Page 15 of Duke of Pride (Sinful Dukes #4)

CHAPTER 15

Lemon Tree

N ot that she had been sleeping soundly ever since the Duke of Colborne decided to come back to his ancestral home and uproot her logic. But that night, Victoria felt like she couldn’t breathe. She tried to drink something warm and read as she did every night. She even sat on the small desk and solved the most complex of mathematical equations. Nothing worked.

Numbers could do a lot of things; they explained the way the world worked, but they were useless in explaining the way she felt. Everywhere Stephen had touched her during their dance thrummed like live wires. She could still feel the possessive grip at her waist, the searing brush of his thigh.

She pressed trembling hands to her flushed cheeks.

“This is insanity!” she whispered to herself.

The bedchamber walls seemed to shrink with every breath. The open window did nothing to ease the heat pooling low in her belly. A heat that had nothing to do with the summer night and everything to do with the memory of hard muscles beneath her palms as she’d steadied herself against him during a turn in the dance.

“Listen, Victoria,” she muttered to herself. “Just forget about him, for all that is sacred.”

She had danced with the Duke of Blackwell, too. He, too, was a striking man who moved with the effortless grace of a natural rake. His wit was sharp enough to make her laugh— truly laugh. There’d been a boyish twinkle in his eyes that promised mischief, a charm that set other ladies’ fans fluttering like startled butterflies.

And yet she had felt no wildfire in her veins. No troublesome heat pooling low in her belly. No mad urge to throw something at his head just to see his perfect composure shatter.

All she had felt was pleasant amusement. Like watching an exceptionally clever, entertaining puppet show. And though she could see the Duke as a good friend, she couldn’t even imagine dancing with him the way she did with Stephen, let alone anything more.

Stephen.

“Argh!”

She screamed into her pillow, played with her hair, and fanned herself. Nothing worked. If she were to stay in this room one more minute, she would scream, and the whole household would descend upon her. And she would have to explain why she was having a nervous meltdown.

Victoria left her room and made her way to the gardens. The cool night air and the walk might exhaust her enough to surrender her tired mind to oblivion.

She made her way away out of the house. She didn’t want to make anyone who might be looking out the windows think that he saw a ghost that haunted the manor. Because in truth, she felt as if she were the one being haunted. She walked down the gravel path to the lake and looked upon the serene water.

But soon, the air shifted and turned colder, and her chemise and dressing gown were not enough to protect her. The house was still a bit far off, and she felt her limbs turning icy.

“The greenhouse!”

The idea popped into her head, and she was reassured that she wasn’t going to freeze to death. She could get warm and then hurry back to the house. Stay till she could feel her legs again.

She found the door to the old greenhouse open.

Victoria stepped in, the humid air wrapping around her like a warm shawl. Moonlight filtered through the grimy glass, casting silver streaks across the overgrown lemon tree in the center. She rubbed her arms to keep from shaking.

“Hell, Victoria.”

The moment she heard that voice, she knew. He was here, cursing her name.

She could leave. From the low and desperate way he said her name, he didn’t know she was right there. She could just walk away and avoid him. But she knew very well that she wouldn’t. So, she ventured forth, trembling, only this time it wasn’t from the cold.

Why was he calling to her? Why was he calling her name as if it were a torment? It wasn’t her imagination, then? The way he danced with her, the tension. He couldn’t be jealous of Blackwell, could he?

Her heart slammed against her ribs, her breath caught, and instantly, heat burned her icy skin. The probability of this happening, of them being here this very night, was astronomical.

Stephen stood beside the twisted lemon tree, his silhouette sharp against the tangled greenery.

Oh God!

His shirt was half-open, his sleeves carelessly rolled up, revealing the corded strength of his forearms. His dark hair was tousled, as though he, too, had been wrestling with sleeplessness.

He turned, and his eyes locked onto hers, shadowed and intense. For a breathless moment, neither moved.

“Victoria?” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Of all the places you could have gone tonight.”

Victoria crossed her arms, though whether to shield herself from the chill or the intensity of his gaze, she wasn’t sure.

“I could say the same to you.”

“I’ve always hidden here. Even as a boy.”

“My point exactly. This is a perfect hiding spot.”

Stephen’s gaze darkened as he took in her trembling form. He seemed to drink in the way her thin chemise and dressing gown clung to her curves, the flush of cold still lingering on her skin. His jaw tightened, and for a heartbeat, Victoria thought—hoped—he would stride forward and pull her to him.

Instead, he took a deliberate step back , gesturing toward an ornate iron bench nestled beneath the greenhouse’s warmest glass pane.

“Sit,” he urged, his voice rough. “Before you catch a cold.”

