Page 91 of Duke of Pride

“It’s a strategic bending of rules,” Stephen replied smoothly.

Then, he aimed a very questionable shot that sent Victoria’s ball bouncing off course and toward a patch of daffodils.

“You will pay for that.”

“You married me. That’s punishment enough.”

She ran downhill to get her ball.

“Oh, not this again.” Stephen bolted after her.

And then he lunged. She shrieked, laughing, dodging, but he caught her mid-spin, and the force of it, combined with the slope of the lawn and the sheer lack of propriety, sent them both tumbling down the hill behind the willow trees.

They landed in a heap, her skirts tangled, his waistcoat stained with dirt and grass, both of them laughing so hard they could barely breathe. Stephen propped himself up on one elbow, his hair mussed, grinning down at her. She reached up, still smiling, and tucked a strand behind his ear.

“You were once the man who yelled at me from the window of your study to keep it down.”

“I was once a lot of things.”

He lowered himself slowly, gently, until his forehead touched hers. He kissed her then, warm and slow, the world spinning around them.

“I think we indulged our guests long enough.”

“Stephen!”

“Fine. A little more apple pie, right?”

* * *

The house had finally gone quiet. After hours of dancing, laughter, overturned lemonade, and a croquet match from hell, Colborne House was still for the first time that day. Candles flickered low in sconces, the scent of lavender drifting lazily through the halls.

Victoria was soaking in her second bath of the evening. The first had been practical—to scrub off the grass stains and sweat. This one was indulgent.

She laid back in the copper tub, the water just hot enough to make her sigh, her eyes closed, every muscle relaxing. Alfred had assured her that Stephen was “tending to some affairs.” So, she waited. And soaked. And dreamed of him.

The door creaked.

Stephen stood on the threshold. His hair was mussed, falling on his forehead in a reckless manner. But she didn’t mind that. He was wearing a robe. Just a robe. She could see the expanse of his collarbones, the light hair peppering his chest peeking from the opening in his robe.

“My tub was taking forever to fill,” he lied.

She could smell the soap from his bath. Stephen had come totortureher.

“We can share,” she said coyly.

Stephen looked upon her with hunger and mischief. Her Duke was not going to wait in their bedroom, in the dark, for her to go to him. He came to claim her.

He walked over to her. He reached the edge of the tub, untied the sash at his waist, and let the robe fall to the floor like a sigh. Victoria gasped and stared openly.

She had pictured him, of course. Her mind had wandered more than once to what he might look like beneath his perfectly pressed shirts and those damn cravats. But her imagination, thorough as it was, had not come close.

Her husband looked as if he were carved from stone. The candlelight fell on his broad shoulders, his strong arms, and the planes of his abdomen, which seemed sculpted by an artist. Skin taut over hard muscle, thighs strong, hands relaxed at his sides.

Victoria blushed when she realized she was staring at his naked body shamelessly. She looked away, suddenly too preoccupied with her wet hair.

Stephen chuckled and leaned closer. He caught her chin and made her look up to him. “You are staring, Victoria.”

She blushed even more. “I was merely calculating the golden ratio,” she lied.

---