Page 22 of Duke of Pride (Sinful Dukes #4)

CHAPTER 22

Cigars

V ictoria wanted the world to swallow her whole. She wished for the fine wooden floor to crack and for her to fall into the abyss before it closed back over her.

She didn’t remember walking away. Didn’t remember weaving through the crowd, past the murmurs of guests, past the blur of candlelight and silk. All she knew was that she had to get out before she shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces.

She found her reprieve in a small corner, hidden behind tall columns and thick drapes. He was not coming after her, she knew as much. Still, her lungs burned as if she’d been drowning.

Breathe. Just breathe. It was just a dance.

But her body refused to obey. Her chest rose and fell too quickly, her corset suddenly too tight, her skin too hot beneath the layers of silk. And her mind refused to consider this as ‘just a dance.’

Damn him.

He shouldn’t have come. He shouldn’t have come and been so… him. Damn his hands, warm and sure on her waist. Damn his voice, rough with unspoken words. Damn the way he’d looked at her.

Damn how broken he looked, especially that night outside the opera house. Barely able to stand, eyes hollow, face drawn and pale. He’d looked like a man unraveling, holding himself together by sheer will and nothing else.

Damn how it made her feel. Seeing him like that, raw and disheveled, had undone something inside her. She had to face the unbearable truth that no matter how far she tried to run, she was still tethered to him by something deeper than pride or reason.

“Victoria, a word?” Maxwell approached her.

Victoria forced her breathing to slow, her fingers tightening around the folds of her skirt. “Is something wrong?”

“If having the best brother in the world is wrong.” Maxwell smirked and waved a letter. “This just came in. You have been accepted to the Elise Bürger Pensionat, the top boarding house in Prussia. Close to the lecture halls, respectable, and you will get to meet other like-minded women from all over Europe. Couldn’t wait to tell you.”

Exactly how I wanted.

The news should have filled her with elation. Instead, her lungs tightened, the air turning as thick as tar in her throat. The walls of the ballroom seemed to be shrinking, trapping her.

“That is,” she managed, her voice hollow, “wonderful. Thank you so much.”

Maxwell handed her the paper, winked at her, and left to attend to his guests.

Victoria took the simple piece of paper and shoved it into the small reticule hanging from her wrist. She needed air, needed to be away. She hiked up her skirts and ran to the most secluded balcony, the one in Maxwell’s study.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, the night air rushed to meet her. She inhaled deeply, willing her frantic pulse to settle. Just a moment to gather her thoughts, to tame the emotions clawing their way to the surface, because right now she was?—

“Hello, Victoria,”

That voice. Deep as midnight, smooth as brandy, and laced with something dangerously close to tenderness.

Can’t be.

She turned slowly as if she was afraid to face who she knew was there. There was always the unladylike, immature choice to run back the way she had come as if hellhounds were on her heels. It would be what her survival instincts would demand. But it turned out she had none.

Stephen stood framed by the moonlight, his broad shoulders casting shadows across the stone balustrade. A cigar was dangling carelessly from his long fingers. The ember glowed, and the smoke coiled around his sharp features before dissipating into the night.

The silvery glow of the moon traced the sharp angle of his jaw and the aristocratic slope of his nose. His devastating blue eyes burned with an intensity that sent heat pooling low in her belly. She didn’t even notice what he was wearing.

“I thought meeting by chance in private was limited to Colborne House,” was the first thing that popped into her mashed brain.

“You say chance. I say fate,” he said, smoke drifting from his lips.

“Well, either fate conspires to haunt me, Your Grace, or you simply enjoy lurking in the shadows.”

A pause.

They looked at each other, suddenly realizing everything at once. They were alone. Again. After everything that had happened. Both were shocked by how easily they teased and bantered with each other. It was heavy, it was devastating, it was?—

Stupid. That’s what it is. Stupid.

“We are being thoroughly ridiculous,” Victoria admitted with a chuckle.

Stephen took a slow drag from his cigar, the ember flaring like the smirk that curved his lips.

“Speak for yourself, Miss Victoria. I’m being utterly poetic.”