Victoria hesitated only for a moment before making her way to the bench. The air was warmer there, and the sun-drenched bench had retained some of its heat, which immediately seeped into her bones. Stephen sat on a short potting bench across from her and, with one decisive move, grabbed her hands to warm them.

Oxygen whooshed out of her. She was certain that the last breath she would ever draw was the one just before Stephen took her hands in his and blew his hot breath on them.

“You are reckless, Victoria.” He sounded genuinely concerned. “Venturing out in… this .”

“Says the man who ventured out with his shirt.”

“Touché.” He smirked and looked up at her.

Too close, so close, not close enough.

Stephen snapped out of it first, dropped her hands, and straightened his back. He leaned against the lemon tree, putting even more distance between them. As he let his head fall back, Victoria followed the silver moonlight shading his cheekbones, his sharp jawline, his bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Uhm, the house party is a success,” she commented to dispel her thoughts.

“It is,” he admitted, still looking up at the moon through the glass. “You have officially restored my name as a gracious host.”

“I did not do?—”

He looked down at her, and she forgot what she was going to complain about.

“You did. Can we not argue about that, too?”

Victoria simply nodded, accepting the compliment gracefully.

“Have you decided on your dance card tomorrow?” he asked.

Victoria’s heart stuttered. She sensed the sudden shift in the air, and her head was spinning from the sudden changes. She was not mad, somehow. It was not deliberate, not some game. Stephen was too straightforward for this. He, too, was trying to find his footing.

“You sound like a general planning a campaign.” She smirked, their banter a familiar ground.

“Isn’t it?” His mouth quirked. “Strategy, alliances, calculated retreats…”

“You are merely trying to find me a husband.”

Stephen studied her. “You always refer to our plan, as if it were something I desire. You truly are not interested in marriage?”

Victoria looked away and out at the night spreading across the immaculate grass. She could say half the truth. She valued her independence, and no man could ever understand her intellectual pursuits. Everyone in the ton knew her as the bluestocking lady. But for some reason, she couldn’t lie to him. Not tonight.

“No, Stephen. I do not wish to marry. I fear almost nothing in the world?—”

“The way you screamed for me when you thought a spider was attacking you is evidence to the contrary.”

She chuckled. Perhaps this was why she didn’t want to lie to him. Somehow, even by insulting her—but not really—he made everything easier.

“I did say almost nothing, Your Grace,” she said with a cocked eyebrow.

“Spoken like a true barrister writing a contract,” he allowed. “You were saying?”

“I fear marriage,” she stated flatly.

Stephen looked at her seriously. He didn’t wear that dismissive look men had when they talked about marriage with women.

“I understand,” he said. “For ladies, it can be… permanent.”

“It is more than that.” Victoria looked down at her hands. “You see, my father…”

Stephen didn’t move a muscle, said nothing, and didn’t push. Victoria looked up and saw him waiting for her to take her time to answer. For an obnoxious man, he could be so considerate. Somehow, that was worse.

“Let’s just say that my mother withered away in a cruel, loveless marriage. I do not wish this on anyone. And I do not want this for myself.”

Stephen inhaled. He looked down, his shoulders shagging. Then, he nodded as if to himself. “I understand.”

Those were the words she had wished to hear all her life. Nothing more than that. That someone understood her. That this social norm that all the ladies wanted was to secure a husband was not true. Not for everyone.

“And your brother?”

“Let’s just say that he is not as understanding.” Victoria looked away in pain.

“Well, I can’t blame the man. I mean, he grew up with you,” Stephen teased.

Victoria glared at him, but he chuckled.

“But I do understand, Victoria. Or I think I am starting to. You see, my father…”

His voice was low with something like regret.

“He was a good duke,” he continued. “A proper one. But he…” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “He thought affection was indulgence. That duty came before love. My mother. She also suffered.”

The admission hung between them, fragile and unexpected. Victoria had always assumed that Stephen idolized his father, the stern, unshakable Duke of Colborne. But now she saw the truth: he’d learned distance from a man who prized it.

“I only realized it these past few days. Seeing my mother, the way she was when Annabelle and I were young. And even so, you thought that my mother was at her worst when my father died. You’d be shocked to see her when he was alive.”

They looked at each other. The silence was charged. Not in a bad, uncomfortable way. But it was too deep, too raw and real. They showed their wounds, their bare fears, in a way that they hadn’t done for anyone else. Victoria had to lighten the mood before she lost all good sense.

“That is why I prefer mathematics. Safer.”

“ Safer is good, but even your mathematics are open to the possibility.”

“The possibility?”

“Of a good marriage? Like Annabelle and Frederick have. Like your brother and Penelope. Against all odds if I might add.”

“A statistical error, for sure.”

“A margin for success.”

