Page 18 of The Marquess Match (Love’s a Game #3)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Next Day, Gentleman Jack’s Boxing Saloon

T he rhythmic thud of fists against leather echoed through the saloon, the air thick with sweat, exertion, and the lingering haze of cigar smoke from the men watching from the benches along the walls.

Ash drove his fist into the practice bag again, his bare knuckles smarting against the leather. It wasn’t enough.

Nothing was enough.

He had spent all night tangled in Clare Handleton’s body, his hands on her skin, his mouth at her throat, his name on her lips as she came apart beneath him—and yet here he was, aching for her all over again.

It should have been enough. It should have burned her out of his system.

Instead, it had only made things worse.

“Let’s go,” Southbury called, already circling in the ring, rolling his shoulders as he prepared for another round.

Ash strode over to face his friend, his fists at the ready.

“You’re distracted,” Southbury said flatly. “And when you’re distracted, you’re sloppy.”

Ash scowled, lifting his fists. “Sloppy, am I?”

Southbury lifted his brows. “Prove me wrong.”

Ash swung, a sharp jab, then a follow-up uppercut that Griffin barely dodged. The duke let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “There’s that temper. I thought perhaps you’d be aiming it at your sister after she read you the riot act the other night for failing to find a bride at the house party.”

“The house party. Ugh.” Ash grunted. “Don’t remind me.”

Southbury arched a brow. “Still planning to give me that horse of yours?”

“I don’t see why Meredith is so set on marrying me off,” Ash said with narrowed eyes.

“Perhaps she wants our child to have cousins,” Southbury replied with a grin.

“Isn’t Gemma going to have a baby? There’s a cousin for you.”

Southbury shook his head.

The two continued sparring, moving in tight, controlled circles. The rhythmic pounding of flesh against flesh and heaving breathing was the only sound between them for a while.

Finally, as they broke apart to catch their breath, Ash wiped the sweat from his brow and asked, far too casually, “What do you think about Clare Handleton?” Damn . He hadn’t intended to be that blunt, but the question had practically leaped from his lips.

Southbury gave him a sharp look as he adjusted his stance. “What about her?”

Ash shrugged, attempting nonchalance. “You and Meredith have known her for years.”

Griffin exhaled, lowering his fists slightly. “Yes. It’s a damn shame what happened to her. If I ever spot Marsden in a dark alley alone, I cannot be held responsible for what might happen to that blackguard.”

“I only hope I’m there with you when it happens,” Ash growled.

Griffin continued, “Meredith adores Clare, you know. And with good reason. She’s loyal, steadfast, whip smart. She’s one of the few people who’s ever been completely honest with my wife, and that’s a rare thing in our world.”

Loyal. Steadfast. Whip smart .

Ash swallowed hard.

All words that described Clare exactly.

Last night she had also been wicked and wild and completely uninhibited, pressing herself against him, daring him to do his worst, matching him stroke for stroke, moan for moan. It had been the most satisfying sexual experience of his life.

His stomach tightened at the memory.

He could still taste her.

Could still feel the imprint of her body beneath his hands.

And yet, despite all of that—despite everything they had done behind locked doors at the Onyx Club—she still had to live under the double standard that ruled their Society.

Nothing had happened to Marsden after he had ruined her.

Yet Clare was an outcast.

And to make matters worse, Clare had to endure her self-righteous mother’s constant belittling, as if she had any control over how the world had decided to see her.

It wasn’t fair. Damn it.

And Ash hated unfair things.

And for the first time, a thought—a dangerous, mad thought—took root in his mind.

Perhaps there could be more between us.

The idea hit him with the force of a well-placed punch to the gut.

He nearly staggered with it.

No.

That was insane.

He wasn’t the marrying kind. He wasn’t even the courting kind.

And even if he were, it wouldn’t be with Clare . It couldn’t be with Clare, for reasons that had nothing to do with her sullied reputation. If he were to marry, he would need a wife who would let him be. Leave him alone while he did as he wanted. Clare would never be that sort of wife. He already knew that about her. He’d make her miserable.

Wouldn’t he?

“Why are you asking about Clare?” Southbury’s voice cut through Ash’s tangled thoughts, snapping him back to the present.

“Oh, er, uh… no reason.” It sounded unconvincing, even to his own ears. He was never that ineloquent.

Southbury arched a brow, clearly suspicious. “Was there a reason you danced with her at the house party?” he pressed. “Other than nearly giving my poor pregnant wife a fit,” the duke drawled.

A slow, devilish smile curved Ash’s lips. “I would never endanger my dear sister’s health.”

“Then why did you ask Clare to dance?”

Ash’s smirk deepened. “Because a beautiful lady deserves to dance,” he said smoothly, his tone light but laced with something else—something unreadable. Then after a beat, he added with a glint in his eye, “especially when she’s spent far too long standing on the edges of the ballroom.”