Page 22 of The Marquess Match (Love’s a Game #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Saturday Night, The Onyx Club

T he Onyx Club was alight with the blaze of a thousand candles hanging from the golden chandeliers that graced the ceiling of the large space. It was a tempest of sound and sin, alive with laughter, filled with people indulging in their worst impulses. Drinking, gambling, seducing—giving in to the recklessness that Society claimed to abhor yet secretly craved.

Clare had long since learned to keep to the shadows. Even here, in a place where rules were made to be broken, she preferred not to be seen. Tonight was no exception.

She had done well at faro. More than well. Now, she turned her luck to the roulette table, playing the numbers Marsden had whispered to her once—the ones that his scheming cohorts had ensured would land more often than not on this particular table. A trick. A deception. But the world had deceived her first, hadn’t it?

If someone had told her eleven years ago that she would one day be sitting in a club like this, slipping past the edges of Society to cheat at games of chance with plans to escape the country, she would have laughed in their face.

Now, she didn’t laugh.

She just kept playing.

And then—she felt him.

The air around her changed. It grew warmer, tighter, like the space itself recognized his presence before she had even turned her head.

She looked up.

Their eyes locked across the room.

Ash.

He wore black again. Of course he did. As if he needed to look any more dangerous, any more ruinous. Storm-gray eyes cutting through her, stripping her down to the place inside her that still burned for him.

Because she did burn for him.

She had tried to forget. Tried to pretend the memory of him—the way he had moved against her, inside her, the way he had murmured her name like it belonged only to him—did not take up so much space in her memory.

But it did.

And the way he looked at her now told her he knew it.

She was wearing red tonight. A foolish choice. Red was for women who wanted to be seen. She had spent years perfecting invisibility, and yet she had worn the one color that made her impossible to ignore.

The ball spun, the wheel clattered, the croupier called the number.

She won.

Again.

She schooled her features into feigned surprise, playing the role of a woman delighted by luck. But Ash’s gaze sharpened. He was perceptive, and now—he was wondering.

How was she winning so easily?

Her pulse pounded. She swept her winnings into her reticule and rose. She did not hurry. Did not flee. She walked with measured steps toward the bar.

But he was behind her in an instant.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.

“I’d like a drink tonight,” she said lightly.

His voice came from just behind her, low and familiar, roughened in a way that sent heat curling through her belly. “Brandy?”

“Champagne.”

She slid onto a stool, ignoring the way her skin prickled in awareness of his nearness.

Ash ordered their drinks, his eyes never leaving her.

“Why did you come here tonight?” he asked.

“To gamble.” The answer was immediate.

His brows furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“I have plans.” She met his gaze steadily. “Plans which require a certain amount of money.”

He looked even more confused. “Money? Why do you need?—”

She exhaled. The words came as evenly as she could manage. “I’ve nearly saved enough to leave England.”

A beat of silence.

Then he said softly, almost disbelievingly, “What?”

She turned, leveling him with a look. “Lower your voice.”

But his entire body had gone still. “You’re leaving England?”

“Yes.”

His jaw clenched. “Does Meredith know?”

“No. And I don’t want her to. When my mother comes looking for me, I don’t want Meredith to be forced to lie. Once I’m safe, I’ll write.”

His hands curled into fists against the bar. “Where will you go?”

“The Continent. Most likely France.” She lifted her glass and took a slow sip. “They’re more forgiving there.” A ghost of a smile. “I intend to tell everyone I’m a widow.”

His throat worked as he swallowed. “When?”

“As soon as I have enough.”

She could feel his frustration mounting, the energy coiling between them like a gathering storm.

“I’m nearly there,” she murmured, patting her reticule. “And I don’t have much time. My mother is coming for me before the end of the month.”

Something flashed in his expression—something she could not name.

“Why?” His voice was raw. “Why are you leaving?”

She arched a brow. “Would you stay in a Society that openly shuns you?”

His breath came rougher now. She could feel it more than see it.

He was upset.

And she—she was unraveling.

She had prepared for this conversation. Had thought herself ready to say the words and mean them. To walk away from him without looking back.

But the way he was looking at her now—like he wanted to consume her, like he wanted to stop time itself just to keep her here—made something inside her crack.

His voice was a quiet plea. “Come upstairs with me.”

She should say no.

She should leave, flee into the night, never look back.

But his voice was in her blood, his hands already whispers against her skin, and against all sense, all reason, all the careful plans she had spent years making?—

“Yes,” she whispered.

And then his hand was in hers, pulling her toward ruin.