Page 78 of Duke of Pride

Just to get Stephen out of the house—hell, out of his cursed study—Frederick insisted that they visit White’s once more. At least there, or at least on the way, he would get some fresh air. And as much as he would like to, at White’s, Stephen couldn’t descend to the depths of indignity as he could in the privacy of his home.

The added benefit of this arrangement was that Dorothy and Annabelle were spared the pitiful sight of him dragging himself up to his room or collapsing in his study. Frederick could plausibly tell to the worrying women that“There he is, going out again.”

In reality, Stephen poisoned his brain and body to forget all abouther. He was too tired to fight Frederick, so he willingly followed him that night too. It was not too late, but he had a head start on drinking. Ever since the sun rose, to be exact.

“That’s it,” Frederick hissed and shoved a cup of hot, black coffee under his nose. “I am cutting you off.”

“I don’t?—”

“I don’t give a damn what you do or don’t, Colborne. Drink this, and then we are getting out of here. You will walk it off before we go back to Colborne House, you hear me?”

Stephen downed the bitter coffee and then stumbled back to his feet. Frederick took their coats and their hats, and they went out.

It seemed that Frederick’s words had some merit. The cold air sobered him. Not completely; it would take days to flush the alcohol out of his system. But the cool night air nipped his skin, the chilliness preferable to the numbness from the brandy.

Stephen inhaled the air and followed Frederick, who was taking the scenic route.

“You need to pull yourself out of this funk, Stephen. Either put this behind you or do something. Drinking yourself into an early grave is not the solution.”

Is it not?

The coffee mixed sourly with the brandy in his stomach as he walked, the cobblestones uneven beneath his boots. Frederick’s lecture faded into the background noise of London at night. He looked up at the night sky above him, and honestly, he didn’t know what to answer.

“Oh no.” Frederick skidded to a halt next to him.

Stephen looked at his friend, not understanding what the problem was, only to find him looking ahead. He slowly followed his friend’s gaze. And almost collapsed on the pavement.

Victoria.

Coming from the opposite direction was Victoria. Her hand rested on Maxwell’s arm as they exited the Royal Opera House.

The sight struck him like a physical blow, and all the air rushed out of his lungs.

“Don’t, Stephen.” Frederick’s grip tightened on his elbow.

Stephen couldn’t look away. He had dreamed of her so much, longed to see her, prayed that he would get the chance to see her… and there she was. A vision in blue, the color that made her eyes even more devastating. Her hair was swept up in a way that left her neck bare. He knew that neck. Knew the way it tasted when he pressed his lips just below her ear?—

Stop.

Stephen was suddenly grateful for that bitter shot of coffee that ran through his veins, that kept him from rushing to her and making a scene that would ruin her. But he couldn’t stop looking at her. He wouldn’t. He would drink her in so that he would have more images of her to torment him.

As if sensing his gaze, Victoria turned. Time stopped. Her lips parted in shock. The color drained from her face. In that unguarded moment, he saw everything. The hurt, the longing, the same unbearable ache that had consumed him.

What have I done to you?

Stephen would give everything to double his pain so that she wouldn’t feel this way. He deserved as much, and she deserved none of it. He should never have come back to London.

“Ah! Frederick.” Maxwell’s voice filled the space between them.

It was inevitable. It would be bad form and scandalous to pretend they didn’t see the siblings. After all, Maxwell was married to Frederick’s stepsister.

That was the reason Frederick mustered his most sincere smile.

“Maxwell, Miss Victoria,” he greeted.

Frederick nudged Stephen’s hand discreetly. He was staring quite openly. Victoria noticed and averted her gaze. Or perhaps it was the fact that she couldn’t stand him.

“Your Grace.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

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