Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

H er simmering rage heated Victoria's blood, making sleep impossible. Lying awake staring up at the darkened ceiling of her bedroom for hours on end had given Victoria an appreciation of why men fought duels at the hour of dawn. Any later and their fury would see them go mad.

Rude. Impossibly rude man. How dare he speak to her like she was a foolish child? He'd read all her letters and thought so little of her that he didn't care that she now knew he was the culinary critic for the newspaper.

Arrogant ass of a man. I really ought to shoot him.

Once she found out where the odious duke lived, she'd call him out. And while the handsome brute would no doubt stand and mock her for being a silly miss with a gun, she'd show him just how much she had learned during those hunts on her family's estate. That she might be a duke's daughter, but she knew how to handle a weapon.

She threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. Slipping into a thick woolen dressing gown, Victoria padded barefoot over to her large oak armoire and opened the door. Kneeling she pulled out the bottom drawer and set it on the floor.

She stretched her arm and reached for the back of the now empty shelf. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as her fingers touched cold glass. The maids hadn't found it. Wrapping her hand around the neck of the bottle, she dragged the whisky out of the wardrobe and got to her feet.

Victoria shook the bottle. There wasn't a lot left. She'd pilfered it from her father's personal cellar some six months ago, and from the sound of the whisky sloshing against the glass, another raid would soon be on the cards.

She didn't bother with a glass, swigging straight from the bottle. A whisky glass was only one more thing for her maid to possibly find. Mary not only had the nose of a bloodhound, but she was particularly skilled in extorting money from her mistress in exchange for her silence.

As the whisky hit the back of her throat, Victoria shuddered. The liquor was sharp, but it was better than the brandy she and Augusta used to steal when they shared this room. Her sister now had her own home, and she was welcome to imbibe all the brandy she wished.

What was she going to do about the Duke of Spice?

That's a stupid, foolish name. I pity the poor girl who winds up marrying him.

She'd become the Duchess of Spice. And she'd be wedded to that pompous fool.

Setting the bottle on the floor, Victoria drew her knees up and rested her arms on them. He'd humiliated her this evening. She was going to make it her business to make sure she got even.

"The Duchess of Spice," she breathed, wishing that the title didn't sound so inviting. She was the lady of spice. But a duchess?

No. The man deserves to be punished, not win my hand.

Besides, he was far too old for her. Far too old . Robert Tolley had to be at least thirty.

She set the bottle to her lips once more and pondered that thought. A man who'd reached such an age would be mature. Know himself. Many young bucks were nice, pleasant boys, but they were not men.

Not handsomely rugged rogues like the duke. She could hate him. But there was an unmistakable allure about him. Something that set her core pulsing.

"No, this is about getting even with him, not lusting after his body."

Victoria downed the rest of the bottle and went back to bed.

He was a cad. A shameless cad. What sort of man sets his temper on a young woman like that? "Your Grace, you are a scoundrel," Robert grumbled to himself.

The memory of the tears shining in Victoria's eyes just before she turned away would haunt him for the rest of his days. He'd fired the last shot in a war he no longer wished to fight. But how could he come back from this? Was there a way for him to make amends?

Deuce, he shouldn't care what the chit thought of him. She was just some duke's daughter on the hunt for a husband. Who knows, he might have even done her a service this evening. Shown her that London society was more than pretty gowns and come-hither smiles.

Staring out into the cold darkness of the garden, Robert drew back on his cheroot. The light from the cigar the only sign that he was out here resting on his haunches between the rows of mint and rosemary. The sound of horses hooves on the cobbled stones at the rear of the townhouse had his senses on alert. He picked up his pistol and cocked it.

Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop. He listened as a horse and wagon passed his home, continuing to listen long after the sound had drifted into silence. London in the wee hours was a strange place. Deceptively quiet and peaceful, but always on the edge. The criminal gangs owned the streets at this hour. Gangs and smugglers.

Rising from where he lurked in the dark, Robert made his way to the end of the garden path. When he reached the gate, he bent and took hold of the lock, rattling the chain.

"Damn and bollocks," he huffed, as the chain came away in his hand. Some criminal mastermind he was, he couldn't even keep his own garden secure. Robert gritted his teeth, recalling how he'd hit the rear fence with a spice barrel the day before yesterday.

As soon as he got a moment, he'd have the gate repaired. Only a reckless fool would leave his home unsecured. The next time a horse and wagon trotted past his house it might not be a night cart, but rather agents of the East India come to take back what he had stolen from them.

Taking one last draw on his cheroot, Robert dropped it to the stone path. He crushed it with his boot and headed back into the house.

But as he made his way upstairs to his bedroom, his thoughts were not of the spices or his enemy. It was of the look on Lady Victoria Kembal's face. The heartbreaking expression of shattered pride and crumpled dreams.

He'd been the one who'd created her pain. Brought her to tears. Humiliated her in front of the other guests. His victory earlier this evening now began to feel hollow.

And for the first time in a long time, the Duke of Spice felt a sharp sting in his heart. The stirrings of guilt. Of bitter regret.

It was bad enough being a villain and a thief, but even he drew the line at crushing the souls of others.