The Duke's Dangerous Wager

Chapter 4

Music filled the air as the masquerade ball was in full swing. The grand hall teemed with swirling figures in costumes of silk and velvet. Ornate masks concealed the faces of the ton, filling the room with a festive spirit.

But Tristan felt none of the gaiety that seemed to infect the rest of the crowd.

He moved through the throng like a dark shadow. His black mask, shaped into the snarl of a devil, had its desired effect—people edged out of his way.

Something flashed at the corner of his vision, and he turned on instinct. Those golden curls. He would recognize them no matter how elaborate the costume.

Lady Marion Marchmont. She was here. He had not seen her since—

His heart stuttered in his chest, and sweat formed on his brow.

There she was, her golden curls cascading down her back, her slender figure draped in a gown of silver silk. The thin lace mask she wore did little to hide her small, upturned nose and sharp, keen eyes. Her silver dress made her appear almost ghostly, and the effect was not lost on Tristan. She floated toward him, her steps so even and precise that her skirts hardly swayed.

Tristan turned, snatching a glass of wine from a passing footman. He drained it quickly, hoping the drink would dull the edge of his unease. Perhaps she hadn't noticed him. Perhaps she wouldn't recognize him with his mask.

As if summoned by his thoughts, she appeared before him, stepping out of the swirling crowd like a beautiful ghost rising from the dead. Her pale blue eyes, visible through the delicate lace of her mask, gleamed—though not with mirth.

"Your Grace," she greeted him with a deep curtsy, her tone dripping with false sweetness. "I did not expect to see you here. I didn't think you would dare show yourself."

Tristan inclined his head, grateful that his mask concealed his expression.

"Lady Marion, the same could be said of you. I wasn't aware you had returned to London."

Her lips curved into a wooden smile.

"London has a way of drawing one back, especially when there are unresolved matters."

"A newlywed such as yourself should be enjoying her honeymoon, not frittering away time at a ball meant for matchmaking."

"Haven't you heard?" She tilted her chin, the movement accentuating the line of her neck. "Newly widowed."

"Shouldn't you be in mourning?" Tristan asked, tightening his grip on his glass.

"I did enough mourning the first time. There's no need to mourn the second husband as deeply."

The weight of her words made Tristan's skin prickle. Was she implying something? He searched her face, but whatever secrets she held, she hid them well behind that sly smile.

"I have come to believe," she continued, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, "that the past has a way of catching up with us, doesn't it?"

The fine crystal cut into Tristan's palm. "The past is where it belongs," he replied coolly. "Buried."

"Is it?" she mused, tilting her head in a way that reminded him both of a lovely songbird and a vulture. "I wonder, Your Grace. I wonder if that's truly the case."

Before he could respond, she stepped closer, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, "Some secrets refuse to stay buried, Tristan. Perhaps it's time you knew that."

With that, she pulled back, her smile broad with satisfaction. "Enjoy the ball, Your Grace. I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other."

She turned and sauntered into the crowd, leaving Tristan standing there, his pulse hammering in his ears. The ground seemed to sway beneath his feet, as though the very earth were dropping away from him.