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

CHAPTER 4

Breakfast Surprises

S tephen was still trying to understand how, instead of putting her out of his mind by going to the library, he ended up seeing her again. This time in her nightgown, with her hair down, almost barefoot. Somehow it was worse. No, not worse. It just added to an image his mind was building without his consent. Because his body had explored how she felt under that nightgown that made her eyes even brighter.

“Get it together, Stephen.”

He had made two mistakes the night before. The first was to talk to her. Ever since she had walked into his life, Victoria had the unfailing talent to test his ability to hold back anger. What on earth made him think that a late-night encounter was a good idea, especially when she was so vulnerable…

He scoffed at that last thought. Victoria, vulnerable? She wasn’t, was she? She stood before him like a queen, utterly unimpressed by his title, his presence, or the dangerous thoughts he was having about her.

The second mistake was to touch her. One might have thought that he had touched her enough already on his first night back in the house. He was trying to make a point, he remembered that, but then she challenged him— she always does, blast it! —and he was drawn to her, eager to teach her a lesson, remind her who he was. He had felt the warmth of her skin, the delicate line of her jaw beneath his hand. And, worst of all, she had let him.

“All right, we are not allowing this impossible woman to reign over this household,” he said to himself, preparing to face her over breakfast.

Determined to regain the control that had almost slipped away from him, he went down the stairs to the dining room.

“My boy!” His mother got up to hug him.

He returned her hug and almost smiled at the genuine joy she showed at having him in the house.

At least one person is happy to see me .

Speaking of which. Where is Victoria?

He quickly noticed that the bane of his existence was absent this morning. He should have felt relief that he could enjoy his breakfast, but for some reason, he felt the opposite. He couldn’t help but wonder if he had been too blunt, too cruel with her last night. He had made some accusations that might have been unreasonable in her eyes. She couldn’t be avoiding him for what almost happened, could she?

“I had the cook prepare your favorite apple pie. Lucky for you, he had even more practice since you left,” Dorothy said in a cheerful voice that was enough to drag him out of his thoughts.

“How so?” He sat down and took a sip of his tea.

“Apple pies are Victoria’s favorite.”

He almost choked on his tea at the mention of her name, as well as the fact that against all odds, they had one thing in common.

Instead of answering, he looked around the room to distract himself. He frowned. This was not how he remembered the dining room to be. It looked more cheerful but in a balanced, tasteful way. It made the place more alive, like a real home.

Then, he looked out the window, and he noticed more colors outside, too. He set his cup down and walked to the grand window. He looked upon the pandemonium of colors, the buzzing of bees and butterflies.

Before his departure, the garden was a green, curated landscape of carefully trimmed bushes, proper and fitting for his station. That was the garden he grew up in. He could barely recognize these grounds as his. They were wild, brimming with color but in a way that made complete sense. This was an artful chaos.

Stephen tried to hate it, but he failed. He couldn’t take his eyes off it.

“Mother,” he remarked, still at the window, “the gardens are… different.”

“Aren’t they lovely? It makes my day to just look out my window at the roses this time of year.”

“They are indeed lovely,” he admitted, and his mother smiled widely. “And the room.” He gestured around the dining room as he retook his seat. “It looks warmer and quite tasteful. Everything seems carefully planned and wisely chosen. You really did an excellent job, Mother. It looks sophisticated in a very unique way.”

“I am glad you noticed the changes. We also renovated the big drawing room.”

“ We ?” Stephen frowned.

“I am not going to take credit for all the amazing changes you see in the house. The truth is that Victoria did most of the work.”

Stephen’s fingers tightened around his cup.

Of course, she did.

That woman invaded his room, his library, his dining room, his damned gardens. And his thoughts, it would seem.

He was ready to make some comment about how many liberties were given to a woman who was supposed to be the lady of the house’s companion. But when he focused on his mother’s face, ready for a scolding, he saw it light up with joy.

He noticed how healthier she looked, how livelier, not a shadow of herself like when she was taking care of his father. How hard that must have been for her. How lonely she must have felt when he left.

It warmed his soul to see his mother so cheery and full of life. And no matter how much he tried to deny it, he knew that it was Victoria’s positive influence. Perhaps he was harsh the night before, accusing her of things instead of focusing on the good she had brought into his home.

That is the precise moment when Victoria chose to make an entrance. She went straight to his mother and leaned in for a kiss as she apologized for her tardiness. All he could do was study her.

She was wearing a simple morning gown, modest but cut in such a way that it hugged her body in the right places. The color was bluish-green, and it made her eyes seem even sharper, brighter, like storm-tossed seas beneath a sunbeam. He hated that dress with a passion.

Stephen had never noticed that Victoria was one of the few women who didn’t have to tilt her head back that much to look up at him. But instead of the willowy body that most tall ladies of the ton had, hers was curvy, full. He had felt those curves intimately and had seen them through her nightgown the night before.

For the love of God, Stephen!

