The Duke's Dangerous Wager

Chapter 2

The glow of the chandeliers cast a warm, golden light over the crowd, and the late summer heat was stifling. The room was lovely to be sure, but to Isla Everly, it felt more like a gilded cage. She stood near the edge of the room, her back straight, hands clasped lightly in front of her—a picture of poise and grace. Inside, however, her thoughts thundered like a team of horses that had broken free from a carriage.

The light blue of her gown was a sharp contrast to the more cream and ivory tones favored by the other young ladies. Its subtle hue was intentional. Her dark hair was arranged in an elegant chignon, a few tendrils artfully escaping to frame her face.

She had taken care with her appearance—just enough to stand out from the crowd, but not so much as to make it obvious.

Isla's sharp green eyes scanned the crowd, noting every movement, every whispered conversation, every sidelong glance. This was her second season, and by now, she could easily see through the carefully constructed facades, recognizing the same desperation that lurked beneath her own skin.

Her family's situation was dire, the debts mounting with each passing day. Her father's health was failing, and her younger sister, Charlotte—sweet, naive Charlotte—was blissfully unaware of it all. A gentleman approached, his face handsome but utterly forgettable.

Isla quickly raked her gaze over him, analyzing his clothing. It was of good fashion, but the fabric was not as expensive as she needed. She allowed him a polite smile as he bowed, though inwardly, she sighed. Although she had a title and a good family name, those did little to pay the bills.

"Miss Isla," he began, his tone smooth. "You look positively radiant this evening. Might I have the honor of this dance?"

Isla's smile didn't waver, though she felt a flicker of annoyance. She could not afford to give the dance to an unsuitable man. She needed to be ready for the slightest chance that a wealthier gentleman might take interest.

"You are too kind, my lord," she replied, her voice cool but polite. "However, I must decline. My sister is here, and I would not want her to feel unattended. Another time, perhaps."

The gentleman hesitated, clearly disappointed. He bowed again, murmuring something about understanding her sisterly duties, and then retreated into the crowd. Isla watched him go.

She was so tired of the game. Tired of pretending.

In truth, the gentleman might have been kind, may have even been agreeable. Such a match would be nice, but she could not settle for 'nice.' She was too tired of the game. She had to marry a man of great wealth, even if he was a brute.

"Rejecting suitors again, I see," came a voice from behind her, light and teasing. Isla turned to see her sister Charlotte standing there, her cheeks flushed with excitement from the last dance, her blue eyes sparkling. Charlotte was the very picture of youthful innocence. Her pale ivory gown was a soft contrast to Isla's blue.

"Not suitors, Charlotte. Merely admirers," Isla corrected, her tone gentle but firm. "And I have little patience for admiration tonight."

Charlotte's smile faltered slightly, and she reached out to take Isla's hand. "Isla, you know what Father would say. He does not wish for you to marry for—"

"Father is a good man, dear Charlotte, but he is too much of a dreamer," Isla finished with a wry smile. "I do not have time to waste on kind but poor gentlemen."

Charlotte's expression grew more serious, her grip on Isla's hand tightening. "I wish you wouldn't take it all on yourself. Father—he doesn't say it, but I know he worries about you, about how much you're trying to do for us."

Isla looked down at their clasped hands, her heart softening. Perhaps Charlotte had been able to guess more than she thought.

Charlotte was always so earnest, so eager to help, but there was little she could do—little that Isla would allow her to do. Isla had taken on the burden of their family's troubles long ago, and she had no intention of letting Charlotte carry any of it.

"I'm fine, Charlotte," she said, squeezing her sister's hand reassuringly. "You have enough to think about with your own prospects, and tonight is about enjoying yourself, not fretting over me."

Charlotte's smile returned, though it was tight at the edges. "I just want to see you happy, Isla. You deserve that much."

Happiness. The word felt foreign on Isla's tongue, as if it belonged to someone else, some other life where she wasn't weighed down by responsibility and regret.

"I'm exactly where I need to be," Isla said softly, her gaze drifting back to the crowd, always on the lookout for the next wealthy gentleman. "And that is enough for me."

But even as she said the words, something twisted deep inside her—something she didn't dare acknowledge, not even to herself.

As if sensing her need for distraction, Charlotte perked up, her eyes widening as she spotted someone across the room. "Isla, isn't that the Duke of Ashford? He's looking this way."

Isla's heart skipped a beat at the name. Her attention snapped to the exact spot where Charlotte pointed. Sure enough, there stood Tristan Hargrave, the Duke of Ashford. His tall, imposing figure was unmistakable even in the crowded room. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his sharp features giving him an air of cold, untouchable authority. And those eyes—piercing blue and utterly unreadable—were indeed focused directly on her.

A shiver ran down Isla's spine, and not the pleasant kind. Although she had never met the man in person, she was well acquainted with The Duke of Ashford. She had seen his name often enough on her father's papers.

"Ignore him, Charlotte," Isla said quickly, turning her back to the Duke as if that could somehow shield her from his gaze, erase her from his sight. "He's not worth the attention."

"But Isla," Charlotte protested, "he's a duke. He's one of the most sought-after bachelors this season. Don't you think—"

"I think," Isla interrupted, her tone sharper than she intended, "that we will do well to stay far away from that man."

"But you said you wanted a wealthy suitor," Charlotte began, blinking in surprise.

Isla cut her off sharply. "Anyone but him," she snapped. "I'd marry a mangy dog before I saw myself wed to him."

Charlotte dropped her gaze obediently. "Of course, Isla. I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," Isla cut in, her voice softening. She forced a smile, though it felt brittle on her lips. Taking Charlotte's hand, she said, "Please, do not mention him to me again."

Charlotte gave a small, awkward nod. The young woman had never done well with conflict.

"Return to the ball, my dear. Enjoy yourself," Isla urged. Charlotte didn't need any more prompting and quickly returned to the ballroom for the next set, soon finding a dance partner, leaving a trail of wistful young men behind her.

Isla sighed inwardly, wishing she could share in her sister's carefree enjoyment of the evening.

As she glanced back at the crowd, she caught sight of the Duke of Ashford once more. He was still watching her, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, their eyes met. Heat crawled up Isla's neck, burning her cheeks and ears. She clenched her gloved hand to hide the trembling.

Tristan Hargrave—the man who would see them tossed out into the street at the slightest provocation.

As quickly as the moment had happened, it was over. Isla tore her gaze away, her pulse quickening until it pounded in her ears. She could not afford to be distracted. She had more important things to focus on than her hatred for the Duke of Ashford. Such as her family's survival.

But even as she tried to convince herself of that, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to happen. It was as though she stood at the edge of a cliff, her toes hanging over the sharp stone, peering into the darkness below.

Isla lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. She would not fall prey to fear. Her family couldn't afford for her to be weak.

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