Page 19 of Duke of Pride (Sinful Dukes #4)

CHAPTER 19

Brandy

S tephen knew that something was wrong when Euclid started to bark in the middle of the night. He got up and took him out, thinking he needed some freedom after the stupid mutt had spent the whole day locked in the study with him.

But Euclid rushed down the stairs, all the way to the servants’ entrance, and started wailing. Stephen studied the fresh tracks of a carriage. The butler came rushing after him.

“Alfred, did any of our guests leave in the middle of the night?” Stephen asked.

“Not a guest,” the butler replied, unsure of himself.

Stephen’s back stiffened. His fingers twitched. He knew what that meant. He knew from the way Euclid was barely holding back from launching into the night. From the way even his butler hesitated to confirm it. From the fact that he knew her too well. Yet he needed to hear it.

“Who was it?”

“Miss Victoria.”

Euclid’s whines cut through the silence, sharp as a blade. The dog pawed at the gravel where the carriage wheels had torn into it, his nose pressed to the ground as if he could still catch her scent.

Stephen stood frozen in the doorway, the cold night air biting through his thin shirt. Gone. The word echoed in his skull, hollow and unrelenting.

“Victoria.”

But his voice faded into the wind, too late to reach her.

* * *

The next morning was one of the worst in his life. One more sleepless night, but he had to get up, shave, wear clean clothes, and go downstairs for breakfast. Pretend that he didn’t care that the seat beside Annabelle was vacant. Eat something to keep up appearances, one hand patting Euclid, who was depressed.

Then, he had to show the guests out as they left one after the other. The house party came to an end, and his mother was giving out small pouches of lavender from their garden—a small gesture Victoria had suggested.

“This is truly thoughtful.” Blackwell’s voice brought him back to the present.

The rake was sniffing a sachet and looking at a card wrapped in a ribbon with interest.

“Is that Miss Victoria’s handwriting?” he asked.

“Yes, she wrote almost half of those,” Dorothy replied.

“Pity she isn’t here so I can thank her properly,” the rake said with a wicked smile.

“Since she received word that the Duke of Walden is coming back to London,” Dorothy explained, “she was eager to return home and see him.”

“Well, at least I get to keep her words and the scent that had accompanied us these past few days,” Blackwell said. “Though, Miss Victoria smelled more like orange blossom.”

That last part was addressed to Stephen.

The two men were locked in a stare that made the others around them squirm. Stephen wanted very much to let the degenerate know exactly how he had extracted a promise from Victoria that she would never be close to him. And let him know that indeed Victoria smelled like orange blossom but tasted like the apples she loved so much.

But Stephen had no will to fight, no will to do anything other than just stand there till this was all over. And thank the Heavens that the last of the guests had left and he could finally unbutton his coat and retreat to his study.

“Stephen!” his mother called, but he didn’t answer.

He didn’t stop till he reached his hiding place—his tomb. The study door closed with a soft, final click. For a long moment, he stood in the center of the room, his breathing ragged in the silence. He let out all his frustration on his clothes. His coat was thrown over his chair, his cravat was violently yanked off.

He grabbed the brandy bottle and a glass and collapsed on the armchair, his body heavy with an exhaustion that went deeper than bone. Euclid whined at his feet, pressing close, but Stephen didn’t reach for him. He couldn’t. His hands hung limp at his sides, still faintly trembling.

She was gone. She ran away from him in the middle of the night as if she were chased out. And in a way, she was. He had driven her away with his stupidity, with the idiotic way he handled a simple situation—by being a coward. He had offered her duty when he should have begged for her heart.

How easy it would have been. How sincere. He should have gotten down on one knee and told her that there was no one like her for him in the whole world. That she had thawed his heart, and he wanted to keep her close to make him come alive. Like she did with everything she touched.

He drained his glass and poured himself more brandy.

Even if he wanted to behave like an imbecile, asking her to marry him with the same warmth he read out legislation in the House of Lords, he could have righted the wrong. When he saw her heart shatter at being called an acquaintance after everything they had shared, he could have simply said, “I am an idiot.”

She would have erupted in that tinkling laughter of hers and would have scolded him for being so proper. And he would have taken her in his arms and shown her how improper she made him. They would have walked out of that damned thicket engaged. Yesterday could have been the best day of his life.

Another glass. Drained. One more for good measure. The brandy burned down his throat, but not nearly enough to cauterize the wound in his chest. Stephen poured himself another glass with shaking hands.

Euclid whined. That was all he had been doing. He placed his head on Stephen’s thigh and fixed him with a look that said, “Do something. Fix this.” Stephen petted him and scratched behind his ear, but nothing would make the poor mutt happy. They were two lost souls that she had touched and saved, and they had let her down.

“She’s not coming back,” he told the empty room, his voice rough as gravel.

She is not . She truly is not.

He tossed back his drink, welcoming the burn. Maybe if he drank enough, he’d forget the exact shade of her eyes when she laughed. The way her nose scrunched up when she was pretending to be irritated with him. The taste of apples on her lips

* * *

Days passed in a blur. Stephen was proud that he managed to function. Each morning, he stumbled down to his study and locked himself there, pretending to work. He would pretend that he ate more than a few bites. He would pretend that he cared if he was clean-shaven or not.

