Page 21 of Duke of Pride

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.

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