Page 6 of Duke of Pride (Sinful Dukes #4)

CHAPTER 6

Bending Rules

S tephen fled the dining room. Yes, he fled. He finally had the upper hand, and he was not going to let her have the last word. Plus, if she kept smiling that mocking, sardonic smile, she might actually shatter his patience, and not even he could tell what he would do. He was quite sure that he wouldn’t last a month without committing some kind of crime.

Victoria Crawford had to go!

He tried to concentrate on the ledgers, on reports and solving the thousand problems that came with managing a large fortune. And on top of that, he had to read legislation upon legislation for the House of Lords. And yet he couldn’t.

His thoughts drifted to her face when he proposed—or rather demanded —that she go back to her brother the moment he was back from India. Granted, he had been focusing more on the way her full lips moved, but he caught it. The flash of pure unhappiness at the idea of going back to her brother. He didn’t ask. He pretended he didn’t care.

Why should he care about things that made her feel bad? If anything, he should be congratulating her brother for getting under her skin.

“Damn it!” He leaned back in his chair.

The problem was that he did care. Whether they asked him or not, Victoria was under his care. But if she didn’t want to go back to her brother—and since there was no chance he would ever allow her to stay here—then the only other option for her was to marry.

His jaw clenched. The idea settled uncomfortably in his chest, though it was a solution that was both rational and intolerable. It was what Society would expect. So why did the very thought make something in his chest tighten?

Then again, finding a suitable, agreeable gentleman who would agree to marry a feral creature like her was very unlikely.

And how is any of this my problem?

He felt the headache coming on.

Then, a sharp burst of laughter echoed from outside, breaking through his thoughts.

What was all that racket? Who was making all that noise? He had made his rules clear, didn’t he?

He got up from his chair, went straight to the window, and looked out onto the gardens, drawn by the sound despite himself. Outside, on the lush green lawn, his mother and Victoria were playing croquet! The sight was unexpected.

His mother and Victoria had set up the hoops wrongly, and they were wielding the mallets incorrectly, pretending they were playing a game that barely held any resemblance to croquet. It was pure pandemonium—balls flying, hoops falling, and screeching laughter.

“I did not cheat!” his mother yelled.

Stephen watched her. The Dowager Duchess of Colborne, so often composed, measured, and burdened by the past, was smiling. Not that polite, reserved smile she offered guests or the stiff, practiced smile she offered the ton. It was a real, wide, genuine smile. A smile that made her face light up, look younger—healthier.

Stephen could not remember the last time he had seen her like that. Perhaps when he and his sister were kids and she ran after them with her eyes closed, her hands searching for them while they squealed with joy. Till his father would come out and say that it was improper for a duchess to play such games.

His jaw tightened at the memory.

“Your Grace, you did cheat! What a disgrace!” Victoria’s voice rang out, and he shifted his gaze to her.

Victoria. She was laughing, carefree, alive in a way that made something shift in his chest. The wind caught her hair, strands of it tumbling free from her bun, caressing her long, fair neck. Her chest was heaving from exertion, and he followed the movement.

She was barely even playing properly, waving her mallet around as though it were some grand weapon, pointing it accusingly at Dorothy, who was clearly cheating.

Stephen was rooted to the spot, his logic telling him that it was so indecent for two ladies to play a game this passionately. But their good humor and their joy were contagious. His face even melted into a faint smile.

“It is my turn,” Victoria announced, determined.

She swung her mallet dangerously and hit the ball with a remarkable force that sent it flying over the garden, rolling downhill.

“Hey!” she screeched.

She let out a sharp gasp as her ball went rogue, rolling down the gentle slope of the lawn, bouncing over tufts of grass. With an impatient huff, she tossed her mallet aside and ran after it.

Her skirt was getting in the way, but Victoria, being Victoria, didn’t slow down, didn’t ask for a servant to get the ball for her, and didn’t stroll in a ladylike way. No. She lifted her skirt and ran. The fabric slid up higher than it should have, revealing the lean lines of her calves, then higher.

His breath left him in one sharp exhale.

The wind around her lifted her skirt and made her thighs shine under the golden sun. Long unblemished limbs bare to the world and his hungry eyes. Curvy and toned, they made his heart race.