The brandy helped. Or it didn’t. He wasn’t sure anymore. He only knew that when he drank enough, the edges of his thoughts blurred, and for a few blessed hours, he didn’t see her face. Didn’t hear her laugh. Didn’t remember the exact moment he had ruined everything.

But it never lasted. It was never enough.

He was drowned by the painful memories again and again. Random things came to torment him. Small things that stayed with him. Her pouring him tea, her delicate fingers on the teapot. Her licking her finger to gather the last crumbles of a dessert she particularly liked. The stupid things she used as bookmarks.

“Stephen?”

His mother. Stephen wondered when she would show up.

How long before his mother would stop pretending too?

“Busy.”

“Please, Stephen.”

“I am busy!”

“Come out just for lunch,” she insisted.

Her voice was subdued, and he heard the soft thump on the door where her hand landed. A silent plea.

Stephen’s fingers tightened around the empty glass. His body swayed, unsure of its axis, shaken by intoxication. He knew it would be worse to step out of his study and go have lunch with her in this state.

“Please, Stephen. Annabelle would like to see you before she leaves.”

Even more reason to stay in here. Imagine if his little, pregnant sister saw him like that.

He looked at himself in the window pane. The man reflected in the glass bore little resemblance to the Duke of Colborne. His cheeks were shadowed by days’ worth of stubble, and his eyes were bloodshot. His hair, usually ruthlessly tamed, fell in greasy waves across his forehead, strands clinging to his sweat-slick temples.

And the smell. God, the smell! Brandy and sweat and the sour tang of grief left to fester. He looked like a man unraveled. Because he was.

“Tomorrow,” he said weakly.

“Stephen.”

“Tomorrow.” His voice was hoarse. “I promise.”

Silence.

“Tomorrow then, my boy.”

* * *

Stephen woke up to the distinct sensation that someone had taken a hammer to his skull. Sunlight stabbed through the curtains like a vengeful blade, slicing straight through his eyeballs into the pulsing mess of his brain. He was sprawled on the couch. He had collapsed in there, glass in hand.

It was a good night. He finally slept.

He was met with the accusing gaze of Euclid, who had clearly been waiting for him to rejoin the land of the living.

The dog’s ears perked up, as if to say, Finally, you drunken fool. Stephen patted his faithful friend on the head. The dog had refused to leave his side. Perhaps because they shared the same grief.

Stephen squeezed his eyes shut again. His mouth was dry, and his stomach was a battlefield of brandy and regret. He pushed himself up, gripping the arm of the sofa as the room tilted dangerously. Euclid licked his hand.

Stephen grimaced. “I know. I’m pathetic.”

He made a promise to his mother, and he would feel wretched if he took it back. It was just lunch. He could hold it together for one lunch. He could plunge into his abyss after one damn lunch.

He asked Alfred to draw a bath for him. His smell alone would break his mother’s heart and would upset Annabelle.

The bathwater steamed, scented with something—perhaps an attempt to shock him back into humanity. Stephen sank into it with a groan and felt his limbs relax. He took the washcloth and got rid of the grime and sweat. He kept rubbing as if a mere bath could take away the stench of failure, the pain, the hurt.

“Damn it!” he hissed, throwing the useless fabric away.

He reached for the glass of brandy on the side table and took a sip, then dunked his head under, letting the water swallow him whole for a moment. When he surfaced, gasping, the world felt marginally less painful.

He shaved and let his valet dress him. Then, he styled his longer hair before studying his reflection in the mirror. Outside, he looked more like himself.

He chuckled cruelly. Inside? Inside, there was nothing left of him. Whatever light was inside him was snuffed out, whatever joy pulped to nothing.

He took one last look in the mirror. All that remained was the hard, cold Duke of Colborne. The man who had kissed Victoria in the drawing room with such passion, the one who lost all control in the carriage, who had whispered against her skin, who had felt something, everything? That man was gone. She took him with her.

As he sat down at the dining table, he soon realized that this wasn’t the only thing Victoria took with her. The dining room, the one she had redecorated, seemed dull and cold, its occupants solemn.

“Stephen!” His mother got up and wrapped her arms around him.

He remained stiff but raised one arm in a sad excuse of an embrace. His father was never one for displays of affection. They were unfamiliar things in Colborne House. Even now, after his death, Stephen was shackled to his father’s will.

“Annabelle,” he said, trying to sound more like a human.

He leaned in for a kiss and glanced at her swollen belly fondly. For a moment, all the pain was forgotten. His little sister would soon become a mother.

“How are you feeling, Annie?”

At the nickname he called her while they were children and he was pulling her braided hair, his sister smiled, and her eyes lit up.

Even these simple acts were draining him.

He took his place at the head of the table. Silence fell over them as the first course was served. Victoria would have hated it. She would have laughed at the formality and would have commented on the dullness of the soup just to elicit a reaction from him.

