Page 11 of The Marquess Match (Love’s a Game #3)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

C lare had nearly made it back to her room when a sound across the corridor made her pause. She turned sharply, pulse hammering, just in time to see the shadows shift near the window.

“Who’s there?” she demanded, heart lodged somewhere between her ribs and her throat.

The curtains stirred, and Lady Julia Fairbanks stepped out.

Clare let out a breath, pressing a hand to her chest. “Good Lord, Lady Julia, I nearly died of fright.”

“Did you?” Julia’s voice was honeyed poison, smooth but laced with something sharper underneath.

Clare’s spine stiffened. If she’d merely suspected the debutante was up to no good before, she was certain of it now.

Julia moved toward her with a deliberate grace, the hem of her dressing gown skimming the floor. She stopped just in front of Clare, making no attempt to disguise the slow, calculating way her gaze raked her from head to toe. The disdain on her face was almost impressive in its effort.

Clare lifted her chin, her expression settling into a perfectly neutral mask. She’d long grown used to the judgment of those who considered themselves superior. It was practically a sport among the well-bred—eyeing her like a bit of spoiled fruit. Honestly, it was getting boring.

“I was just going to bed,” she said evenly, fingers curling around the door handle. “Goodnight.”

“Wait.” The order was clipped, practiced. No doubt Julia was used to getting what she wanted.

Clare shut her eyes for a moment before turning, mustering every last scrap of patience she did not, in fact, possess. “Yes?”

Julia stood there in her tightly cinched dressing gown, draped in moral superiority. Covered from head to toe as if that alone absolved her of whatever mischief had led her here in the first place. The irony was almost delicious.

“You will not win him, you know.”

Oh, for God’s sake.

“Pardon?” Clare deadpanned, though she could already see where this was going. The sheer predictability of it made her stomach twist.

“You heard me,” Julia said, voice dripping with sweet venom. “Lord Trentham. He’s looking for a decent wife. Not a whore like you.”

Oh, how lovely. A good, old-fashioned insult wrapped up in the delicate lace of propriety. Clare felt the heat rise in her chest, but instead of giving Julia the satisfaction of a reaction, she simply exhaled. A pitying smile tugged at her lips.

“Say that again,” Clare said softly.

Julia’s eyes flashed. “I said he’s looking for a decent wife. You can never be that, and you know it.”

Clare tilted her head, taking her time before responding, letting the silence stretch long enough to make Julia shift ever so slightly. Then she smiled.

“Oh, darling,” she said, voice like silk. “How do you know he’s not looking for a bit of fun? Because we both know you couldn’t manage that if you tried.”

Julia gasped, scandalized, but Clare didn’t stay to watch the indignation spread across her face. She turned, opened her door, and shut it firmly behind her, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her lips.

Ah, it was lovely to picture Julia standing outside her door, wrapped in virtue but seething with rage.