Page 21 of Duke of Pride (Sinful Dukes #4)

CHAPTER 21

Random Encounters

J ust to get Stephen out of the house—hell, out of his cursed study—Frederick insisted that they visit White’s once more. At least there, or at least on the way, he would get some fresh air. And as much as he would like to, at White’s, Stephen couldn’t descend to the depths of indignity as he could in the privacy of his home.

The added benefit of this arrangement was that Dorothy and Annabelle were spared the pitiful sight of him dragging himself up to his room or collapsing in his study. Frederick could plausibly tell to the worrying women that “There he is, going out again.”

In reality, Stephen poisoned his brain and body to forget all about her . He was too tired to fight Frederick, so he willingly followed him that night too. It was not too late, but he had a head start on drinking. Ever since the sun rose, to be exact.

“That’s it,” Frederick hissed and shoved a cup of hot, black coffee under his nose. “I am cutting you off.”

“I don’t?—”

“I don’t give a damn what you do or don’t, Colborne. Drink this, and then we are getting out of here. You will walk it off before we go back to Colborne House, you hear me?”

Stephen downed the bitter coffee and then stumbled back to his feet. Frederick took their coats and their hats, and they went out.

It seemed that Frederick’s words had some merit. The cold air sobered him. Not completely; it would take days to flush the alcohol out of his system. But the cool night air nipped his skin, the chilliness preferable to the numbness from the brandy.

Stephen inhaled the air and followed Frederick, who was taking the scenic route.

“You need to pull yourself out of this funk, Stephen. Either put this behind you or do something. Drinking yourself into an early grave is not the solution.”

Is it not?

The coffee mixed sourly with the brandy in his stomach as he walked, the cobblestones uneven beneath his boots. Frederick’s lecture faded into the background noise of London at night. He looked up at the night sky above him, and honestly, he didn’t know what to answer.

“Oh no.” Frederick skidded to a halt next to him.

Stephen looked at his friend, not understanding what the problem was, only to find him looking ahead. He slowly followed his friend’s gaze. And almost collapsed on the pavement.

Victoria.

Coming from the opposite direction was Victoria. Her hand rested on Maxwell’s arm as they exited the Royal Opera House.

The sight struck him like a physical blow, and all the air rushed out of his lungs.

“Don’t, Stephen.” Frederick’s grip tightened on his elbow.

Stephen couldn’t look away. He had dreamed of her so much, longed to see her, prayed that he would get the chance to see her… and there she was. A vision in blue, the color that made her eyes even more devastating. Her hair was swept up in a way that left her neck bare. He knew that neck. Knew the way it tasted when he pressed his lips just below her ear?—

Stop .

Stephen was suddenly grateful for that bitter shot of coffee that ran through his veins, that kept him from rushing to her and making a scene that would ruin her. But he couldn’t stop looking at her. He wouldn’t. He would drink her in so that he would have more images of her to torment him.

As if sensing his gaze, Victoria turned. Time stopped. Her lips parted in shock. The color drained from her face. In that unguarded moment, he saw everything. The hurt, the longing, the same unbearable ache that had consumed him.

What have I done to you?

Stephen would give everything to double his pain so that she wouldn’t feel this way. He deserved as much, and she deserved none of it. He should never have come back to London.

“Ah! Frederick.” Maxwell’s voice filled the space between them.

It was inevitable. It would be bad form and scandalous to pretend they didn’t see the siblings. After all, Maxwell was married to Frederick’s stepsister.

That was the reason Frederick mustered his most sincere smile.

“Maxwell, Miss Victoria,” he greeted.

Frederick nudged Stephen’s hand discreetly. He was staring quite openly. Victoria noticed and averted her gaze. Or perhaps it was the fact that she couldn’t stand him.

“Your Grace.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Then, her head turned to Stephen, but her eyes were downcast. Her hands were clasping her reticule.

She didn’t want him there.

“Your Grace,” she said without looking at him.

The formal address cut deeper than any blade. That was all Stephen was to her now. Not because there were others present, but because he put that between them.

“Miss Victoria.” He tried her name on his tongue, and it was sweet as ever. Then, he turned to her brother. “Walden.”

Silence ensued.

“Where are you going?” Frederick asked, breaking the tension.

“Not going. I just took Victoria to see her favorite opera,” Maxwell said, patting her hand.

“La Cenerentola , ” Stephen muttered before he could stop himself.

Her head snapped up at his words, her blue eyes widening.

Yes, I remember everything.

The realization flickered across her face before she could school her features. That small, vulnerable moment sent a bolt of satisfaction through Stephen’s chest.

How could he forget? At the house party, he had expressed his inability to understand opera. Then, over tea, she had explained how Rossini’s mathematical precision in composition mirrored the beauty of equations. It didn’t make him appreciate opera more, but that spark in her eyes made him burn harder.

“You will receive a formal invitation, of course, but we are throwing a ball at Walden,” Maxwell said, looking at her. “We would love to have you there.”

Victoria went rigid. Stephen, who was watching her, caught it immediately.

But Stephen was not mad for the simple reason that this invitation finally made her look at him.

When her blue eyes met his, he felt at ease after so many days of torment. Her gaze was pleading, and the message was clear. Don’t come. The unspoken request hung between them, as clear as if she’d shouted it.

“Thank you for your kind invitation,” Stephen replied, neither accepting nor declining.

He threw one last glance at her as they said their goodbyes, and Victoria left as quickly as she came.

Stephen fought with himself and lost. He turned around and looked at her retreating back, at her delicate profile as she gave her brother a fragile smile.