His hands tightened around his spoon. How many lunches did they share? How much lighthearted, clever banter? How many more could they have shared if he wasn’t such an idiot?

Perhaps then his mother wouldn’t look as if she had aged in the span of mere days, her face gloomy, her eyes empty. Perhaps Annabelle wouldn’t play with her food, her appetite gone as she looked between him and their mother with worry. Perhaps he would have been damn happy for once in his worthless life!

The fish was next. Exquisite. Tasted like ash in his mouth. His mother made a pathetic attempt at small talk, and Annabelle pretended to carry it. Stephen wouldn’t insult either of them by pretending he would participate. Frederick’s face darkened even more.

“Oh,” Dorothy breathed, looking around. “Where is Euclid?”

Stephen’s fork paused mid-air. The dog always begged for scraps at meals. Always.

“Pining,” Frederick muttered into his wine glass.

The silence that followed was volcanic. Dorothy’s fork trembled in her hand. Annabelle’s eyes glistened. Frederick glared at his plate as if it had personally offended him. Stephen followed his best friend’s lead and drained his wine glass.

The rest of the lunch was pathetic and miserable. Stephen watched with painful awareness as his mother carefully steered the conversation away from anything that pertained to Victoria. The silence tightened like a noose.

Dorothy opened her mouth three times to say something but then thought better of it. Annabelle kept folding her napkin into smaller and smaller squares, and Frederick’s eyes were drilling holes into Stephen’s skull.

Eventually, dessert was served. It was some variation of an apple pie, and when Dorothy softly said, “Your favorite,” Stephen got up, muttered some sad excuse, and ran off to his study. To loneliness. To brandy.

He had barely closed the door behind him when it flew open. He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. Frederick.

His brother-in-law had apparently reached his limit.

“What exactly are you doing, Stephen?”

“I am busy.”

“I can see that. It must be quite taxing, attempting to drink yourself to death. And you are applying yourself wonderfully to the task.”

“Exactly,” Stephen said dryly. “Now, if you would be so kind as to allow me to finish the job.”

He made to grab the bottle of brandy, but Frederick beat him to it.

“If you think,” Frederick hissed, “I am going to sit back and watch you destroy yourself while Annabelle watches helplessly in her condition, you don’t know me all that well.”

“Get out, Frederick,” Stephen said, turning away.

“No.”

A hand clamped down on his shoulder, spinning him around.

Frederick’s face was thunderous. “Christ, man. I’ve watched you mope for days. Enough. You’re coming with me.”

Stephen laughed bitterly. “To where? Hell?”

“Close. White’s.” Frederick grabbed his arm, hauling him toward the door. “If you’re determined to drink yourself into oblivion, you’ll do it where Annabelle doesn’t have to witness it.”

* * *

The familiar haze of cigar smoke and the low murmur of aristocratic voices enveloped Stephen as Frederick all but dragged him into White’s.

Frederick shoved him into a secluded booth, away from prying eyes, and signaled for a bottle of whiskey. The moment it arrived, Stephen poured himself a generous measure and downed it in one burning swallow. Frederick watched him with a mix of exasperation and concern.

“You look like you went to hell and then were dragged through a desert by a horse.”

“Sounds pretty accurate.”

Frederick took a sip of his drink and studied him, considering how to approach the feral man sitting across from him. It seemed that head-on collision was the strategy he chose because the next word he said was devastating.

“Victoria.”

The moment he uttered her name, Stephen’s entire body went rigid. His fingers, which had been tracing the rim of his glass, stilled. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look up. His heart stopped and raced at the same time.

Frederick exhaled slowly, leaning forward. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?” Stephen’s voice was rough.

“Come on.” Frederick swirled his drink, choosing his next words carefully. “For anyone who knows you, it is obvious. The way you watched her when you thought no one was looking. The way she could make you laugh when the rest of us couldn’t.”

More whiskey. Why hadn’t Stephen thought about whiskey before? It seemed so much more efficient.

But Frederick was not done yet.

“And as if all of that wasn’t enough, the way you’ve been drowning yourself in brandy since she left is pretty telling.”

“Frederick,” Stephen warned.

“What did you do?”

Stephen exhaled, the fight draining out of him, his limbs going limp. He stared into his drink as if the answers were at the bottom of the glass. He was terrified of talking about it. It would make it more real. But the pain of bearing it alone was crippling.

“It doesn’t matter what was or wasn’t between us. She’s gone.”

They looked at each other. Frederick would never ask, and Stephen would never tell anything more. The least he could do for Victoria was to keep her dignity intact.

“I am sorry,” Frederick said sincerely.

“Sorry?” Stephen chucked cruelly. “For what?”

“That it hurts,” Frederick sighed. “I know how that feels.”

Stephen nodded. The path to get this stupidly happy with Annabelle wasn’t always paved with roses.

“And I am sorry that I can’t punch whatever idiot made you like this.”

“That idiot is me.”

“Then I’ll punch you. God knows I wanted to all these days that you made my Annabelle miserable.”

Stephen let out a short, tired laugh.

Silence settled between them, the noise of the club fading into the background. He was ready to cry. Talking about it out loud made it less and so much worse.