Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
Hartley had watched Lady Isabella and the Duke of Rolle re-enter the ballroom.
The duke had looked ashen. Desperation all but written across his features, as though he could not be rid of Lady Isabella quickly enough.
He returned her to Ravensmere and the duchess, speaking hurriedly before taking a bow and leaving as promptly as he had arrived.
Hartley tracked his progress through the crowded room, noting the quick pace and stiff posture. Curiosity got the better of him and he followed, wanting to speak to him about what had transpired outside on the terrace.
He caught up to Rolle before he joined a group of their mutual friends. “Rolle,” he called, his tone low but firm. “What happened on the terrace?” he asked when he was closer and sure no one was listening to their conversation.
There were games afoot and he was determined to get to the bottom of them. If Rolle had won the bet, he needed to know. He ground his teeth at the thought, putting his annoyance down to losing a thousand pounds and not the jealousy he feared it may be instead.
Rolle regarded those nearby. Seeking assurance of their privacy he lowered his voice. “Nothing occurred. But not without Lady Isabella’s considerable attempt to alter that outcome.”
A cold chill ran down Whitmore’s spine. His hands stilled at his sides, and he fought not to clasp the duke’s lapels and demand and answer. The noise of the ballroom dimmed beneath the sudden rush of blood in his ears. “What are you saying?”
Not that he particularly wished to know if Lady Isabella was more inclined toward the duke than him. He told himself his concern stemmed solely from the wager—and he never lost. Yet a deep, unwelcome thought stirred. Perhaps, in this case, he did care.
A first for him.
“I do believe that Lady Isabella,” the duke continued, “was attempting to lead me away from the crowd on the terrace to… How shall I say it? To experience her first kiss.”
Whitmore’s jaw tightened. He pursed his lips, fighting the urge to not let the information discompose him.
He could almost see her in his mind’s eye, standing beneath the terrace lanterns, her hair catching the moonlight, her lips parted in expectation.
The image struck him with an uncomfortable force.
“You must be mistaken,” he said at last. “Lady Isabella is the daughter of a duke. She would not act so fast or reckless no matter our attempts to make her do otherwise.”
Certainly she had not done so with him. A pity, perhaps, for he could see himself kissing her—and enjoying that pastime exceedingly well. The thought of her soft mouth beneath his own, the faint tremble of her breath, sent an unwelcome heat through his blood.
He shook the thought aside. It was not helpful.
“She was quite flirtatious,” the duke replied evenly, “and I am not so certain we should continue with this bet. I have since met someone… A Miss Wilson from Bath, and I do believe I like her more than anyone I have encountered in society these past years. I would not wish to lead Lady Isabella on, nor allow her to develop feelings that will not be returned.”
Hartley narrowed his eyes. “Now you have a conscience and are worried about hurting her female heart?”
“I was foxed when I suggested the bet. You should not have accepted it.”
He should not have, but he didn’t need to be told such a thing, especially from Rolle. Who the hell did he think he was? “So I’m to blame for this farce?” he stated.
“Well, no…” the duke stammered.
Hartley sighed. “So, I win the bet, and you owe me one thousand pounds.”
The duke held up his hand, wagging a finger. “Nay, you have not won her hand yet—whether I am involved or not. And since she has shown a liking for me, it does not seem likely that you will succeed. So you shall continue this wager alone and we shall see if you are bestowed a kiss from her.”
Whitmore arched a brow, masking irritation behind a lazy smile. “Very well, the game remains. And if you prefer Miss Wilson, by all means, pursue her. I am more than willing to double my money at your expense.”
“We shall see whether the Marquess of Whitmore is as roguish and tempting enough to the fair Lady Isabella.”
“Oh, you shall see,” Whitmore added, his grin widening. “My reputation speaks for itself and I shall not fail wooing her.”
The duke smirked. “I think Lady Isabella will be more of a challenge than you believe. She seemed quite determined earlier if I’m to read between her fluttering eyes and pouty mouth. I do not think she likes you in that way and prefers me instead.”
Hartley could tell the duke was riling him up, deliberately provoking his ego to gain a reaction. He was trying to see how far he could push before Whitmore lost his temper—or worse, cut him dead in society.
He would not take the bait.
“You are lucky we are friends,” Whitmore said, his tone cool, “else I might take offense at that remark. But I will overlook it and you shall see, Your Grace. I will win her first kiss—and whatever else she might be inclined to bestow.”
A spark of mischief lit within him, though beneath it simmered something deeper, something he refused to name. The thrill of pursuit no longer felt like a simple wager. Oh no, it had begun to stir unease he could not quite dispel.
“I would wish you success, but then, that would mean I would be a thousand pounds poorer, so I shall keep those sentiments to myself.”
Hartley chuckled. “A kiss does not need to mean anything more than what it is,” he murmured almost absently, “Lady Isabella will come to realize that universal truth.”
The duke smirked. “I fear your confidence will be your undoing.”
“I will relieve you of the wager soon enough,” Whitmore said, his tone deceptively light. “You will see, by the end of the Season, that one thousand pounds will be mine.”
“Well then,” the duke replied, adjusting his cuffs. “If you will excuse me, I see Miss Wilson across the room and I wish to speak with her.”
Whitmore inclined his head. “Good luck to you, too.”
He watched the duke depart, a smug smile curving his lips. The orchestra had struck up another set, violins and flutes weaving through the hum of voices. Candlelight shimmered off crystal chandeliers, scattering tiny sparks of gold across the polished parquetry floor.
For a long moment, he remained where he was, the crowd swirling about him in a blur of color and gaiety. Then his gaze swept the ballroom, searching.
Lady Isabella stood near the far wall beside her sister and brother-in-law, her posture graceful, her fan moving in slow, deliberate arcs.
The pale silk of her gown caught the candlelight, the faint shimmer of silver thread gliding like moonlight across water.
Her laughter, soft yet vibrant, reached him even through the din of the crowd. It struck him squarely in the chest.
He took a steadying breath and rallied himself.
Indeed. She would be his, and if not tonight, then soon.
Very soon.
Hartley started in her direction, weaving through clusters of guests with effortless charm.
The murmurs of the ton followed him—admiring glances, whispered remarks, a few jealous sighs.
He was used to such attention, wore it like armor.
But tonight, for reasons he could not quite explain, it felt heavier than usual.
His smile sharpened. He could almost taste the anticipation in the air, the charged hum between hunter and prey. Lady Isabella Ravensmere might not know it yet, but their little game was far from over.
And he intended to win.