Victoria heard the gargling laughter pouring out of her lips before she could stop it. She shook her head and approached him.

“Give me that,” she demanded, pointing at the cigar.

He hands it to her.

“What? No ‘ this isn’t proper for a lady’ lecture?”

“I figured you don’t need to bury three husbands like Lady Weatherby to try it.”

Her laughter came unfiltered and from deep within her, from a place she thought would be permanently desolate.

Victoria brought the cigar to her lips and inhaled. Mistake. A wildfire of smoke scorched her throat. She doubled over, coughing violently. He was at her side in seconds.

“Breathe,” Stephen murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

“I miscalculated,” Victoria wheezed.

He held out his glass of brandy to her. “Want to complete the debauchery?”

Victoria took the glass with a glare that lacked any real heat before she took one big gulp.

“Ah,” she said, hissing from the sting of alcohol. “You’re trying to corrupt me.”

Stephen plucked the glass from her hand, his thumb tracing the rim where her lips had been.

“Merely expanding your education. Next lesson, gambling,” he joked. “Let’s put that mathematical brain of yours to good use.”

“The definition of good use is cheating in cards? What happened to the Duke who admired my perfect ledgers?”

“Almost perfect. You made one mistake.”

“Merely a calculated gesture so that you wouldn’t be intimidated by my perfection.”

“I would never!” he protested lightly.

They exchanged the cigar and brandy again, and this time it stung and burned less. Why was her soul more at peace with him, alone, than with anyone else?

She took a small sip of brandy and pinned him with a serious look.

“Why did you come tonight?” she asked.

The playful glint in Stephen’s eyes dimmed. He set the cigar aside, the embers fading to a dull glow. For a long moment, he simply looked at her, really looked at her, as if trying to memorize every detail.

“Why did you leave without saying goodbye?”

Victoria inhaled sharply. It was such a loaded question. It was riddled with so much emotion, so much pain. Pain they had caused each other.

One more sip.

“I am afraid I must return to my initial assumption. We are ridiculous.”

“I, too, must insist, My Lady. I am being poetic.”

“Ah, the Duke, melancholically gazing at the moon. Too cliché .”

“Clichés serve their purpose,” he said. “Though we were never one.”

Victoria exhaled at that. “Cliché? Certainly not. Disastrous? Certainly yes.”

He chuckled, low and rich, the sound curling around her like the smoke between them. “How about we settle for exquisitely complicated?”

“Truer words were never spoken,” she said and handed him the brandy.

She watched, mesmerized by the way his throat worked as he swallowed. A drop lingered at the corner of his mouth, and she fought the absurd, traitorous urge to reach out and brush it away with her thumb. He beat her to it when his tongue flicked out, catching that stray drop, and her thoughts scattered like ash in the wind.

Only one thought remained—she was going away.

She might never see him again. She was going across the sea for who knew how long? And he was here, warm and real and so devastatingly handsome. This might be the last time they could ever be like this.

Before she could second-guess herself, Victoria closed the distance between them in one decisive step. Her hands found the lapels of his coat, her fingers twisting into the fine fabric as she pulled him down to her. Stephen’s breath hitched, just once, and then her lips met his.

She felt the brandy and the cigar on his lips—dizzying, intoxicating. She tasted his desperation and her anger, their passion and all the words they’d left unsaid. They didn’t have to talk; they rarely did.

His hands came up to cradle her face, his touch searing, as if he feared she might vanish if he held her any less fiercely. His fingers tangled in her hair as he backed her up against the balustrade.

He broke the kiss but didn’t let go, didn’t pull back. He just looked at her, making sure it was real—making sure she was real. He leaned in painfully slow and let his teeth graze her lower lip in a way that made her gasp.

She had scarcely caught her breath before his mouth descended on hers once more. He kissed like a man famished, as if nourishment had been denied to him for too long. Then, the kiss turned slow, yet not in a shy, attentive way. Not a gentlemanly peck. It was now deep and wet, the strokes of their tongues making decadent sounds that simply urged them on.

And she kissed him back with everything she had. She kissed him like it was the first time. Like it was the last time.

