The Duke's Dangerous Wager

Chapter 9

The carriage wheels clattered over the cobblestones as they made their way through the dimly lit streets. Isla sat rigidly beside the duke. Charlotte sat across from them, glancing between the two with wide, confused eyes.

The night had grown colder, and though Isla's gloved hands were clasped tightly in her lap, a chill seeped into her bones. It felt as if a heavy stone rested against her chest, making it difficult to breathe.

She dared not look at the duke. Every time his presence brushed against her—a shift in his coat, the faint scent of leather and sandalwood—her stomach twisted. How could she have let this happen? And now the most impossible task awaited her: informing her father.

The silence in the carriage was suffocating, broken only by the occasional rattle of the wheels.

Charlotte cleared her throat nervously.

"Isla," her voice was soft, cautious. "I thought..."

Isla's throat tightened. "Please greet my fiancé."

Charlotte, who had still refused to acknowledge the engagement, furrowed her brow. "But yesterday, you said—"

Isla's gaze remained fixed on the shadowed window, her heart pounding against her ribs. "The duke has made his intentions clear."

A moment of stunned silence passed before Charlotte spoke again. "I cannot approve of this marriage."

The duke stiffened beside Isla.

Her words felt bittersweet to Isla.

Yes, she did hate him. Every fiber of her being rebelled against the idea of marrying the man who had so carelessly destroyed her family. But now she was caught in a web that he, himself, had spun.

She had foolishly been deceived by Sinclair's mask. She hadn't recognized his voice. But as soon as the Duke of Ashford had said his name, she knew she was ruined. Sinclair would not let her go. If the duke had not proposed to her...

Isla blinked hard, shaking away the dark thoughts. "Things have changed," she muttered, though the words tasted like ash in her mouth. "Do as I say. Greet my fiancé."

"Your Grace," Charlotte murmured, dipping her head toward the duke.

Stiffly, he nodded back.

As they approached their home, the modest estate loomed in the darkness. The carriage came to a halt, and Tristan was the first to step out. He offered his hand to Isla.

She hesitated for a brief moment, staring at it. The thought of touching him filled her with anger.

Nevertheless, she placed her gloved fingers in his, ignoring the way her heart rate increased at the unbidden memory of the way he had kissed her.

The duke helped Charlotte down, and together they ascended the steps. The door to the house creaked open as they entered, the familiar smell of old wood and fireplaces in need of cleaning filling the air.

Isla's stomach knotted tighter as she braced herself, struggling to breathe in her corset. .

Struggling to conceal her emotions, Isla nodded toward the stairs. "Go to bed, Charlotte. I shall speak to Father."

"But—"

"Please, Charlotte," Isla said more firmly, her voice betraying her with a slight break. "I shall explain it all in the morning."

Charlotte hesitated. She drew herself to her full height and stared directly at the duke. "I shall hate you forever," she snapped, then turned on her heel and disappeared up the stairs.