The Duke's Dangerous Wager

Chapter 15

Isla smoothed her dress, trying to compose herself before heading back to the garden. The letters were tucked away in her room, but she could not remove the stain of fresh ink on her fingers. Or the stain of shame on her heart.

She paused beside a mirror in the hallway, gazing at her drawn face. She pinched her cheeks and lips to add a bit of color and forced a smile. I am fine. Everything is fine.

As she stepped outside, the morning sun felt warm against her skin, but her hands felt cold and clammy. She found Francis still engrossed in his play, the duke now seated on a low stone bench nearby, watching the boy with an indulgent smile. Their laughter had quieted, but the peaceful energy remained, a brief reprieve from the chaos swirling in her mind.

"Francis," Isla called softly, her voice trembling slightly. She hoped neither of them would notice. "It's time to go inside and eat."

Francis looked up, dirt streaked across his cheeks and a proud grin on his face. "Can Tristan come too?" he asked, glancing between her and the duke, his eyes wide with hopeful excitement.

Isla smiled, though it felt more like a mask she wore to hide her inner turmoil. "You musn't address him so, dear. He is the Duke of Ashford."

"Can the duke come eat too?" Francis corrected, his nose wrinkled in annoyance at her correction.

"Not today, darling. I'm sure the duke has other duties to attend to."

Francis pouted but didn't argue, obediently standing and brushing the dirt from his trousers. "Will you come again, Tristan?" he asked, his voice small, as if he feared the answer would be no.

The duke chuckled warmly, reaching out to ruffle the boy's hair. "I shall, Francis. You can count on it."

As Francis scampered back inside the house, Isla lingered, her eyes following her brother's retreating form. He was so young, so innocent. She would do anything to protect him from the harsh realities of their family's situation—and from Sinclair.

When she turned back to the duke, he was watching her with a curious expression, his dark eyes soft, yet probing.

"You're good with him, Your Grace" she said quietly, more to break the silence than anything else. "Francis doesn't warm up to many people these days."

"Please, call me by my Christian name," the duke said, stepping closer. Gently, hesitantly, he took her hand. "We are to spend a lifetime together, after all."

"Thank you... Tristan," Isla swallowed hard. Where his hand held hers, her cold fingers thawed.

"He's a good boy," Tristan continued, his tone thoughtful as he looked toward the door. "I see a lot of myself in him." He paused, his gaze flickering with something she couldn't quite place.

"Grief has taken a toll on him," Isla murmured.

A brief silence settled between them before Tristan spoke again, his voice hesitant. "My mother... hasn't been the same since Henry's death. She rarely leaves her room, and I doubt she even notices when I visit her anymore. But she might respond to you."

Isla blinked, taken aback. "To me? Why?"

He shifted uncomfortably, his brow furrowed. "She loved Henry. He was... everything to her. I think it would comfort her that I am fulfilling my duties—" He stopped, catching himself. "I do not know. Perhaps I'm just a fool."

Isla's heart squeezed. This was a side of Tristan she hadn't seen before—vulnerable, uncertain. He was usually so composed, so fearsome, that it was easy to forget he was human beneath the title and duty.