Page 14 of Duke of Pride (Sinful Dukes #4)

CHAPTER 14

Bitter Sting

I t was the next night, after dinner, and Stephen realized with dread that the group secretly, or even instinctively, decided that this night would be one to remember. There was no preventing it from happening—more specifically, there was no preventing it from happening to him.

The group had retreated to the big drawing room, and it was obvious that no one was going to bed anytime soon. Candlelight flickered in the gilded mirrors, and the air was fragrant with beeswax, along with the crisp scent of night-blooming jasmine that drifted through the cracked windows.

The room was humming with energy, the last days drawing the guests closer, making them more relaxed and familiar with one another. Lady Weatherby, that menace, was manning the pianoforte shamelessly. Stephen started believing that the deaths of her three husbands were not accidental. She was not of the faint of heart, that was for sure.

“You might want to give that scowl a day off,” Victoria remarked mockingly.

“And you might want to give meddling a rest tonight,” he deadpanned.

“But, Your Grace, you’ll get lines on your forehead.”

“Perfect. I will be showing my displeasure without trying.”

Stephen looked down at Victoria and her reprimanding look. She was wearing a beautiful dress in that blue shade that looked so good on her. But nothing looked better on her than her aura, her energy. She opened her mouth to say something, but she didn’t get the chance.

“Miss Victoria, you must end this stupid debate we are having with Frederick.” The Duke of Blackwell came up to her with a wide smile on his lips.

Stephen’s back went rigid the moment he drew near, all charm and smiles. All the warmth of his banter with Victoria evaporated.

“I am sorry, Your Grace.” Victoria smiled at Blackwell. “But I do not waste my time on anything less than life or death situations.”

“If Frederick keeps insisting, it might escalate to that.”

“I thought I made it clear in the program that violence is to be displayed on Tuesdays only.”

“I think this requires an exception.”

Stephen started to think that, indeed, the situation might require some violent resolution, especially if Blackwell kept looking at Victoria like that . Perhaps a nightly demonstration of archery was in order.

“Blackwell.” Frederick came up to them, his arm wrapped around Annabelle. “Tell me you are not here complaining to Miss Victoria.”

Stephen watched as the conversation unfolded. Frederick argued for something unfitting with that rake Blackwell. And instead of rolling her eyes in disdain, Victoria bantered with both of them, becoming the center of attention in her usual effortless way. She was not trying. It was just who she was—magnetic and fascinating.

“Now you are going to tell me you dunk biscuits!” Frederick huffed.

“A proper biscuit must be dunked to soften,” Blackwell countered.

“Dunking is for schoolboys and invalids! A gentleman eats them crisp!”

Victoria grabbed both their biscuits and fed them to Euclid.

“This was for Anna!” Frederick protested and walked away.

Blackwell leaned into Victoria a little bit too close for Stephen’s liking.

Stephen would have preferred that Blackwell kept his distance. Far enough for him to be out of the country, ideally.

“I, on the other hand, believe that was the deserved punishment, Miss Victoria,” Blackwell said.

He tried to pat Euclid, but the dog growled lowly.

Good dog .

“Join me for a round to discuss the merits of coffee over tea,” Blackwell offered.

“Scandalous, Your Grace!” Victoria pretended to be scandalized.

“You don’t know the half of it, Miss Victoria.”

Blackwell offered her his arm with a flourish, and Stephen watched with a clenched jaw as she allowed herself to be led away. Their heads bent close together as they strolled around the perimeter of the room, Blackwell murmuring something that made Victoria laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained. It scraped against Stephen’s nerves like a poorly tuned violin.

He can’t be that amusing.

Stephen followed them with a rigid look.

With the impeccable timing of someone born to wreak havoc, Lady Weatherby started a sensual tune—a waltz. He was ready to protest when Dorothy jumped up from her seat and clapped her hands.

“A dance! Excellent choice, Lady Weatherby.”

Debatable.

His mother’s eyes gleamed as they landed on Victoria and Blackwell.

“Victoria, you simply must dance. You and the Duke make such a striking pair.”

Stephen’s glass paused mid-way to his lips. He looked up at his mother, who was glowing with the excellent idea she just had, and couldn’t believe the betrayal.

“Miss Victoria.” Blackwell, the blackguard, smiled. “I would be honored to have this dance.”

Victoria glanced at Stephen. He couldn’t see his face in the mirror. He couldn’t see how he looked back at her, his fingers clenching around his glass. But he was sure that his look was a dark, warning glare.

Do not dare dance with him!

Victoria tilted her head and, with a wide smile, gave her hand to Blackwell, who pulled her to the center of the room as other couples gathered around them. Stephen fixed his eyes on them.

He was afraid that he wasn’t being too discreet about it, but he needed to focus on one problem at a time, and right at that moment, Blackwell was the problem.

Turned out that Blackwell—damn him—was an excellent dancer. His steps were smooth, his turns precise, and worst of all, he had the audacity to make it look effortless. He swirled Victoria with flowing moves, his hand resting on her waist, a fact that made darkness twist in Stephen’s chest.

“They do make such a lovely couple.”

Dorothy was suddenly at his side, looking at Blackwell and Victoria like a proud mother. Stephen would have liked to unravel the full extent of his thoughts, but he showed superhuman restraint.

