Page 1 of The Marquess Match (Love’s a Game #3)
CHAPTER ONE
Surrey, October 1818, The Duke of Southbury’s Country Estate
W earing nothing but her chemise and a silk dressing gown that clung to her body like mist, Lady Clare Handleton moved soundlessly down the dim corridor. The chill of the marble staircase seeped into her bare feet as she descended, her fingers trailing absently along the polished banister. The weight of silence pressed against her, heavy and familiar. Darkness swallowed the grand foyer, broken only by the pale glow of moonlight spilling through the high windows. Her breath was steady, her pulse an old, familiar drum against her ribs.
She had grown accustomed to moving in the dark, and she knew these halls. She was in her dearest friend’s country home, after all. Meredith Brooks and her husband, Griffin, the Duke of Southbury, were two of her only friends. They had stayed loyal when all others had long since disappeared.
The grand foyer stretched before her, awash in silver moonlight, its vastness making her feel small. But she ignored the sensation, as she always did. Pushing forward, she made her way down another long corridor and slipped through Southbury’s study door with the ease of someone who had spent years mastering the art of going unnoticed.
Not that she cared whether she was noticed any longer.
She closed the door with careful precision and crossed to the sideboard. The crystal decanter gleamed in the soft light, and without hesitation, she lifted it, pouring two fingers of the duke’s finest brandy into a heavy glass.
The first sip burned, a slow, spreading warmth winding through her. She exhaled, long and leisurely, letting her head tip back as the tension in her limbs melted away. Her unbound blonde hair cascaded past her waist, and for the first time that day, she allowed herself the illusion of peace.
Until a voice shattered it.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
It was a deep, male voice. Rich, husky, sinful. Unmistakably amused.
Clare didn’t startle. She had mastered the art of concealment years ago—never let them see, never let them know.
She forced her eyes open, turning toward the voice with deliberate slowness, as though she had all the time in the world. Another trick she’d mastered over the last eleven years.
The study was steeped in shadow, but she knew instantly who he was. And it wasn’t the duke.
The voice was too smooth, too practiced in the ways of troublemaking.
She took a step forward, and as she did, the moonlight shifted, revealing him.
Ah. So it was him.
Plenty of trouble. Or could be, depending on how this conversation unfolded.
Ashford Drake, the Marquess of Trentham and Meredith’s older brother, sat there. His tall, muscled form sprawled with the kind of ease that suggested he belonged anywhere he chose. The sharp cut of his cheekbones, the knowing tilt of his lips—everything about him radiated mischief, barely concealed beneath a veneer of aristocratic boredom.
And damn him, he was watching her with a look she felt .
“You?” she asked, lifting her glass to her lips again, meeting his gaze without hesitation.
Trentham unfolded himself from the chair with the effortless grace of a predator stretching after a long, indulgent rest. In a few unhurried strides, he stood before her. Close enough that she could smell the faint trace of his expensive cologne and something even more arousing beneath it—something undeniably male .
“Something like that,” he murmured, his voice roughened by amusement.
Before she could react, he plucked the glass from her fingers, the heat of his touch lingering against her skin. He lifted it to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip as he held her gaze.
“This is Southbury’s finest brandy,” he noted, his voice all lazy observation.
“I know,” she replied. “That’s why I wanted it.”
A slow grin curved his lips. “Does he know you’re here?”
“Does he know you’re here?” she countered, arching a brow at him. She’d long ago stopped answering questions simply because they were asked. Another art.
Trentham laughed—low, quiet, and far too pleased.
“Don’t you know?” she mused, stepping just a fraction closer, her voice dipped in the kind of defiance that had earned her her reputation. “You’re speaking to Lady Clare Handleton, better known as Scandalton.” There . That should tell him how little she cared for rules.
“Oh, I’m well aware of who you are,” he murmured, tilting his head. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re here. A woman whose name is already whispered in scandal should be a touch more careful, don’t you think?”
She eyed him up and down. Oh, no. Not him. He couldn’t be smug. The man was far from a saint himself.
But let him think her reckless. Let him think her ruined beyond repair. “Your thought process is flawed,” she informed him. “Because one of the very few perks of being well and truly ruined is the freedom to do precisely as I please.” She lifted her chin in the air and narrowed her eyes at him. She took another sip of brandy.
Trentham pressed his lips together, as if suppressing a smile. He liked that . She could see it in the way his gray eyes sparked with something dangerously close to admiration. She had a feeling he’d only said what he had to see her reaction. She would never back down in the face of judgement. She had far too much experience with it.
“What are the other perks?” he asked. His voice was softer now, more curious than mocking.
She blinked. A small crease formed between her brows. “Pardon?”
“You said one of the few perks,” he reminded her. “I’m intrigued. What are the others?”
For the first time that night, Clare hesitated. He had caught her off guard. And worse—he had amused her.
A slow, knowing smile played at the corner of her lips.
“You’re very interested in my ruination, Lord Trentham.”
His eyes darkened slightly, the humor still there but laced with something heavier. Something unreadable. “I’m interested in a great many things.”
She refused to let herself react to the way he said it. Instead, she reached for her glass again, but he pulled it away, held it just out of reach. Then he took another sip before handing the glass back to her. Their fingers brushed—brief, fleeting, sending an unwanted shiver up her spine. She could only hope he hadn’t noticed. That sort of information in the hands of a man like Trentham could be dangerous. It occurred to her that she’d never seen him like this. They’d never been alone together. Ash was normally the center of attention at every party. The devil-may-care charmer who held court with plenty of brandy and plenty of beautiful women fluttering about him. And Clare was the precise opposite. She rarely appeared in Society these days. And when she did, she’d made it a habit to stick to the sidelines, the shadows, where fewer people would see her. Where fewer whispers would start.
It was off-putting, being the sole focus of his attention here alone in the dark. Off-putting and…exhilarating.
“You’re down here in the middle of the night,” he continued, tilting his head. “Which tells me you have some regard for propriety, or you’d be here in the middle of the day.”
Her smile faltered, just for a second. He was astute. Perhaps more astute than she’d ever given him credit for. The man was beautiful, tall and muscled, with thick dark hair and steely gray eyes. A sharp jaw and a mouth so perfect it looked as if it had been carved from stone. A man so handsome was not usually clever as well. She supposed it had been a fantasy of hers, knowing him all these years, and assuming he was little more than a feast for the eyes.
“You could be here in the middle of the day,” he said, watching her. “Why aren’t you?”
That was an excellent question.
One that had little to do with scandal—and everything to do with the truth she wasn’t willing to speak aloud.
Because it wasn’t the thrill of rebellion that kept her awake at night.
It was loneliness. It was restlessness.
And it was the man standing right in front of her.
The Marquess of Trentham—the one man who had always made her feel something other than numb.
But she wouldn’t tell him that. She refused to.
Instead, she took another sip of brandy and let the slow burn of it fill the silence between them. Then she looked up at him with a slow, wicked smile.
“Because, my lord,” she murmured, handing him the glass, “some things are best done in the dark.”