Good night, Victoria.

* * *

The days till the ball passed by like a haze. Annabelle and Frederick went back to their estate to prepare for the birth of their baby. And the house went absolutely still. No laughter or ruckus. Silence and calm.

A mausoleum .

Stephen chuckled cruelly at the thought. He was still locked in his study every day, half-drunk, half-burying himself in work. He managed to drag himself to dinner with his mother, but he couldn’t carry a conversation. He was just a hollow presence.

Till the day of the ball. He had indeed received a formal invitation, which sat on his desk now, staring back at him. He remembered the way Victoria looked at him, begging him not to spoil this for her, to stay away. And he should. That was the right thing to do—to stay away. He had done enough damage and had no right to invade her home.

“Alfred,” he called to the butler. “Have my valet prepare me a formal suit. I am attending the Walden ball.”

Sorry, Victoria. I can’t stay away.

That same night, Stephen was on the way to Walden Towers. He had managed to look presentable, and he had left his brandy aside. His leg was bouncing in the carriage, his fingers clenched into fists, his eyes fixed on the seat across him.

His fingers reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, searching for that silver hairpin. He ran his fingers over it just to calm down a little. This was where?—

The carriage came to a halt. Stephen looked out for the first time since he left Colborne House. Walden Towers blazed with light, every window glowing against the night. Not a lot of people were invited, but still, he could hear the buzzing of chatter and the sweet music.

The grand entrance hall was a spectacle of elegance. Crystal chandeliers dripped with candlelight, and garlands of evergreen and white roses winded up the staircase. The air hummed with music and laughter, the scent of beeswax and perfume thick enough to drown in.

I shouldn’t be here.

And then he saw her.

Victoria stood at the top of the stairs, stunning in ivory silk, her gown embroidered with silver thread that caught the light like frost. A delicate diadem rested in her golden-brown curls, and two simple diamond earrings adorned her ears. But nothing was more radiant than her eyes, herself, her whole being.

“I see that you’re a glutton for punishment,” Frederick said by his side.

Stephen was still watching Victoria as she spoke with that unpretentious elegance to a lordling. He had once been such a fool, comparing her to the ladies of the ton and finding her lacking.

“Yes, it seems that I am,” he muttered.

“Let’s go.” Frederick pulled him toward their hosts.

“Frederick!” Maxwell was happy to see them. “Colborne.”

Stephen managed a small bow.

“Annabelle couldn’t come. You understand, Penelope?” Frederick asked.

The two of them launched into a conversation about pregnant women and then newborns and toddlers.

Stephen barely registered their words. His entire being was attuned to her .

She was standing right next to her brother, her body stiff, ready to attack or to be attacked. He knew that it was his fault she was so guarded. He fixated on the way her gloved fingers tightened around her fan, the slight hitch in her breath when their eyes met.

“Miss Victoria, a dance?”

It was as if the world stopped. Her eyes fell on him, and her first reaction was that defiant part of her he came to adore. Her look clearly said, You can’t be serious right now .

The moment their hands touched, Stephen knew he’d made a mistake. The best kind.

Her fingers were ice in his, her posture rigid. But her eyes—God, her eyes were blazing. The candlelight caught the sapphire in them, turning them into something fierce, something alive. And he was lost.

The waltz began. He pulled her closer than he should have, closer than propriety allowed, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when the warmth of her seeped through his gloves, through the layers of fabric between them. Not when the scent of her, orange blossom and something uniquely her, wrapped around him like a vice.

After days upon days buried in his self-made mausoleum, he was alive once more.

He didn’t speak. What was there to say? “I’m sorry?” Too hollow. “I miss you?” Too weak. “I can’t breathe without you?” Too true.

So, he said nothing.

He let the rhythm of the music take over and led her onto the dance floor. He could feel the tension in her, the way her breath hitched when his thumb traced the curve of her hip, the way her fingers flexed against his shoulder as if she wanted to push him away and pull him closer at the same time.

Stephen wanted to ruin everything—destroy his good name and her dignity, set the world on fire. If he leaned in and kissed her, she would be bound to him, the scandal too great, and this ball would be their engagement party.

But then her words echoed like the Furies of the myths to torment him.

“I would never marry you,” she had said, making sure that she had singled him out of all the men in existence and found him lacking.

He was lacking. He deserved this, the stiffness of her body when their bodies came too close, her gaze flicking away, avoiding him.

He took the punishment along with everything he could—her warmth, her scent, the way it was not all spite when she looked at him.

The last notes of the waltz rang out, and she pulled slightly away. He didn’t let go of her hand, keeping her closer just for a fraction of a moment. There was nothing else around them. Not the other guests, not the rustling of silk skirts, not the sound of polished boots on wooden floors. Not even Frederick, who was looking at him worriedly across the ballroom.

There was only Victoria, her chest rising and falling too quickly, her lips slightly parted as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. He, too, had so much to say, yet he only stared at her.

She gently pulled her hand away from his, curtsied, and turned her back. Not one single word was uttered between them, neither trusting themselves once the floodgates lifted.

Stephen offered a bitter smile to her retreating figure, nodded once, and went in search of a drink.

“Stephen, we should leave,” Frederick said, stepping closer. “You’re not doing her, or yourself, any favors.”

“Nonsense,” Stephen said, pouring himself a glass of brandy. “I am going for a cigar.”

“Right. Because what you clearly need is more brandy and poor judgment.”

“I am fine. Just… fine.”

A lie. A blatant lie. But if he were to repeat it again and again, it might become reality.