Page 71 of Duke of Pride

“Come out just for lunch,” she insisted.

Her voice was subdued, and he heard the soft thump on the door where her hand landed. A silent plea.

Stephen’s fingers tightened around the empty glass. His body swayed, unsure of its axis, shaken by intoxication. He knew it would be worse to step out of his study and go have lunch with her in this state.

“Please, Stephen. Annabelle would like to see you before she leaves.”

Even more reason to stay in here. Imagine if his little, pregnant sister saw him like that.

He looked at himself in the window pane. The man reflected in the glass bore little resemblance to the Duke of Colborne. His cheeks were shadowed by days’ worth of stubble, and his eyes were bloodshot. His hair, usually ruthlessly tamed, fell in greasy waves across his forehead, strands clinging to his sweat-slick temples.

And the smell. God, the smell! Brandy and sweat and the sour tang of grief left to fester. He looked like a man unraveled. Because he was.

“Tomorrow,” he said weakly.

“Stephen.”

“Tomorrow.” His voice was hoarse. “I promise.”

Silence.

“Tomorrow then, my boy.”

* * *

Stephen woke up to the distinct sensation that someone had taken a hammer to his skull. Sunlight stabbed through the curtains like a vengeful blade, slicing straight through his eyeballs into the pulsing mess of his brain. He was sprawled on the couch. He had collapsed in there, glass in hand.

It was a good night. He finally slept.

He was met with the accusing gaze of Euclid, who had clearly been waiting for him to rejoin the land of the living.

The dog’s ears perked up, as if to say,Finally, you drunken fool.Stephen patted his faithful friend on the head. The dog had refused to leave his side. Perhaps because they shared the same grief.

Stephen squeezed his eyes shut again. His mouth was dry, and his stomach was a battlefield of brandy and regret. He pushed himself up, gripping the arm of the sofa as the room tilted dangerously. Euclid licked his hand.

Stephen grimaced. “I know. I’m pathetic.”

He made a promise to his mother, and he would feel wretched if he took it back. It was just lunch. He could hold it together for one lunch. He could plunge into his abyss after one damn lunch.

He asked Alfred to draw a bath for him. His smell alone would break his mother’s heart and would upset Annabelle.

The bathwater steamed, scented with something—perhaps an attempt to shock him back into humanity. Stephen sank into it with a groan and felt his limbs relax. He took the washcloth and got rid of the grime and sweat. He kept rubbing as if a mere bath could take away the stench of failure, the pain, the hurt.

“Damn it!” he hissed, throwing the useless fabric away.

He reached for the glass of brandy on the side table and took a sip, then dunked his head under, letting the water swallow him whole for a moment. When he surfaced, gasping, the world felt marginally less painful.

He shaved and let his valet dress him. Then, he styled his longer hair before studying his reflection in the mirror. Outside, he looked more like himself.

He chuckled cruelly. Inside? Inside, there was nothing left of him. Whatever light was inside him was snuffed out, whatever joy pulped to nothing.

He took one last look in the mirror. All that remained was the hard, cold Duke of Colborne. The man who had kissed Victoria in the drawing room with such passion, the one who lost all control in the carriage, who had whispered against her skin, who had felt something, everything? That man was gone.Shetook him with her.

As he sat down at the dining table, he soon realized that this wasn’t the only thing Victoria took with her. The dining room, the one she had redecorated, seemed dull and cold, its occupants solemn.

“Stephen!” His mother got up and wrapped her arms around him.

He remained stiff but raised one arm in a sad excuse of an embrace. His father was never one for displays of affection. They were unfamiliar things in Colborne House. Even now, after his death, Stephen was shackled to his father’s will.

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