Page 14 of The Marquess Match (Love’s a Game #3)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

T he Onyx Club was everything the whispered rumors promised it to be—dark, decadent, and entirely without morals. Clare had been here before, many times, but never with the purpose she had tonight.

Black and gold adorned every surface, from the plush carpets beneath her slippered feet to the gilded chandeliers overhead, casting flickering light over the masked figures that lounged, drank, and gambled their inhibitions away.

Upstairs, behind locked doors and velvet curtains, the most elite members of the ton indulged in every sort of pleasure.

She had heard of this place from Marsden, of all people. That smug, selfish bastard had enjoyed boasting about his secret haunts, assuming she would be shocked and scandalized.

Instead, she had been intrigued. Little did Marsden know that telling her about the club would lead to her eventual freedom from the invisible shackles she’d worn since he’d tossed her aside.

Oh, yes, Clare had been here before. Many times. But always to gamble. Never to take a man upstairs.

Tonight, she intended to change that.

She adjusted the smooth black satin mask over her eyes and approached a roulette table, the hum of conversation surrounding her like an intoxicating spell.

The Onyx Club never failed to make her feel free. She was no stranger to scandal, to being whispered about behind fluttering fans with disapproving glances cast her way. But here at the club, there was no whispering save for wicked propositions. And judgment certainly had no place here. Reputation was something left outside the club’s tall wooden doors. And that suited Clare just fine.

Normally, she came here to win large sums of money from drunken fools. The same types of drunken fools who rubbed elbows with odious men like the Earl of Marsden. She felt no guilt for taking their money at the end of the night. Half of the men she won from here were cheating both at cards and on their long-suffering wives. If she managed to make their purses lighter before they went back home, so be it.

And Clare had only a few more wins to go. A bit more money to stash away before she would feel safe enough to implement her plan. As soon as she had the amount she desired, she intended to leave England, and her unforgiving mother , far behind.

Yes, normally, Clare came here to gamble. But tonight, she had another purpose in mind. A much more scandalous and no doubt much more pleasurable one. She’d given it a lot of thought over the last few days since seeing Trentham again at dinner. And she’d come to one conclusion: tonight she would have him.

After all, if the ton insisted on branding her a fallen woman, why shouldn’t she enjoy the fall?

And if she was going to risk everything again for a night of pleasure, there was only one man who had ever made her burn before he had even touched her.

Ashford Drake.

Of course, this could never be anything more. Marriage was unthinkable, and even an ongoing affair was too great a risk. She had too much to lose—most of all, her heart.

But pleasure? One night of pure, unforgettable pleasure?

That was entirely within reach. And the more she considered it, the more she craved it.

She’d only ever had Marsden’s sweating, pawing grunts to go by. That was no memory to carry for a lifetime. But Ash… Ash would be different. She knew it instinctively. She could tell by the way he touched her, by the control in his kiss, the barely leashed lust in his smoldering eyes when he looked at her. He would make it good for her. Of that, she had no doubt. She was in for a treat tonight. And she was greatly looking forward to it.

She placed her bet—a careless flick of the wrist, sapphire-gloved fingers tossing a single golden chip onto the red twenty-one.

Then she felt him.

The presence at her back—heat, awareness, a pull so visceral it stole her breath.

Her lips curved into a half-smile.

“Are you stalking me, my lord?” she murmured without turning.

A deep chuckle, low and rich as sin.

“I had a suspicion you might be up to something interesting,” Ash drawled. “Imagine my surprise to find you here.”

She turned then, catching sight of him. Of course, they had planned to meet here tonight, but it was more entertaining to act as if it was merely a chance encounter. Like the rest of the patrons, they both wore masks, allowing them to slip into the illusion of being someone else, if only for a little while.

She let her gaze travel over him with deliberate appreciation.

Damn .

The Marquess of Trentham was already a dangerously handsome man, but here—in all black, his broad shoulders framed by the dark cut of his evening coat, his mask obscuring just enough of his features to make him look even more wicked than usual—he was devastating.

His eyes, stormy and knowing, watched her from behind his mask, the silver-gray catching the candlelight as he tilted his head in amused assessment.

He was every bit the rake and the predator, and tonight, she wanted to be hunted.

“Tell me,” he continued smoothly, allowing his gaze to dip obviously to her décolletage , “do you always dress like a sapphire gemstone come to life when you gamble, or is this just for me?”

Clare let a slow smile curl her lips. “I suppose that depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you like it.”

His gaze darkened. “You already know the answer to that.”

A thrill shot through her, low and deep. She pressed her thighs together, already aching for him.

The croupier called the spin, the ball rattling against the wheel, and they both turned to watch.

Clare’s number hit.

The table erupted in murmurs and a few begrudging claps, but Clare barely noticed.

Not when Ash was still looking at her like that.

Like he wanted to drag her upstairs right then and there.

Clare collected her winnings, slipping them into the small satin reticule at her wrist.

Ash lifted a brow. “I believe I owe you congratulations.”

She tilted her head. “Feeling generous?”

“I was about to offer to buy you a drink,” he murmured, stepping just a little closer. “But I suspect what I really want isn’t on the menu.”

A sharp wave of heat shot through her. “Is that so?” she breathed.

His lips curved in that slow, wicked way that always made her stomach twist. “Tell me, Clare,” he said, voice low and intimate. “Are you here to win at the tables?”

She met his gaze, heat simmering between them. “Not tonight.”

His fingers brushed just along the inside of her wrist. A tease, a question, a promise.

“Then tell me,” he murmured, his voice dropping even lower, his breath warm against her ear. “What, exactly, do you want?”