His mind—his wicked, undisciplined mind—betrayed him. One single thought dispelled all rational sense. How would those thighs feel under his touch?

His fingers flexed involuntarily, as if already mapping the smooth expanse of her skin, the heat of her.

The fantasy gripped him tight, caught him by the throat, and didn’t allow him to breathe, flooding him with images of his hands stroking her calves and then exploring higher. Images of Victoria, that untamed woman that turned his life upside down, unable to talk, her head thrown back, only soft whimpers escaping her insolent mouth.

“No, no, no, stop this!” he hissed.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, willing the thoughts away, but they had already taken root. How her breath would hitch if he were to breathe over her exposed neck as he slid his hands higher, spreading her beneath him, his name falling from her lips in that husky, breathless voice she used when she was particularly exasperated with him.

“Damn it,” Stephen cursed.

His body was responding in ways he refused to acknowledge. This was madness, inappropriate, wrong. This was not how a gentleman thought about a lady. A gentleman would look away. A gentleman would not let his gaze linger on the curves of her thighs or the expanse of pale skin beneath the lifted hem of her dress. But he was not feeling particularly gentlemanly at that moment.

His mind had already betrayed him, already dragged him into dangerous, wicked waters. He could feel the heat rising in his blood, pooling low and tight, his body reacting before he could gather the strength to fight it.

“Got it!” Victoria screamed in triumph.

He saw her bend to catch the vagrant ball—the only inanimate object that Stephen hated as if it were a mortal enemy—but his mind refused to see anything other than her beneath him. Her head tipped back, her lips parted on a breathless moan. Those endless, long legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He exhaled slowly, trying to regain control, but the tension refused to leave his body. He was hard. For her. For the woman who had spent the last days driving him to the brink of his sanity.

Stephen let out a low, humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair. This could not continue. He could not afford to look at her this way. To want her this way. Because if he started down that path, there would be no stopping.

He was the Duke of Colborne, and these base instincts would not get the better of him. It was her . If she wasn’t so vexatious, so impossible, if she didn’t act so indecorously, if she didn’t disregard his rules…

His irritation needed an outlet, and conveniently, the source of it was still outside, prancing about his lawn like a heathen. He leaned out of the window, anger overtaking him.

“This nonsense stops immediately!”

All laughter ceased immediately, and both women turned to the window. They used their hands to shade their eyes from the bright sun. Dorothy seemed startled, but Victoria regarded him with amusement.

“Your Grace,” that insolent woman said in that infuriating tone of hers, “we are playing a civilized game of croquet.”

“That,” Stephen ground out, pointing at the overturned hoops and the mallets lying haphazardly across the lawn, “is neither civilized nor croquet.”

Dorothy muffled a laugh behind her gloved hand. Victoria, however, dared to smile at him, all wide-eyed innocence and false contrition.

“I demand”—His expression turned so cold that the sun momentarily hid behind a cloud—“that you abide by the rules. My rules! ”

“The rules?” Victoria gasped in mock horror.

“Yes, Miss Victoria,” he said, voice dripping with authority. “The rules, which, might I remind you, prohibit disorderly conduct.”

“Ah. I see the problem now.”

Stephen crossed his arms and pinned her with a warning look.

For a fleeting, precious moment, he saw Victoria lose that haughty look on her face and glance away, avoiding the intensity of his gaze. He was correct to expect it to last long.

“Enlighten me,” he grunted.

“The problem, Your Grace,” she said, “is that your rules apply to when we are inside the house.”

He narrowed his eyes at her.

“And we”—she gestured around the lawn—“are outside the house.”

“Miss Victoria?—”

“That means,” she spoke over him, her tone all saccharine mischief, “that your tyrannical rule does not apply.”

Stephen’s eyes flashed with suppressed frustration,

“Miss Victoria,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “let me be abundantly clear: my authority extends to every last inch of this estate.”

Something akin to shock flashed in her eyes. Her mouth fell open, but Stephen was not going to let her utter one more witty remark because he was barely containing himself as it was.

“Get. In. The. House,” he ordered.

She gulped as their eyes met over the rose bushes. “Fine,” she relented.

Stephen was not a fool. He refused to be fooled by her retreat. And he was right to expect the worst from her. She lowered her eyes and eyed him with open defiance.