It is the last time.

That thought made her lips more frantic, her hands more daring. She, too, searched for her nourishment, the one thing to sustain her. She rose on her tiptoes, her spine arched in surrender. Her thighs brushed his, her knees nearly buckling as she leaned even more into his molten, fierce kiss.

I want you. I will miss you. I love you.

When they broke the kiss to catch their breath, he didn’t let go. The hand behind her neck kept her forehead pressed to his, and the one around her waist kept her dangerously close. He breathed unevenly, his chest a riot of emotions.

Victoria tried one small step back, to let some air, some sense, between them. Some herald to the distance that would soon separate them. But he wouldn’t have it. He cradled her face, their breaths mingling, her body so close to his that it felt as if they were one.

“Victoria,” he whispered.

She shuddered at the longing in his voice, at the surrender, as if he was forfeiting all to her. His title, his decorum, his damn life. She closed her eyes at that simple sound, a dream coming over her—an unattainable dream, a crazy fantasy.

“Victoria, I?—”

“I am leaving.”

“No, just stay in my arms for a little while longer.” His grip tightened.

Stephen was ready to talk, to express everything he felt. She could see. She could tell by the way his body tensed and relaxed at the same time, by the way he was looking at her with a “finally” etched into each glance.

She shook her head in denial. “Stay” was what he was asking of her, but the letter in her reticule was burning her world.

“I am leaving Britain.”

He went still, as if he were shot in the heart and had one second to realize what was going on. He pulled her back a little, still not letting her go, still debating if he could just take her and claim her and make what she was going to say irrelevant.

“You are leaving?”

“I…” She didn’t want to say it, but she had to. “I am leaving for Prussia.”

He made her look up into his eyes, searching for a flicker of a lie. The was no humor in her eyes.

“I am going to pursue my dream. Study Mathematics. Maxwell helped me.”

He staggered backward, his hands falling to his sides, but still keeping her trapped between the stone balustrade and his body.

“For how long?”

She said nothing.

“For how long, Victoria?”

“Two years? Maybe more. Maybe forever.”

He looked away. His hands went in his hair, and he breathed heavily.

“You are not seriously doing this, right? You can’t just leave.”

“I just… I just want to do this. I do not want to get married, but this has always been a dream of mine.”

Stephen wet his lips and looked up at the sky with a dry laugh. “Numbers are easier than men. Is that what you are saying, Victoria?”

She smiled, not ready to deny the truth.

“And what was this, then?” he demanded.

He came closer, and his fingers captured her chin. He looked intently into her eyes, demanding and begging her at the same time.

“What was this kiss? This searing kiss? Your body shuddering in my arms?”

He sounded harsh and broken at the same time. Angry and Forlorn.

“It was goodbye,” Victoria said, her voice trembling.

If she were to take a sword and drive it through his chest, he would look less wounded.

His shoulders slumped.

“You are really leaving.” He shook his head in denial.

“I am really leaving.”

“Will this—?” He took a deep, steadying breath. “Is this going to make you happy?”

Yes? No?

Victoria looked over his shoulder, biting her lower lip. She was hurt once by this man. It will take her a while to mend what was left of her broken heart. If she were to let go in his arms again, would she ever recover?

Fear won.

“Yes,” she murmured, avoiding his gaze. “This will make me happy.”

He nodded, biting his lip. He took a step back, then another. His body went stiff, and he folded his hands behind his back.

“Then I wish you good luck and all happiness.” Then, he added, “Miss Victoria.”

A bitter taste filled her mouth. The lid was closed on whatever this was that they had shared. One nail was hammered. She took a deep breath and drove in the other.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

They looked at each other, begging themselves, the other, the world to break, to stop this nonsense. But no one did. So, Victoria curtsied—by far the most absurd thing she had ever done—and left.

The moment she was in the hallway to her room, she let the tears fall.

She hurried into her room and slammed the door shut, sliding down to the floor. Everything faded away—the ball in her honor, the letter in her reticule, the last look he gave her. Only her pain remained.

It would be the last thing she would carry from him. And she knew part of her would always ache.