The Duke's Dangerous Wager

Chapter 1

England, 1816

The heavy oak door creaked as Tristan Hargrave, the Duke of Ashford, gently pushed it open. His mother's rooms, once the most vibrant part of Ashford House, had become a shadow of their former glory.

Thick, velvet curtains were drawn across the windows, allowing only a few slivers of sunlight to pierce the gloom. The air was stale, weighed down by the scent of lavender and dust.

He paused, waiting for any sign that his entrance had been noted.

In the corner of the room, seated in an overstuffed armchair, the dowager duchess remained motionless, her back turned to him. Dressed in the black mourning garb she had worn every day since the death of Tristan's brother, she looked more like a statue than a living woman.

"Mother," Tristan said softly, stepping further into the room.

She didn't respond. She never did, not anymore. She had locked herself away the day they lowered Henry into the ground. His mother had adored his elder brother, lavishing all her affection and hopes upon him, while Tristan had always been an afterthought.

"The time of mourning has ended," he continued, trying to make his voice sound steady, even though the chill in the room seemed to sap his strength. "I know you haven't been... present these past years, but I wanted to inform you that I'm doing my duty. I'll marry and secure the line, as expected of me."

Silence. The only sound was the faint rustle of her dress as she shifted slightly in her seat.

Tristan stood there, the weight of her indifference pressing against his chest. He had always known what this visit would bring. It was more out of obligation than hope that he had come here.

Duty was what tied him to this place, not love.

"I won't fail the Hargrave name. I know I'm not the son you wanted, but I will be the duke you need. The estate will flourish again," he said, trying to sound confident, though the words felt hollow.

The dowager duchess's voice, cold and brittle, finally broke the silence. "I don't care about the estate. I don't care about you, Tristan."

He froze. Even though he had long suspected the truth, hearing it spoken aloud still sent a jolt through him.

He clenched his fists at his sides, willing himself to remain calm, to keep his mask of detachment in place.

"I hope you grow old and alone," she continued, her voice cutting like shards of glass. "I hope you never have children, that the Hargrave line ends with you. Let it die, as Henry did. He was the only true heir to this family. You're nothing but an accident."

A sharp ache twisted in Tristan's chest, but he didn't allow it to show on his face. Years of practiced restraint, of perfecting his stoic exterior, kept his emotions buried deep.

He stood straighter, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing his pain.

The door behind him opened quietly, and Mr. Ralston, the family steward, appeared. The elderly man, with his kind eyes and perpetually worried expression, cleared his throat. "Your Grace, perhaps the dowager is... tired today."

"She has been tired since the day I was born," Tristan said dryly, his tone even, but there was no missing the edge. "I've come to accept that."

Ralston winced but said nothing more.

Without another glance at the dowager duchess, Tristan strode toward the door. Just as he reached the threshold, his mother's voice, barely above a whisper, reached his ears.

"You should have been the one to die."

He didn't turn around. Didn't flinch. But his steps quickened, carrying him away from the darkness that had engulfed his family since the day Henry was taken from them.