Page 21 of The Marquess Match (Love’s a Game #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

C lare sat across from Ash in Meredith’s drawing room, tension winding between them like an unspoken challenge. The butler had served their tea and, at her insistence, left the door open as he withdrew. Even that felt too much. Too intimate.

“You expect me to believe that you just happened to visit your sister when she’s out paying her weekly calls?” she asked, carefully pouring cream into her teacup.

Ash’s own tea sat untouched beside him. He lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I thought she was no longer making visits in her condition.”

“She has a few more weeks yet,” Clare replied smoothly.

“Ah. I see.” His voice was mild, almost indifferent. But Clare knew better. This was no coincidence.

She should never have come down to the drawing room.

She had refused him at first, had sent the butler back again and again with firm denials. But after Spaulding’s third return—flustered and informing her that Lord Trentham refused to leave—she had relented.

Now, faced with Ash in an otherwise empty house, she knew she had made a mistake.

She stirred her tea vigorously, focusing on the rhythmic clink of the spoon against porcelain, trying desperately to ignore how very good he looked in his casual buckskin breeches, white shirt, and emerald waistcoat. “You might as well say what you came to say.”

Ash leaned forward. “Why won’t you see me again?”

Her fingers tightened around the spoon. “Lower your voice,” she hissed, casting a glance toward the open door.

“I don’t care if anyone hears,” he said flippantly.

“Well, I do.” She shot him a sharp look.

He exhaled through his nose, as if reining in impatience. “Fine,” he whispered. “But tell me—why?”

She set her spoon down, her hands deliberately still. “Because I cannot.”

His jaw tightened. “Cannot, or will not?”

She let out a breath, barely above a whisper. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head, staring down at her tea. “We both know this is impossible.”

“I know it’s not wise,” he corrected, viciously scrubbing a hand through his hair. “That’s not the same thing.”

“You’re making light of something quite serious.”

His eyes darkened. “You think this isn’t serious to me?”

She met his gaze, trying to summon detachment. “I think you are a man accustomed to saying whatever is necessary to get what he wants.”

Without hesitation, he slid from his chair to kneel before her, capturing her hand in his. “I am saying this because it is the truth. I cannot stop thinking about you.”

“Get up,” she insisted, panic flashing through her. If the butler returned, or if a maid happened by—God, what would they think?

“Not until you look at me and see how goddamned serious I am.”

Her breath caught as their gazes locked. There in his expression, in the quiet intensity of his eyes—she saw it.

He meant it.

Damn him.

“All right,” she whispered. “I believe you.”

Something flickered in his expression, relief and something deeper. “Do you?”

“Yes,” she said, firmer now. “Now, for God’s sake, get up.”

With a measured breath, he rose and smoothed a hand down his waistcoat, regaining his composure. “It’s true. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. If you can honestly say you haven’t thought of me since that night at the club, I will leave.”

She closed her eyes. “I want to say it.”

“But you can’t?”

A groan of frustration escaped her as she pushed to her feet, pacing toward the window. “Why are you doing this?”

He followed, his presence a heat at her back. “I am not in control of it any more than you are.”

She turned to face him, squaring her shoulders. “Very well. I do need to go to the Onyx Club again.”

His brows pulled together. “Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

“What reasons?” His gaze narrowed on her face.

She shook her head. “That is not the point.”

He studied her, frustration tightening his jaw. “When?”

She hesitated. “Saturday night.”

Something shifted in his expression, the tension easing just slightly.

“If you are there…” She glanced away and drew in a steadying breath. “So be it.”

He let out a long exhale, closing his eyes briefly before meeting hers again. She had not given him what he wanted. Not exactly.

But she had given him enough.