Page 10 of The Marquess Match (Love’s a Game #3)

CHAPTER TEN

A sh had never been a man to obsess over a woman. He had spent years cultivating a reputation as the devil-may-care rakehell, the man who enjoyed a flirtation, a brief indulgence, a short-lived affair before moving on.

It wasn’t that he was incapable of attachment—he just never saw the point. Plus, there was the added delight that remaining a bachelor indefinitely would ensure that his bastard of a father—God rest the horrid man’s soul—would never have another heir.

Women were lovely, of course. Amusing, charming, sometimes even interesting. But never more than temporary distractions. And even though he’d lost a bet with Southbury last year and promised to look for a wife as a result, Meredith and Griffin had to be reasonable. Some men just weren’t meant to marry…and Ash was clearly one of them.

Yet here he was burning for Clare Handleton.

And it was utterly unlike him.

He had kissed her once. Only once.

It should not have been enough to unsettle him. It should not have been enough to consume him. And yet he couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was a damned nuisance, really.

He had spent the entire day restless and on edge, pacing the grounds, attempting conversation, drinking more than was necessary just to numb the ache of wanting her.

It hadn’t worked.

Everything about her haunted him—the taste of her, the sound of her breath catching as he kissed her, the way she had whispered, “Kiss me,” like a plea and a challenge all at once.

And that damned confession .

“I’ve been infatuated with you for absolute ages.”

Hell.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her standing in that study, all teasing smirks and knowing glances, as if she hadn’t completely undone him.

And the worst part? He knew— knew —he couldn’t cross a certain line with her.

She wasn’t like the other women who drifted in and out of his life, leaving behind only a pleasant memory and a vague sense of amusement.

Clare was different.

She had been branded by scandal. She had been cast aside, left with nothing but her defiance and that wicked, sharp smile. He knew if he took things too far, if he went any further than kissing, she would bear the brunt of the consequences—not him.

But none of that changed the fact that he wanted her.

Badly.

Good God. Why couldn’t he just forget it? Forget that kiss? Forget her? But he already suspected that he knew why. She’d been the one to put an end to things. She’d been the one to walk away. In the past, he’d always been the one to end things with any lady, no matter how insignificant their dalliance. He wasn’t proud of the fact that he couldn’t resist a challenge. But it was true. He needed one more kiss. One more kiss just to prove to himself that she was merely a woman like any other. Then he would put her out of his mind forever.

But he had to move quickly. There was only one night left of the house party.

He couldn’t leave without seeing her again. To that end, he’d sent his very discreet valet with a note to her room, asking her to meet him tonight in the study one last time.

And when the house finally settled into silence, when the guests had all retired to their bedchambers, he took another chance. He made his way down to the Southbury’s study.

And he waited.

Of course, he wasn’t even certain she would come. No doubt she was still hesitant to risk her reputation further. Perhaps she had decided after all that one kiss was all she wanted from him.

Perhaps she had gone to bed, completely unbothered, while he sat here like a fool, hard and aching and utterly wrecked with wanting her.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair. The clock on the mantel ticked. He didn’t even pretend to read the bloody book this time. He just sat there, staring into the fireplace, hoping with every part of himself that she was as interested in one last stolen moment with him as he was with her.

And then— finally —he heard the soft creak of the door.

He stood and turned just as Clare stepped inside the room.

And the moment she saw him, she sucked in her breath.

It was barely audible, just the faintest intake of air—but it told him everything .

She was pleased to see him.

Good.

Because he was half-mad with wanting her.

Ash tilted his head, watching as she shut the door behind her, pressing her hands to the door behind her back.

“This is our last night,” he murmured.

Clare held his gaze, her expression unreadable—but he saw the faint flush that crept up her throat, saw the way her fingers twitched at her sides, as if resisting the urge to move toward him.

“So it would seem,” she murmured back.

Ash studied her, his fingers clutching the back of the chair he stood behind, resisting the urge to cross the room and touch her.

“‘Would seem?’” he repeated, his voice low. “That’s not quite definitive.”

Clare’s lips curled slightly, as if she had expected him to latch onto that. She stepped forward, but not too close—just enough to tease him with her presence, with the maddening scent of her perfume. Like orchids. Perfect for her. Unique and compelling. “All good things must come to an end,” she said lightly.

That shouldn’t have stung. But it did.

He pushed the chair aside and stalked toward her, resisting the urge at the last minute to grab her hand. Instead, he watched her face. “Where will you go after tomorrow?”

“I’m going back to London,” she said. “Meredith invited me to stay with her for the autumn Season, and Mama has agreed.”

Ash swore under his breath. “That’s going to be an unholy temptation for me.” He had his own town house in London, but he was often at Southbury’s house, spending time with his sister and his closest friend.

Clare let out a small laugh, the sound wicked and knowing. “I expect you’ll find a way to manage.”

Doubtful.

Highly doubtful.

Ash had spent the last twenty-four hours doing a rubbish job of managing himself, and that had been with the entire house party as a buffer.

Now, she was going to be in his sister’s home? Within reach? A temptation laid before him nearly daily?

God help him.

“I’m not entirely sure why I came here tonight,” she announced. “You know as well as I do that there can be nothing else between you and me.” She said the words far too casually, as if they weren’t a decision so much as a decree. Then Clare turned back toward the door, pausing just as she reached for the handle. She glanced at him over her shoulder, her golden hair gleaming in the candlelight.

She was waiting for something.

For him to stop her?

For him to say something reckless and irreversible?

He did nothing.

Because he knew that if he touched her now, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

So he let her go.

But as the door clicked shut behind her, one thing became unbearably clear.

Things were not over between him and Clare Handleton.

Not at all.