Page 42 of Duke of Pride

Still, Victoria knew that nothing would ever be the same.

CHAPTER12

Hairpin

Stephen was looking out the window in his study, scowling at a perfect day, sunshine pouring on his perfectly curated gardens, tended and renovated to classy perfection. The exact opposite of what he was feeling. The light caught metal, and it shone on his face, blinding him for a moment.

It was the hairpin he was twirling between his fingers. A simply ornated hairpin. The one that fell off when he took his clothes off last night. The moment that mere piece of metal hit the wooden floor was deafening. To the point that Stephen knew that he was not going to find the relief of sleep. He should have tossed it into the fire, should have discarded it and what it meant.

But here he was, holding onto it like a lovesick boy, refusing to part with it and the memories it evoked. How fervently he ran his fingers through her hair while he took out the hairpins one by one, eager to see her wavy hair cascade down her back. How her coiled braids had trembled, then spilled loose like silk over his hands. How he fisted them to guide her deeper in their kiss. How she?—

“Damn it, Victoria,” he cursed, closing his eyes.

It did him no good. Every time he did, all he could see was her. Her underneath him, gasping, luring him in. Her hands undoing his cravat, venturing forth to touch his skin. Her look, that damn look that undid him as much as it made him feel alive for perhaps ever.

If she were some blushing debutante who just passively accepted his advances, he would have stopped the moment he got close. He wouldn’t have let it get this far. He wouldn’t have let madness overtake him. He had always prided himself on control. On restraint. On the ability to bury grief, passion, and desire beneath the surface of duty and legacy and name. But with Victoria…

“Me.”

One word from her. That was all it took. The shackles of propriety were broken the moment she uttered that word. The boundaries became a distant line that he crossed as he ground into her. It took a single word from her and he was undone, unraveled, years of control snapped like twigs she stepped on.

No, Victoria was not coy or blushful, and she wasn’t wanton either. He knew as he felt her pulse jump, her skin prickle, her body tremble. She had never been touched like that before. All that spark was her, purely her—her stubbornness, her fire—and he willingly burned up for her.

“Your Grace.” Alfred’s voice brought him back to this reality. “The guests have started to arrive.”

“I will be right there.”

Stephen looked at the hairpin still in his palm. He ran his thumb over it, inhaling deeply. Above all, there was an inescapable truth that he could run from all he wanted and it wouldn’t do him any good—he desired Victoria. And if he were being honest, he desired her the moment he saw her, that vibrant girl next to his sister.

It was a hunger of the most dangerous kind, the kind that eclipsed reason, unseated judgment, and threatened ruin. Every time he got closer, it became harder to pull away. Each time, he wanted more, claimed more. Each time, he got perilously close to casting it all to the wind—his composure, his good name, caution, and common sense.

“No! You fool.”

He ran his hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. He was not going to allow his base instincts to take over. He was not going to be governed by desire no matter how good it made him. How alive, how free.

There was one solution, and that was the plan he had already devised: Victoria Crawford had to find a husband. A proper match with a respectable, dull gentleman who would keep her safe, comfortable, and—most importantly—away fromhim. By the time this ridiculous house party was over, Victoria must secure a proposal. He would make sure of that.

His mind tested him, bringing forth a clear image of her late at night, touched by a faceless lord, a fool that for sure would never understand nor handle her fire. His jaw tightened, and so did his fingers around the hairpin, the metal digging into his flesh.

“Your Grace, your sister is here.”

Stephen tucked away all his thoughts, his feelings, his desires, his fears. He composed himself, slipped on his mask, and exited the room.

* * *

“Stephen, did I tell you how happy I am?” his mother asked for the millionth time, and it wasn’t even tea time.

“You don’t have to,” Stephen said curtly. Then, in a softer voice, he added, “I can see it on your face.”

Dorothy looked up and gazed upon him, studying him, her eyes soft with affection and something far more perceptive. She shook her head and then smiled in that way mothers did when they knew far too much.

“You hate this,” she observed.

“Vehemently,” he admitted.

“All the more reason to thank you, then.”

Dorothy looped her hand through his, beaming as they stepped beneath the tree-lined avenue, where long tables had been laid with linen cloths, glinting silver, and carefully curated arrangements of wildflowers. Euclid was happily trotting at his side, finally allowed to eat with them.

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