the path to the small lake, and he is so hard to pin down.”

Victoria was ready to ask Mrs. Charlotte to get ready to tag along as her chaperone.

“I have to go to London,” Stephen said over his tea, without looking at them. “I’ve got some papers to sign at my solicitor’s.”

Which was a half-truth. Or rather, a blatant lie. He had received zero notices that he needed to be there, but he was sure he could come up with an issue.

Why am I doing this?

He did not linger on that, only on the way Victoria’s mouth fell open. She seemed to be panicking at his suggestion. He smirked at her, and she narrowed her eyes. It should look unladylike. It was unladylike, but he didn’t care.

The only thing that mattered was that this woman, who commanded his household with unshakable poise, could be so visibly shaken by the prospect of sharing a carriage with him.

“Your Grace is too kind,” Victoria said through gritted teeth, “but I couldn’t possibly impose?—”

“I insist, My Lady.”

“Of course, you do.”

Victoria’s fingers whitened around her napkin. Stephen chuckled lowly with perverse satisfaction at how her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat. That delicate, vulnerable spot he’d?—

No. Don’t think about that.

Yet it was all he could think about these days. He tried to convince himself that what had happened that night was a result of his unchecked anger. That he merely wanted to teach her a lesson. That he set his boundaries.

But the truth was that he wanted it. He craved it. He gave in to his desire, consequences be damned. He had thoroughly enjoyed learning how her skin tasted, how his name sounded on her kiss-swollen lips, how she would catch his lip with hers and he would almost snap.

Now, he was plagued with those sensations, and instead of locking himself in the study or leaving the house altogether as if it were on fire, he was lingering where her perfume could reach him.

“Get ready, Miss Victoria.” He got up. “We are leaving in exactly ten minutes.”

And then he left the room.

* * *

The carriage ride was excruciatingly silent. Victoria was looking out the window with purpose, intentionally avoiding his gaze. And looking at her was all he did as they rode toward the center of the bustling city.

“Tell me, My Lady?—”

“I’d rather not,” she deadpanned.

“I wonder what could have spoiled your mood this morning.”

At that, Victoria gave him a sideways glance that he supposed was meant to be irritating. He found it adorably unconvincing.

“Why didn’t you allow Mrs. Charlotte to come too?” She turned to him fully. “Being with you unchaperoned is not proper, Your Grace.”

Stephen smirked at the way she fought for his housekeeper to come. She even stomped her foot. It was obvious she didn’t want to be in here, alone with him.

“Mrs. Charlotte has her job cut out for her. You are perfectly capable of completing the task on your own. As for propriety, I have been your guardian since I returned to the house. Plus, why would any speculation start? I am devoted to finding you a husband.”

“So, this is what this is?” She clenched her jaw. “Not some twisted ploy to disrupt my peace.”

“I have no intention of doing that.”

Stephen leaned back, stretching his legs slightly until his knee brushed hers. It was deliberate. She jerked her leg away as if scorched.

What are you doing?

Stephen pulled himself into a more gentlemanly stance, his limbs tucked away from hers. How easy it was to discard all rules when she was so close, her perfume wafting in the air, her voice so deliciously passionate.

“I am devoted to the task, since it will bring to fruition my desire to see you gone from my house.”

“Great.”

“Now, pray tell, what kind of man would you accept, My Lady? Surely, there is someone out there who can bear your sharp tongue and sharper wit.”

She was not amused. She looked out the window thoughtfully. Stephen noticed that this woman had layers upon layers, and he found himself eager to peel them. He gritted his teeth as he awaited her answer.

“Your Grace, are you familiar with the legend of Lady Ragnell?”

“From Camelot?” He faintly remembered it.

“A foul-looking woman who offered King Arthur the answer to a riddle that would save his life. What is it that women most desire?” she said, meeting his eyes. “The answer was simple—to rule our lives as we see fit.”

Stephen said nothing. The carriage clattered over the cobblestones.

“I don’t need a man to save me. I want a man who would let me be exactly who I am. Who wouldn’t just bear my mind, my ambition, and my temper, but love me because of them. A man who wouldn’t try to shape me into something more palatable, more proper, more… small.”

A beat passed. Stephen was no longer smirking. His gaze lingered on her, unreadable now.

For a long moment, he stared, the hum of carriage wheels the only sound between them. Then, he shifted subtly, as if resisting the urge to reach for her, or perhaps to steady himself. But he didn’t touch her. And he didn’t look away either.

* * *

Stephen pretended to run his—rather quick—meeting with his solicitor and then escorted her to her chores, much to her dismay. When she was done, he checked his watch.

“It will take us some time to reach Colborne House,” he noted. “We should have lunch while in London.”

“Together?” She seemed shocked.

“I am sure we will manage to eat some pie without it being too unpleasant.”

“I admire your confidence.”

They had just stepped off the curb into a busy crossing, and Victoria was ready to go the other side. Stephen’s head snapped to the right. A carriage turned the corner too fast, too recklessly, and she hadn’t even noticed.