“But Your Grace, I should warn you. If I go inside, I shall be forced to find another way to entertain myself.”

Stephen shut the window so forcefully that he was amazed the glass didn’t shatter and the windowsill didn’t fall off. He was ready to let loose a string of curses when he heard a very familiar noise—the click of paws on the wooden floor.

Euclid trotted toward him, wagging his tail.

“You at least had the sense to stay inside.” Stephen leaned down, and the dog leaned into his hand.

Stephen glanced out the window, where Victoria was picking up the croquet gear. He absentmindedly petted Euclid, scratching behind his ears. He glanced down, only to find the mongrel looking up at him with utter adoration.

“I’ll tell you this, mutt,” he said, his voice softer than he had expected. “You’ll stay. But Victoria Crawford has to go!”

* * *

As lunchtime drew near, Stephen was contemplating whether he should request to eat at his study. He hardly had done any real work, to begin with, and things had deteriorated after watching that wretched croquet game that ruined the sport for him. But he knew that any retreat would be perceived as weakness, and he needed to assert his dominance in his own house.

“Let’s go, Euclid,” he ordered, waking the dog that had slept at his feet.

He made sure to make an entrance, coming down when both his mother and Victoria took their seats at the table, perhaps wishing that he hadn’t joined them. Arriving just a second later, he ensured both ladies were seated, lulled into the belief that they might enjoy a peaceful meal without his presence. He let them have that fleeting illusion, let them begin to conspire. And then he strode in, Euclid trotting dutifully at his side.

Victoria’s head snapped up first, her fork pausing at her lips, her blue eyes flashing with distinct displeasure. Yet he caught it. That fleeting, near-imperceptible flicker in her gaze. Not the usual irritation, nor the pointed defiance. For the barest of moments, she had regarded him with something else entirely. Too sharp to be amusement, too assessing to be indifference.

“Stephen, dear, we were wondering if you’d join us.” His mother sounded genuinely happy to see him.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Where else would I take my meal?”

He took his seat at the head of the table, adjusting his cuffs with practiced ease.

Victoria gave him a long, assessing look, her eyes narrowing.

“The study,” she mused. “Your room. Perhaps a dark, empty corridor where you might better contemplate your ever-growing list of grievances.”

“Tempting, but I thought I’d grace you with my presence instead. The lack of discipline in this household is growing alarming.”

They spent the next blissful minutes eating in silence. He didn’t want to break this rare occasion, but he had plans for the evening.

“I am visiting Lord Prevost after tea,” he announced.

The women looked at each other. His mother seemed sad, Victoria angry, and they seemed to be having some sort of silent conversation. It was Victoria who turned to him first.

“I am sure you will have a riveting time while Lord Prevost lists all the misconduct he observed.”

“I intend to take notes.”

“Should I be worried?” Victoria seemed anything but worried. “Or will my transgressions be neatly categorized? A full report, perhaps?”

“I wouldn’t dream of being so disorganized,” Stephen replied dryly. “Your misdeeds require a ledger of their own. I was actually late adding ‘ruining croquet’ with a full account of this morning’s foolishness.”

Victoria opened her mouth, her eyes darkening, ready to fight back. But Stephen was a fast fencer.

“Speaking of which,” he continued, “in my absence, I would advise that whatever brilliant ideas you have about ruining additional sports should be discarded at once.”

“How unfortunate. I was about to suggest a game of battledore and shuttlecock right after lunch.”

Stephen gave her a look that could only convey his annoyance. For a few moments, they were locked into a battle of wills no one seemed to be ready to back out of.

He raised his chin and blinked slowly, lowering his voice warningly. “Might I suggest more suitable activities for the afternoon? Perhaps some embroidery? Watercolors?”

“Oh yes, that sounds fascinating.”

“One does not need to be fascinated, Miss Victoria,” he said blandly. “One merely needs to be civilized.”

“Civilized, not bored to death.”

Stephen leaned forward in his seat, almost looming over the table menacingly. “You might want to practice behaving as a true lady ought. For once.”

Victoria inhaled sharply, and her lips tightened. Then, she smiled. With slow, deliberate wickedness.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Stephen narrowed his eyes at her. Something about that tone, the way she had surrendered so easily, made him suspect that he had just made a grave miscalculation.