Page 70 of Duke of Pride

“Pity she isn’t here so I can thank her properly,” the rake said with a wicked smile.

“Since she received word that the Duke of Walden is coming back to London,” Dorothy explained, “she was eager to return home and see him.”

“Well, at least I get to keep her words and the scent that had accompanied us these past few days,” Blackwell said. “Though, Miss Victoria smelled more like orange blossom.”

That last part was addressed to Stephen.

The two men were locked in a stare that made the others around them squirm. Stephen wanted very much to let the degenerate know exactly how he had extracted a promise from Victoria that she would never be close to him. And let him know that indeed Victoria smelled like orange blossom but tasted like the apples she loved so much.

But Stephen had no will to fight, no will to do anything other than just stand there till this was all over. And thank the Heavens that the last of the guests had left and he could finally unbutton his coat and retreat to his study.

“Stephen!” his mother called, but he didn’t answer.

He didn’t stop till he reached his hiding place—his tomb. The study door closed with a soft, final click. For a long moment, he stood in the center of the room, his breathing ragged in the silence. He let out all his frustration on his clothes. His coat was thrown over his chair, his cravat was violently yanked off.

He grabbed the brandy bottle and a glass and collapsed on the armchair, his body heavy with an exhaustion that went deeper than bone. Euclid whined at his feet, pressing close, but Stephen didn’t reach for him. He couldn’t. His hands hung limp at his sides, still faintly trembling.

She was gone. She ran away from him in the middle of the night as if she were chased out. And in a way, she was. He had driven her away with his stupidity, with the idiotic way he handled a simple situation—by being a coward. He had offered her duty when he should have begged for her heart.

How easy it would have been. How sincere. He should have gotten down on one knee and told her that there was no one like her for him in the whole world. That she had thawed his heart, and he wanted to keep her close to make him come alive. Like she did with everything she touched.

He drained his glass and poured himself more brandy.

Even if he wanted to behave like an imbecile, asking her to marry him with the same warmth he read out legislation in the House of Lords, he could have righted the wrong. When he saw her heart shatter at being called anacquaintanceafter everything they had shared, he could have simply said, “I am an idiot.”

She would have erupted in that tinkling laughter of hers and would have scolded him for being so proper. And he would have taken her in his arms and shown her how improper she made him. They would have walked out of that damned thicket engaged. Yesterday could have been the best day of his life.

Another glass. Drained. One more for good measure. The brandy burned down his throat, but not nearly enough to cauterize the wound in his chest. Stephen poured himself another glass with shaking hands.

Euclid whined. That was all he had been doing. He placed his head on Stephen’s thigh and fixed him with a look that said,“Do something. Fix this.”Stephen petted him and scratched behind his ear, but nothing would make the poor mutt happy. They were two lost souls that she had touched and saved, and they had let her down.

“She’s not coming back,” he told the empty room, his voice rough as gravel.

She is not.She truly is not.

He tossed back his drink, welcoming the burn. Maybe if he drank enough, he’d forget the exact shade of her eyes when she laughed. The way her nose scrunched up when she was pretending to be irritated with him. The taste of apples on her lips

* * *

Days passed in a blur. Stephen was proud that he managed to function. Each morning, he stumbled down to his study and locked himself there, pretending to work. He would pretend that he ate more than a few bites. He would pretend that he cared if he was clean-shaven or not.

The brandy helped. Or it didn’t. He wasn’t sure anymore. He only knew that when he drank enough, the edges of his thoughts blurred, and for a few blessed hours, he didn’t see her face. Didn’t hear her laugh. Didn’t remember the exact moment he had ruined everything.

But it never lasted. It was never enough.

He was drowned by the painful memories again and again. Random things came to torment him. Small things that stayed with him. Her pouring him tea, her delicate fingers on the teapot. Her licking her finger to gather the last crumbles of a dessert she particularly liked. The stupid things she used as bookmarks.

“Stephen?”

His mother. Stephen wondered when she would show up.

How long before his mother would stop pretending too?

“Busy.”

“Please, Stephen.”

“I am busy!”

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