The Duke's Dangerous Wager

Chapter 10

The door to the study closed behind them with a dull thud, sealing off the room, leaving Tristan standing in the dimly lit hallway with Miss Everly at his side.

She moved like a woman in a trance, her face pale and unreadable. He watched her for a moment, unsure whether to speak or leave.

The night had spiraled out of control faster than he could have imagined, and now here they were—engaged.

Did I do the right thing?

The thought tumbled over in his mind. He had felt so certain when he'd seen the look on Sinclair's face, but now, as he gazed at Miss Everly, stiff and silent, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd only made things worse for her.

She turned without a word, her steps quick and silent as she moved through the corridor and down toward the back of the house. Without hesitation, Tristan followed her, even as an uneasy knot twisted tighter in his gut.

They stepped out into the night, the cool air heavy with the scent of damp earth.

Miss Everly stormed ahead, the soft grass muffling her footsteps as she made her way into what must have been once a grand garden. Now, the garden seemed like a shell—overgrown hedges tangled with weeds, flowerbeds left untouched for the season. Even the stone path beneath his boots was uneven and cracked in places.

Miss Everly stopped abruptly near a crumbling stone bench, the moonlight casting shadows across her face. She stood there, her back to him, her shoulders tense and rigid.

Tristan took a step forward. He was not used to seeing such vulnerability, and it made it difficult to breathe. But another part of him—the part that had awakened the moment he kissed her—whispered in the back of his mind to reach out for her.

"Miss Everly," he began softly, his voice low.

Without warning, she spun around, her eyes blazing with anger. Before he could react, her hand flew up, and the sharp sting of her slap rang out in the quiet night.

The force of the blow sent a jolt through him. His cheek burned from the strike. He blinked, momentarily stunned, but he didn't flinch or pull away.

Her breath came in short, furious gasps, her face flushed.

"How dare you," she hissed, her voice trembling. "How dare you touch me with your false kindness, as if you've done me some great favor tonight."

Tristan's chest tightened, but he remained still, meeting her fiery gaze with a calm intensity. He would not try to defend himself, though the urge to explain his actions was strong. He knew better than to fan the flames of her hurt.

Instead, he allowed her anger to wash over him. He had chosen this storm, and he would weather it.

"You think I am some game?" she spat, her voice rising. "Were you and Sinclair at war to see who could ruin my life first?"

Tristan opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off, taking a step forward, her eyes bright with tears.

"I know exactly who you are, Duke of Ashford. You ruin people's lives for sport. You prey on the weak and the defenseless. You thrive on their pain, and now you've trapped me. And for what?"

His jaw clenched, but still he said nothing. The truth of his actions twisted in his gut like a knife. Yes, he had made a wager on her honor. He should never have allowed himself to hurt her.

"Were you not satisfied with taking everything away from us? Did you see me about to make a match with another gentleman and think, 'ah, there's a perfect opportunity to ruin her life yet again?'"