Page 79 of Duke of Pride

Then, her head turned to Stephen, but her eyes were downcast. Her hands were clasping her reticule.

She didn’t want him there.

“Your Grace,” she said without looking at him.

The formal address cut deeper than any blade. That was all Stephen was to her now. Not because there were others present, but because he put that between them.

“Miss Victoria.” He tried her name on his tongue, and it was sweet as ever. Then, he turned to her brother. “Walden.”

Silence ensued.

“Where are you going?” Frederick asked, breaking the tension.

“Not going. I just took Victoria to see her favorite opera,” Maxwell said, patting her hand.

“La Cenerentola,”Stephen muttered before he could stop himself.

Her head snapped up at his words, her blue eyes widening.

Yes, I remember everything.

The realization flickered across her face before she could school her features. That small, vulnerable moment sent a bolt of satisfaction through Stephen’s chest.

How could he forget? At the house party, he had expressed his inability to understand opera. Then, over tea, she had explained how Rossini’s mathematical precision in composition mirrored the beauty of equations. It didn’t make him appreciate opera more, but that spark in her eyes made him burn harder.

“You will receive a formal invitation, of course, but we are throwing a ball at Walden,” Maxwell said, looking at her. “We would love to have you there.”

Victoria went rigid. Stephen, who was watching her, caught it immediately.

But Stephen was not mad for the simple reason that this invitation finally made her look at him.

When her blue eyes met his, he felt at ease after so many days of torment. Her gaze was pleading, and the message was clear.Don’t come.The unspoken request hung between them, as clear as if she’d shouted it.

“Thank you for your kind invitation,” Stephen replied, neither accepting nor declining.

He threw one last glance at her as they said theirgoodbyes,and Victoria left as quickly as she came.

Stephen fought with himself and lost. He turned around and looked at her retreating back, at her delicate profile as she gave her brother a fragile smile.

Good night, Victoria.

* * *

The days till the ball passed by like a haze. Annabelle and Frederick went back to their estate to prepare for the birth of their baby. And the house went absolutely still. No laughter or ruckus. Silence and calm.

A mausoleum.

Stephen chuckled cruelly at the thought. He was still locked in his study every day, half-drunk, half-burying himself in work. He managed to drag himself to dinner with his mother, but he couldn’t carry a conversation. He was just a hollow presence.

Till the day of the ball. He had indeed received a formal invitation, which sat on his desk now, staring back at him. He remembered the way Victoria looked at him, begging him not to spoil this for her, to stay away. And he should. That was the right thing to do—to stay away. He had done enough damage and had no right to invade her home.

“Alfred,” he called to the butler. “Have my valet prepare me a formal suit. I am attending the Walden ball.”

Sorry, Victoria. I can’t stay away.

That same night, Stephen was on the way to Walden Towers. He had managed to look presentable, and he had left his brandy aside. His leg was bouncing in the carriage, his fingers clenched into fists, his eyes fixed on the seat across him.

His fingers reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, searching for that silver hairpin. He ran his fingers over it just to calm down a little. This was where?—

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