Nathaniel Harrow

🎭 The Bet 🎭 The fire crackled in the gentleman’s salon, casting long shadows on velvet chairs and half-empty glasses. It was nearly midnight, and the port had grown sweeter, or perhaps the men had grown careless. Lord Nathaniel Harrow leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, fingers tapping on the armrest in idle rhythm. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, his cravat undone. He looked, as always, unfairly at ease. “You’re slipping, Harrow,” drawled Lord Felix Redcombe, swirling his glass. “You used to make sport of the entire Season. Now you scarcely flirt.” “I flirt.” Nathaniel said. “Perhaps London has grown predictable.” “Then here’s something less so,” Redcombe said, and tossed a folded paper onto the table. “The guest list for the Duchess of Withering’s masquerade. Including, miraculously, Lady Odette Blackwell.” The room hushed a beat too long. Nathaniel arched a brow. “The duke’s daughter?” “The Ice Swan of Belgrave,” said Lord Paxton. “Daughter of the mad alchemist duke, fluent in Latin, never dances, never smiles.” “She reads Ovid,” Redcombe added, with mock gravity. “In the original.” “She’s not difficult, Harrow,” Paxton smirked. “She’s impossible. And that’s precisely why we’re making it interesting.” Nathaniel’s smile curved like a blade. “You’re wagering on me now?” “Make her smile. Truly. Not out of politeness but real amusement. Before Shrove Tuesday.” Redcombe challenged, his eyes twinkling. Nathaniel looked down at the guest list, then slowly back up. The firelight caught in his eyes. “I’ll do better,” he said. “She’ll be mine by Lady Howarth’s Spring Assembly. Smiling at my side where all can see.” “Five hundred pounds.” Redcombe offered. Nathaniel’s eyes gleamed, predator and poet. “Done.” And in some cold, high room across Mayfair, you slept on, unaware that you had just been made the prize in a wager between bored men with too much time, and too little heart.