Page 90 of Duke of Pride

“For God’s sake,” Maxwell groaned.

“Yes, you insufferable fool!”

Victoria’s laughter was music to his ears. Stephen pulled her in his arms once more for a deep, searing kiss. He barely registered Maxwell’s growl of protest or the whistles from dockworkers as Victoria’s lips melted against his. Her hands, still gloved but no longer restrained by propriety, slid up to tangle in his hair.

When they parted, both were breathless. Stephen kept his forehead pressed to hers, their noses brushing.

“Lord Prevost would have a stroke,” Victoria joked.

“I owe the man a gift for pointing me to your scandalous ways,” Stephen countered.

They laughed in each other’s arms.

EPILOGUE

One Month Later

Colborne House awoke in full bloom. The gardens were wild with color. Lavender spilled over the paths, roses tumbled across trellises, and the breeze smelled of sun-warmed grass and something ineffably sweet, like the promise of a new beginning.

And it was truly the day for new beginnings. The day Victoria returned to the house, not as a friend, not as a companion, but as its mistress.

The lakeside meadow had transformed into the liveliest reception the house had ever seen. Long tables draped in linen offered chilled lemon cordial, roasted pheasant, sugared plums, and a shocking number of meat pies.

Only close family and close friends were invited. An invitation was sent to Lord Prevost, but for some reason, he declined. And perhaps it was a good choice. The wedding was intimate, as well as the reception, so barely any decorum was shown. Like this moment, at the winding down of the festivities.

Stephen and Victoria lounged barefoot on a blanket under the willows, feeding each other strawberries and plotting mischief. Her back was propped against the trunk of the tree, while his head was on her lap.

“You know,” she said, licking jam off her thumb, “it’s probably illegal for a duke to be this relaxed.”

“I am not relaxed. I am plotting.”

“What?”

“Your annihilation in croquet.”

He jumped up and turned to their guests, who were either lounging in chairs, sprawled on cushions, or wandering under the shade of the trees.

“Everyone ready?”

Everyone was mobilized.

Stephen helped Victoria stand as she looked with a frown at everyone running around, procuring croquet equipment out of nowhere, and setting the field.

“I still insist that this close to the lake is risky,” Maxwell complained.

“What is this?” Victoria asked.

Stephen handed her a mallet. “Let’s finish one game of croquet. Finally.”

Victoria laughed heartily. “Oh, it’s on, Your Grace,” she said and swung her mallet ominously.

“I bet it is, Your Grace,” he countered.

It was not long after that all chaos descended on the gardens of Colborne House. No one remembered how the teams were chosen. At some point, alliances formed purely based on who had been wronged in previous rounds, and no one was keeping score.

“You are cheating, Stephen!” Victoria huffed. “Again! I can’t believe this runs in the family.”

“We are not cheating,” Dorothy, who had teamed up with her son, declared.

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