Page 12 of Duke of Pride (Sinful Dukes #4)

CHAPTER 12

Hairpin

S tephen was looking out the window in his study, scowling at a perfect day, sunshine pouring on his perfectly curated gardens, tended and renovated to classy perfection. The exact opposite of what he was feeling. The light caught metal, and it shone on his face, blinding him for a moment.

It was the hairpin he was twirling between his fingers. A simply ornated hairpin. The one that fell off when he took his clothes off last night. The moment that mere piece of metal hit the wooden floor was deafening. To the point that Stephen knew that he was not going to find the relief of sleep. He should have tossed it into the fire, should have discarded it and what it meant.

But here he was, holding onto it like a lovesick boy, refusing to part with it and the memories it evoked. How fervently he ran his fingers through her hair while he took out the hairpins one by one, eager to see her wavy hair cascade down her back. How her coiled braids had trembled, then spilled loose like silk over his hands. How he fisted them to guide her deeper in their kiss. How she?—

“Damn it, Victoria,” he cursed, closing his eyes.

It did him no good. Every time he did, all he could see was her. Her underneath him, gasping, luring him in. Her hands undoing his cravat, venturing forth to touch his skin. Her look, that damn look that undid him as much as it made him feel alive for perhaps ever.

If she were some blushing debutante who just passively accepted his advances, he would have stopped the moment he got close. He wouldn’t have let it get this far. He wouldn’t have let madness overtake him. He had always prided himself on control. On restraint. On the ability to bury grief, passion, and desire beneath the surface of duty and legacy and name. But with Victoria…

“Me.”

One word from her. That was all it took. The shackles of propriety were broken the moment she uttered that word. The boundaries became a distant line that he crossed as he ground into her. It took a single word from her and he was undone, unraveled, years of control snapped like twigs she stepped on.

No, Victoria was not coy or blushful, and she wasn’t wanton either. He knew as he felt her pulse jump, her skin prickle, her body tremble. She had never been touched like that before. All that spark was her, purely her—her stubbornness, her fire—and he willingly burned up for her.

“Your Grace.” Alfred’s voice brought him back to this reality. “The guests have started to arrive.”

“I will be right there.”

Stephen looked at the hairpin still in his palm. He ran his thumb over it, inhaling deeply. Above all, there was an inescapable truth that he could run from all he wanted and it wouldn’t do him any good—he desired Victoria. And if he were being honest, he desired her the moment he saw her, that vibrant girl next to his sister.

It was a hunger of the most dangerous kind, the kind that eclipsed reason, unseated judgment, and threatened ruin. Every time he got closer, it became harder to pull away. Each time, he wanted more, claimed more. Each time, he got perilously close to casting it all to the wind—his composure, his good name, caution, and common sense.

“No! You fool.”

He ran his hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. He was not going to allow his base instincts to take over. He was not going to be governed by desire no matter how good it made him. How alive, how free.

There was one solution, and that was the plan he had already devised: Victoria Crawford had to find a husband. A proper match with a respectable, dull gentleman who would keep her safe, comfortable, and—most importantly—away from him . By the time this ridiculous house party was over, Victoria must secure a proposal. He would make sure of that.

His mind tested him, bringing forth a clear image of her late at night, touched by a faceless lord, a fool that for sure would never understand nor handle her fire. His jaw tightened, and so did his fingers around the hairpin, the metal digging into his flesh.

“Your Grace, your sister is here.”

Stephen tucked away all his thoughts, his feelings, his desires, his fears. He composed himself, slipped on his mask, and exited the room.

* * *

“Stephen, did I tell you how happy I am?” his mother asked for the millionth time, and it wasn’t even tea time.

“You don’t have to,” Stephen said curtly. Then, in a softer voice, he added, “I can see it on your face.”

Dorothy looked up and gazed upon him, studying him, her eyes soft with affection and something far more perceptive. She shook her head and then smiled in that way mothers did when they knew far too much.

“You hate this,” she observed.

“Vehemently,” he admitted.

“All the more reason to thank you, then.”

Dorothy looped her hand through his, beaming as they stepped beneath the tree-lined avenue, where long tables had been laid with linen cloths, glinting silver, and carefully curated arrangements of wildflowers. Euclid was happily trotting at his side, finally allowed to eat with them.

Stephen was not happy at all. This was neither indoors nor properly outdoors. It was, in his opinion, some cursed hybrid between a garden fête and a dining room rebellion.

“I do not understand what this is,” he muttered. “It’s not a picnic. It’s not a proper meal. You don’t expect me to eat like this every day.”

Then, a rustle of a dress, a measured step, an aura. He knew before he turned that Victoria was here.

“Only you would attempt to scrutinize the sitting arrangement, Your Grace.”

“ Arrangement is a strong word,” he commented.

He turned to see Victoria’s arm looped through his sister’s.

Annabelle’s eyes shone as she looked upon her brother. Stephen couldn’t resist returning that look. He looked at her swollen belly, and his smile widened. His quiet sister, the Duchess of Heartwick, now got what she wished for and was truly happy.

He was happy for her.

“Anna!” Frederick came up behind her, frantic. “Perhaps it’s best you sit down.”

The Duke of Heartwick hovered not far behind, his eyes sharp as ever but wholly devoted to his wife’s comfort. He gave her a refreshment and checked her from head to toe before turning to Stephen.

“Colborne,” he greeted.

“Frederick.”

“Thank you for having us,” he added. “It would be good to spend some time with the family before the baby comes. Good for Annabelle to be with you.”