“Good morning, Your Grace,” she greeted smoothly as she took her seat, her voice the very picture of polite restraint.

Ah. So that’s how we’re playing this.

Last night, she had no problem speaking her mind, throwing all decorum out of the window and making blunt comments.

He inclined his head, his voice measured. “Miss Victoria.”

They tucked into their food quietly.

Stephen quickly realized that his mother had indeed spoken the truth when she said that Victoria liked apple pies if he were to judge by the way her eyes lit up at the delicacies.

“Dear!” Dorothy suddenly got up.

“Yes?” both he and Victoria answered.

They exchanged angry looks that were quickly interrupted by Dorothy’s sheepish smile.

“Stephen, there is something else I want you to see as well. I will be right back.”

“Mother!” he called, but she was already out of the room.

An awkward silence fell over the dining room the moment they were alone. A silence way too heavy for his liking. There was something inside him that simply couldn’t resist vexing Victoria. Perhaps if he made every moment unbearable, she would leave voluntarily. And—if he were being honest—it pleased him to see her affected.

“I see you are making an effort to be civil this morning,” he commented.

“I assure you, I have no intention of engaging in any uncivilized behavior.”

“How refreshing.” Stephen let out a quiet snort.

Victoria’s jaw ticked. He smirked at this small victory—seeing her so vexed yet trying to resist the urge to hurl insults at him.

“I didn’t realize I had so much to thank you for,” he said, his tone mild, setting his tea down with deliberate precision. “The house. The gardens. The entire redecoration of my home. Making yourself at home here.”

“More like making this mausoleum a home. Someone had to.” Victoria sipped her tea.

“How fortunate for me that you were available,” Stephen drawled.

“Indeed. And how fortunate for me that you weren’t.” Victoria gave him a smile that conveyed all the insults that no lady should know.

His jaw clenched, and she blinked slowly, enjoying her victory. Not that there was a competition, of course. That would be ridiculous and childish.

“It is a wonder you’ve survived in polite society this long,” Stephen bit out. “The ton is unforgiving of behavior such as this.”

If he meant it as an insult, Victoria picked up the gauntlet, took a good look at it, and tossed it aside. Her lips quirked up as she inclined her head toward him in fake politeness that seemed to be her chosen mood for the day.

“Your Grace, this is where you are mistaken,” she declared and leaned in with a wicked smile. “You should be wondering how polite society survived me this long.”

Annabelle, his sister, was quiet, shy, reserved—a proper lady. How in Heaven’s name did she come across such an exasperating woman? And why would she admit her into her inner circle? How did luck have it that out of all the eligible, soft-spoken ladies of the ton, his sister had to befriend this menace?

“You think you can survive on this ill-timed candor?”

“To each his own, I guess. I mean, you seem to exist on a steady diet of rules and disapproval.”

The way she looked at him—strong, defiant, bold…

Stephen felt his blood boil, but instead of being directed to his head, it redirected to another part of his anatomy. He longed to throw her on the table and shut that running mouth of hers, make her sorry she ever challenged him.

What?

He had never let such a dark thought consume him before.

He was this close to snapping. Victoria sat across from him, entirely at ease, sipping her tea as if she hadn’t just reduced him to a barely civilized man contemplating all manner of scandalous actions. Yet, he saw the tension in the way she bit her lip and swallowed.

“There he is!” Dorothy barged back in with some kind of creature in tow.

Something large, powerful, undeniably canine trotted beside her skirts with the kind of effortless confidence that suggested it had never once questioned its right to be inside the house.

It was a mongrel.Not some fine, pedigreed hunting hound. Not the sort of sleek greyhound or obedient spaniel that respectable families kept. It was big, lean but solid, with thick dark brown fur. Its ears were slightly uneven, one standing high, the other lazily folded, giving it a rakish, almost roguish look.

He seemed to have been surviving off wit and sheer force of will. Stephen would have respected the animal if it weren’t currently sitting inside his dining room.

“Euclid!” Victoria jumped up and hugged the beast.

The beast pressed its head into her lap. She stroked its fur, her fingers running through it in slow, rhythmic motions.

For one horrifying second, Stephen wondered what it would feel like to have her hands on him .

Stephen!

“What,” he asked, his voice strained as if he was holding onto his patience by its very last thread, “is that?”

“Victoria and I found him on the road a few months back, the poor dear! He was shivering, the sweetest thing. And he followed us home!”

“I cannot imagine why,” Stephen muttered, glaring at the beast. “Why is it still here?”

“Oh, he lives here now,” Dorothy announced, as if this was already decided.

Stephen turned sharply to his mother. “He what?”

“Well, naturally, we couldn’t leave him.”

“Yes, naturally,” Stephen repeated blankly. “I wonder whose idea that was.”

That last phrase was directed at Victoria.

He was wrong to relapse even for a moment, to show remorse for the way he had treated her. This woman was a menace. She had to go.