Across the room, Blackwell dipped Victoria into a scandalously deep turn, her skirts flaring out around them. She laughed, breathless, her cheeks flushed with amusement.

Stephen put his glass on the nearest surface with a sharp clink.

“It seems that your venture will bear fruit,” Dorothy noted. She leaned in and wrapped her arm around her son’s, smiling.

“Venture?”

“My, yes. You sought to help Victoria secure a husband.”

“You are not implying that Blackwell—” Stephen couldn’t finish the sentence in a civilized way.

“Why not? I can’t see a better choice for my lovely Victoria. Blackwell is an excellent choice. Wealthy, titled, and clearly smitten.”

He will soon be smitten, that is for sure.

And Stephen was determined to do exactly that if the rake’s hand moved too low on Victoria’s back one more time. He was not even trying to tame his jealousy at this point.

“I happen to disagree,” he said in a clipped tone.

“Well, I think they suit each other perfectly,” Dorothy insisted.

“Stop it,” he hissed.

Dorothy simply smiled and went to request another song from Lady Weatherby to keep the dance going. The final strains of the waltz drifted through the room. But before the applause could fully erupt, Stephen was moving, a dark streak across the polished floor.

Victoria was curtsying to Blackwell when Stephen stopped before her. He heard her exhale as she looked up to find his glacial gaze pinned on her.

“My dance.” His tone left no room for negotiation.

Victoria gave him her hand, and he stepped closer. His hand rested on her waist, and he was painfully aware that this was where it belonged. His other hand clasped hers, their fingers intertwining with deliberate precision. He pulled her closer, discarding all propriety, all the rules he had abided by all his life.

Her eyes flicked to his, holding that fire they always did. Her unyielding spark was always there on the surface. The one thing that made him lose his composure again and again. There was no way to be close to her and be himself. He was lost, and he was found, and all the things in between. It was vexing and intoxicating. He would have to either claim her or hide her away from him.

But for now, he was here, with her in his arms. His hand closed around hers, gloved fingers tightening possessively. He let his thumb stroke her wrist exactly where her pulse was fluttering. He spun her, his palm slid up her spine, and he saw the little hairs on her neck stand on end, felt the tremor wracking her body.

He was not suffering alone.

Their eyes met. Her big sapphire-blue eyes looked at him with defiance but also a plea. A plea for him to stop, for him to hold her tighter. For days they pretended nothing had happened. But everything had happened.

He looked down at her with a look that said one thing. The one thing that he would never utter out loud.

Mine.

“Stephen, perhaps take a step back?” Victoria whispered, trembling.

The plea hung between them, fragile and raw. Stephen’s gaze darkened as he pulled her closer still. His knee brushed her skirts with every turn, a taunt and a promise. Need. Need that drove him mad, making his pulse drum in his ears, drowning out the whole world around them.

“Why would I do that, Victoria?”

“I… Just, please.”

“It’s the first time we dance,” he said, drinking her in.

The words were simple. The meaning was not.

First. Last. Only.

Victoria’s breath caught. She heard what he didn’t say, what the low gravel of his voice conveyed—that this moment was as fragile as it was inevitable. Her fingers tightened around his. The music ended.

Stephen held her a moment more, her body and her gaze and her soul. Just one moment more. Then, his arms dropped, feeling empty already.

He bowed slightly and left the drawing room.

* * *

The party had ended hours ago, and the manor quieted. And yet he was sitting on the armchair in his study, before the fireplace. In his hand, the silver hairpin glinted in the firelight as he turned it between his fingers. Its weight was negligible, a mere slip of metal, yet it felt as heavy as sin in his palm.

Euclid placed his head on his thigh, silently asking to be petted. Stephen scratched the dog behind his ear.

“You, too, are a traitor. You like her best,” he said.

Euclid licked his hand.

“I do not blame you.” Stephen chuckled bitterly.

The mutt shook his body and made himself

Stephen’s eyes strayed to the half-opened door to the dressing room. His body stiffened at the memory of that first night back home. The feel of her skin against his, her curves against his body, the way she melted into him in the drawing room during their first kiss, how good he felt wrapped in her arms in the carriage.

“Damn it.”

She was everywhere, even here in his wretched room. The dog was hers, for crying out loud.

He knew he was not going to get any sleep in this state. So he put on his boots, and in just his shirt, he went out and ventured alone in the gardens.

It was so quiet, now that everyone was asleep. The night was pleasant, but still, the cold night air bit through his thin shirt. He welcomed it all—the sharp sting in his skin, the way his breath fogged in the dark. Anything to distract from the fever in his blood.

He took the gravel path away from the house. He didn’t want anyone to see him from the windows looking like a forlorn gothic hero. He’d rather do that in private.

He took the path to the neglected greenhouse.

Growing up, this had been his favorite place in the estate. He would hide here from his tutors and his father’s stern looks, from the weight of the title that he would inherit one day, from his strict upbringing, from the constant reminder of rules and propriety.

Once more, he was hiding, only this time it was from things far more complex.

He saw his reflection in the glass of the greenhouse. Disheveled, his hair a mess from the hundred times he had run his fingers through it, his shirt unbuttoned, his eyes sad and frantic.

“Hell, Victoria.”