Her breath caught. The true meanings of his words shimmered between them, dangerous and sweet. He felt it too, and it was his turn to raise that frail wall between them.

“You understand that this is the way Society works, Victoria? Unfair, poor, and few—those are the choices you have.”

“I understand. My brother is too much, I can’t be myself around him, and somehow, it hurts more than having to pretend for a stranger. A husband.”

Stephen nodded. Then, he gave her a weak smile.

“So, let’s approach it mathematically, then. What do your calculations say? Who has the most chance to be an ideal husband for you?”

Something inside her stung. That question… it reminded her that no matter what they have shared, for him, she was always an obligation he would like to get rid of.

She narrowed her eyes, lifted her chin, and gave her verdict. “The Duke of Blackwell.”

The hot, humid air in the greenhouse cooled rapidly. His look turned glacial, his smile vanished, wiped clean as though she’d struck him.

“You are not serious,” he said, the words clipped.

Her suspicions from when she heard him call her name came back. Stephen pretended for days that nothing had happened between them. He had insisted that all he wanted was to marry her off. And now he was losing his composure at the mention of the Duke of Blackwell?

Oh, this is going to be good.

“Why not?” Victoria arched an eyebrow, folding her arms, all mockery and daring. “He’s a good prospect—titled, wealthy, and charming.”

“Charming,” Stephen repeated, as if the word offended him personally.

“Yes. And he laughs at my jokes,” she added nonchalantly.

Stephen got up, the threat clear in his eyes. One wrong word and she would have to face the consequences.

Victoria once more picked up the gauntlet and looked up at him. “If he were to propose, I might?—”

The reaction was feral, deprived of all pretenses of civility. He crossed the space between them in an instant. One hand rested on the back of the bench just behind her shoulder, making him loom over her. His scent filled her, all spice and something more than all the aromas in the greenhouse. His look pinned her in place, and she whimpered at the sight.

She knew. Tonight, he would ruin her. And she would let him.

His other hand went into her hair, his fingers tugging, making her arch her neck to meet him. His blue eyes dropped to her lips, and then he descended upon her. He claimed her mouth, his lips tasting her before he demanded entry. His hand slid from her hair to cup her jaw, his thumb grazing her cheek.

Her hands followed their own path up his waist, his torso, caressing the skin his half-opened shirt revealed. Heat erupted under her fingers, and a roar rumbled in his chest. The kiss became sloppy, unrefined, deeper, all tongues and teeth.

Victoria thought she would pass out when he broke the kiss. He still held her, still so close, his lips just grazing hers as he breathed heavily.

“You will not marry him.”

She smirked, victorious and unrepentant. Satisfaction surged through her. He was jealous.

“I don’t see why not,” she challenged.

“Do not test me, Victoria.”

“I am not.” She tilted her head in his hand. “You asked me who I find agreeable. Well, I find Edwin?—”

She never finished that sentence. Whatever thread of restraint he had been clinging to snapped at that moment. He bit her, he tasted her, his mouth slanted over hers, raw precision, lips firm, claiming. He licked her upper lip, trapping it between his. His hand curled around her throat, gentle yet firm. A reminder that he was in control. Victoria’s toes curled, and she arched even more against him.

He broke the kiss and looked at her, flushed and her lips swollen. With his eyes still pinned on hers, he nipped her lower lip, then soothed it with his tongue. That familiar, overwhelming heat rose inside her, making her core throb.

He licked her lips gently, while his hand slipped from her throat down her shoulder, pushing her dressing gown off, her chemise next. The treacherous fabrics obeyed him until her upper half was bare to him.

He looked down, licking his lips now. One more glance at her bewildered eyes, blinking slowly, his teeth raking his lower lip. His knuckles grazed her nipple.

“Ah!” Her back arched.

“Tell me, Victoria,” he growled near her ear. “Tell me you will do as I say.”

Victoria let her head fall back, her lips parting. But no sound came out. He bit her earlobe while his finger rolled her sensitive peak. Every stroke, every nip was a claim, a punishment for daring to consider another man.

“You will not marry him . Say it!”

Still, she refused to promise him what he demanded. Was it because he demanded? Or was it because every time she refused to concede, he dared to do more?

A warning roar tore from his throat, and he went down on his knees before her. His eyes leveled with hers, and Victoria felt a shiver run down her spine.

His fingers curled into the hem of her skirt.Slowly, always studying her, he pulled her skirt up, till he could nestle between her thighs. She felt so shamelessly exposed, his hardness so evident that her body came alight. He released her eyes, and his head dipped lower. His hot breath on her sensitive nipple burned through the seams that were barely keeping it together.

“Don’t make me make you regret it, Victoria.”

There was no world in which she could ever regret this. She was so mistaken.