Frederick was the closest thing that Stephen had to a friend. He had never expected to see him as a brother-in-law, given his rakish ways. And now look at him, a husband and soon-to-be-father, and doing an amazing job at it.

“Oh, he is so adorable!” Annabelle petted Euclid.

“He’s mine,” Victoria and Stephen said at the same time.

They looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

“I found him,” Victoria pointed out.

“He likes me,” Stephen countered.

“You give him sweets!”

“I do no such thing. It would be bad for him. He simply has taste.”

“That is correct. The taste of the ham you have been feeding him.”

“He merely realizes where his best interests lie.”

Dorothy, Annabelle, and Frederick watched as if all this was some impromptu play. Euclid was wagging his tail between the two, nudging Stephen for a pat and licking Victoria’s hand.

Stephen decided to end this childish game and leveled Victoria with a warning look. He regretted it instantly. He should have known by now not to challenge her. Her jaw ticked, exactly like his did when she tried his patience. She was about to say something when Dorothy intervened.

“Enough,” she said. “The food is getting cold, and we did not spend all morning planning this amazing outdoor luncheon just for you two to bicker over Euclid. He is clearly mine. Here, boy.”

The adorable mutt followed her eagerly and sat at her feet when she took her seat. Annabelle dragged Victoria to sit beside her. Frederick stayed behind with Stephen, who waited for everyone to take a seat.

“You hate dogs,” Frederick reminded him.

“Not this one.”

“Right.”

Stephen turned to look at his friend and decipher that weirdly intoned word, only to find Frederick studying him with a knowing smirk.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just good to have you back,” Frederick said earnestly and patted him on the shoulder.

Stephen took his seat at the head of the table and looked upon the lively company. He wouldn’t admit it even under duress, but this was tastefully done. The shade from the ancient oaks made shadows dance across the long table. Draped in lilac linen that shimmered in the soft breeze, the surface was adorned with polished silver, delicate china, and wildflower arrangements that looked as if they had been plucked straight from a sunlit meadow.

She was right. The wildflowers do look better.

His eyes drifted to Victoria. Seated between Annabelle and Penelope, the other member of their unbreakable trio, she looked radiant. There was grace in the way she sat, but not that poised, reserved one that most gently bred ladies had. No. She was fire even in this idyllic setting, her laughter too bright, her gestures too unrestrained. Too real.

And at the slightest breeze, one stray curl bounced on her neck. Stephen stiffened, his hand going to the hairpin in the pocket of his waistcoat.

Stop this!

He decided to stay focused on his mission. Once Victoria was married, those unwelcome thoughts would be gone along with her. So, he decided to focus on the pool of possible suitors among his guests.

The Duke and Duchess of Huntington, Victoria’s invites brought two of their family members that Stephen didn’t know. His mother had invited her neighborhood friends, the same ones who had turned his house into an illegal gambling hall, and in turn, they had brought their unmarried sons.

Lady Weatherby, the smoking pianist, had brought both of her unmarried sons. Reginald was famously good-looking and, with his military bearing and proper demeanor, was perhaps on the top of Stephen’s list. But his conversation skills were limited to hunting and horses, and Victoria would yawn within minutes.

Theodore was the scholar, his nose always buried in books. Seeing how Victoria practically lives in the library, he might have a chance. Though Stephen was almost guilty of even thinking of unleashing Victoria on the timid man. As for Edward, Lady Hardwick’s son, he was dull as dishwater but financially secure.

“You can’t possibly mean that, Miss Victoria,” a voice said over the clutter and chatter.

And then there’s that damned Blackwell.

Stephen’s fingers tightened around his knife, which he was seriously thinking of using for more malicious intent than cutting his meat. Of all the gentlemen of the ton, Edwin Murden, the Duke of Blackwell, was the last one he would invite. But he was Frederick’s friend, and good manners dictated that he treated him as an esteemed guest. Bad manners were taking a very different approach.

“I never say things I do not mean, Your Grace,” Victoria said.

“How refreshing, Miss Victoria,” Blackwell purred.

Stephen’s good manners were to be tested, especially if Blackwell kept looking at Victoria with that wolfish smile and practiced charm.

The infamous Duke of Blackwell was everything Stephen despised in a titled man. Extravagant where he should be restrained, reckless where he should be measured, and worst of all, irresistible where he should be forgettable.

“Mathematics!” Blackwell exclaimed. “Surely, a lady of your spirit must pursue more… stimulating pursuits.”

Stephen’s jaw tightened so much that he was sure his teeth would crack.

“Perhaps you should try immersing yourself.” Victoria smiled that fake smile of hers. “It might help you lose less in faro.”

Blackwell’s polished smirk widened as he swirled his wine. His look was predatory, the same one a wolf might have while assessing its prey. Stephen didn’t need to have deduction skills to read what was going through the man’s mind. He was doing a lousy job of veiling it.

“Are you offering to tutor me, Miss Victoria?”

Oh, hell no.

Stephen set down his knife with deliberate care, the clinking of silver against china cutting through the conversation.

“I commend your self-awareness, Blackwell.” His voice was a blade wrapped in silk. “Recognizing one’s deficiencies is the first step toward improvement.”

A beat of silence. The two men looked at each other.

“You must try the syllabub.” Dorothy’s voice cut through the heavy silence. “Our cook insists that his is the best in London.”

The guests got up to go to the dessert tent, which was set near the dining table. Blackwell nodded with a polite, mocking smile at Stephen and got up to accompany Dorothy to the tent. Stephen answered with a cold nod.

He was about to get up, too, when he noticed that Victoria was still seated, looking at him as if he were an equation she was trying to solve. He decided to ignore her look. Nothing good would come of it.