“Victoria!”

He lunged forward and yanked her back with such force that she was crushed to his chest, the world spinning around them. The carriage thundered past, mere inches from where she just stood.

Victoria didn’t breathe. Neither did he. Her fists clung to the lapels of his coat, her face buried in his chest. His arms had wrapped around her without thought, tight and possessive, one hand splayed on the small of her back. He could feel the wild thrum of her heart.

Or is it mine?

She looked up, and though she was safe from danger, he couldn’t let go. He searched her body and face for any sign of pain or injury.

“Are you hurt?”

He examined her face with urgency, but she only looked up at him with a perplexed expression.

“Answer me, Victoria,” he pressed. “Are you hurt?”

He was still shaking from fear of something happening to her. If that carriage hit her…

Victoria was stunned, her big eyes holding his. Her breath came in shallow bursts, and it wasn’t just the fear of nearly being run over. Stephen was reluctant to release her, though the danger had passed.

“It seems that I owe you my life,” she said, still not pushing him away.

Her light, teasing tone made his limbs relax. She was fine, her usual insufferable self.

He breathed deeply and scoffed. “I will be collecting on that.”

They were still locked in an embrace, and only then did they notice that people were staring.

He pulled away and straightened his back. “Let’s go have lunch, Victoria.”

“Oh, one lifesaving move and you drop the honorifics in public,” she joked.

He leaned in mischievously. “I recall that we dropped the honorifics before.”

She refused to respond to that and followed him to a pub.

Stephen was almost giddy as he guided them to Piccadilly. He led them to The White Horse Cellar, through the private entrance, the one where a liveried attendant bowed deeply at the sight of him. Swiftly and discreetly, they were led to a private room.

“Don’t you think this is a bit much?” Victoria asked the moment they entered.

“We are merely eating,” Stephen pointed out.

“Exactly. Just eating.”

“Like I said, Miss Victoria, I am committed to finding you a husband. It’s better to avoid whispers.”

“I am too hungry to argue,” she deadpanned.

“That was the plan,” he said dryly.

The room was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. The low murmur of the city beneath their feet felt like a distant hum, and they just tucked into their food, not out of animosity but because they were famished and the food was so good. It was surprisingly nice.

Of course, she had to ruin it.

“I have been checking the clock,” she commented. “It has to be some record time. You haven’t thrown a subtle—or what at least you think subtle—sharp comment at me.”

“I am on a much-needed break,” Stephen said, feigning nonchalance. “Do not get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. In fact, if Your Grace goes more than two days without making some snarky comment, I would be forced to notify the physician.”

“I do not make snarky comments, My Lady. Only painfully accurate observations.”

“Since we are in London, we should visit top doctors to address that incurable case of delusion you have.”

Stephen tried to smother it, but he chuckled. Not cruelly, not paving the way to a cruel comment, but in genuine mirth. He didn’t know when it happened exactly, but some part of him had started to unwind. The weight he had carried since his father’s death, since the responsibilities of title and duty had taken over his life, that weight had shifted. She lightened it somehow.

Was Victoria always this luminous? Was her voice always this warm? Were her gestures always so decisive and yet elegant? Were her cheeks always tinted pink? And was her smile always this devastating, too blinding, so heart-stopping?

“I am sure that the clerk at Mortimer’s is still stunned,” she suddenly added, shaking her head.

“I am sure he is. You were fighting me for the French cambric.”

“You were fighting me over the lilac tablecloths!”

“Was I supposed to allow that offensive shade in my home?” he retorted without heat.

“You are impossible.”

“I am correct. There is a difference.”

She let out a breathy laugh that made his hand pause midair, and she sipped on her wine. A single red drop lingered on her lip, and her tongue darted out to catch it. His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, the way her tongue flicked lightly across the corner. He had to look away.

“This… thisis not terrible.”

“I am sure, if we give it time, we will have found reasons to kill each other by teatime.”

“I was talking about the food,” she lied.

“No, you were not.”

Stephen leaned over the table and pinned her with a look. Now it was Victoria’s turn to leave the roast hanging from her fork as she struggled to string two coherent thoughts together.

They were close, too close. He heard her breath hitch, her knuckles white from gripping the fork hard, not to use it as a defense but to hold onto something solid and tangible as reality slipped away from her.

They were alone. The room was private, and no one would have any reason to enter unless called upon. And at that moment, Stephen had no intention to bring anyone in. Instead, he intended to keep the world out. His duties and his doubts, his grief and his uncertainty. He wanted to keep only her in here. Her light and her warmth.

The world outside the thick walls of The White Horse Cellar had faded into irrelevance. All that remained was the air between them, charged, thin, heavy. It would be so easy to reach over and pull her in like he did on the street. Feel her land on his chest, on his body. So easy to kiss her, to ruin everything, to make everything right.

But he didn’t, barely holding back. He looked away and focused on his plate, but his mouth spoke before he could rein in the words.

“You are right, My Lady. This is not terrible.”