Page 35 of The Marquess Match (Love’s a Game #3)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

C lare sat curled in the corner of the settee, a book open in her lap, though she hadn’t turned a single page in over twenty minutes. The words blurred together, unread and unabsorbed, her mind too preoccupied with the events of the morning.

Her mother’s unexpected arrival had upended everything.

She had been so close. So agonizingly close.

This morning, when she’d stepped onto the doorstep, valise in hand, her heart pounding with the thrill of escape, she had felt freedom at her fingertips. And then—there she stood. Her mother. A force of nature in lace-trimmed traveling attire, looking down at Clare with that razor-sharp gaze of hers, suspicion nipping at the edges of her perfectly controlled expression.

Clare had fumbled for an explanation, but before she could form the words, the butler had arrived, his presence a temporary reprieve from Mama’s scrutiny. Then Meredith and Griffin had come down, bright and cheerful, welcoming their new house guest with warmth and ease, while Clare had seized the opportunity to slip away.

Back in her room, she had shoved the letters she’d left out into the depths of her drawer, pressed the valise to the farthest corner of her wardrobe, and locked away any lingering hope of escape.

She had waited too long.

And, infuriatingly, her mother had arrived too early.

The timing had been cruelly perfect. Clare had written to Mama last week, assuming she would arrive after the Merriweathers’ ball as planned. The ball that was scheduled for tonight.

Her mother, of course, had made quite the show of insisting that she and Clare stay in and rest. That a ball was frivolous, unnecessary. They would return to the countryside in the morning, away from prying eyes and whispered conversations.

Clare hadn’t argued. What did it matter? The only thing that had mattered—her escape—had been stolen from her.

But Meredith had been persuasive, as always. And eventually, Mama had relented, agreeing to allow Meredith and Griffin to escort Clare to the ball tonight.

“I hate to be the object of gossip,” her mother had said pointedly, the words laced with sharp-edged disapproval. Clearly indicating that Clare was the one responsible for the whispers. That she was the one who ought to be ashamed.

Clare had said nothing. She didn’t care whether she went to the ball. What difference did it make? She had lost her chance. The reality of her failure settled in her chest like lead.

She had been so close—so close to leaving this life behind, to disappearing before Ash could convince her to stay, before her mother could dictate her future, before Society could finish writing her story for her. And yet, she’d failed.

And she knew precisely why.

Her fingers curled tightly around the edges of her book.

It was Ash.

She’d been loath to leave Ash. So she had lingered too long. Held onto something that was never meant to last.

Now, she would have to wait until spring. There was no sneaking out of the country in the dead of winter. The servants there were all terrible gossips, and Clare had no doubt they would report any unusual behavior back to Mama. Not to mention the mail coachman would recognize her in an instant and ruin any attempt at secrecy.

No. London was her only hope of escape. And after tonight, she wouldn’t be allowed to return until spring for her annual shopping trip with Mama.

At least Ash didn’t know what she had tried to do this morning. That she had planned to disappear without a word, to leave him behind without so much as a good-bye. He’d tried more than once to get her alone to talk today, but he soon learned how closely her mother watched her during waking hours.

Clare exhaled slowly, closing her book.

The only amusing part of the day had been watching Ash interact with Mama.

Clare was used to people fawning over her mother. To watching them bow and scrape, treating Mama as if she were some long-suffering saint, the most tragically put-upon mother in the entire ton . She relished it, thrived on it, played the part of the martyr so well that even Clare, at times, almost believed it.

Meredith was one of the few who refused to indulge her, and today, Ash had done the same.

It had been unexpected. Startling, even. He had watched her mother with the same quiet calculation that Clare had come to know so well, but instead of playing along, instead of offering sympathies or praise, he had treated Mama as if she were the one who ought to be ashamed.

Luncheon had been a brittle affair. Clare sat rigidly beside her mother, Meredith and Griffin occupying either end of the table, while Ash sat directly across from the two ladies.

Clare maintained a carefully impassive expression while Meredith, ever gracious, attempted to draw her mother into conversation. Ash, meanwhile, seemed wholly uninterested in the soup, the silver, or the strained pleasantries—his attention remained fixed on Clare. She did not dare meet his gaze.

“We’re enjoying such seasonable weather this year,” Meredith offered with a hopeful smile.

“Indeed,” Griffin replied, eager to assist.

“I only hope it holds until we return to the country,” Clare’s mother said coolly, lifting her spoon with delicate precision.

“You prefer the country, then?” Griffin asked politely.

A pause.

“Hardly,” her mother replied. “But some households are compelled to retreat from Town when certain daughters have rendered London… less welcoming.”

Griffin looked as though he might choke on his wine. Clare’s face burned.

Ash’s voice cut through the silence, smooth and measured. “One might say such misfortunes reflect less upon the daughter, and more upon those tasked with her care.”

Clare’s head snapped up. Had he truly just said that? No one spoke to Mama like that. Ever.

Her mother set her spoon down with quiet precision. “Are you suggesting I lacked vigilance, Lord Trentham?”

Ash offered a faint, unreadable smile. “Only that it’s unfortunate when a young woman’s brilliance goes unnoticed by those closest to her.”

Her mother’s chin lifted. “And yet, some things like impropriety are impossible to conceal—no matter how charming the packaging.”

“Perhaps,” Ash said lightly. “But some observers are clever enough to recognize a true gem, even when others prefer to overlook it.”

A pause stretched, taut as piano wire.

Mama, for once, had no ready retort.

The moment was brief. But in it, something shifted.

Clare looked at Ash fully for the first time that afternoon, her breath catching at the quiet resolve in his gaze. He hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t spoken out of turn—and yet he had done what no one else ever had.

He had stood up for her. Calmly. Without apology.

Her mother turned her attention back to her soup, the matter, for now, dismissed.

But Clare could scarcely taste a bite. The sting of humiliation still lingered—but beneath it, something warmer remained.

She lowered her eyes again, not out of shame, but to steady herself. Her heart, it seemed, was no longer entirely her own.

And so it had continued throughout the day. Later, when Mama had made another biting comment—something else designed to remind Clare of her place—Ash had silenced her with a look. A single, deliberate look that carried more weight than words ever could.

Her mother had begun to watch him with unveiled disdain.

It was the most gratifying moment Clare had enjoyed in years while in her mother’s presence.

By seven o’clock that evening, Mama had withdrawn to her guest room, complaining of a megrim, while Clare sat at her dressing table, gazing at her reflection, desperately searching for a reason to forgo the Merriweathers’ ball.

She could picture it already. The glances, the whispers. Ash, standing across the ballroom, living the life he was meant for, while she was expected to fade into the background. To disappear, as if she had never existed at all.

She would be perfectly content to stay in. To remain hidden, safe from prying eyes and disapproving stares.

Then Meredith appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, expression set in unmistakable determination. “You’re not ready?” she asked, giving Clare a once-over.

Clare didn’t even look up. “I’m not going.”

“Yes, you are.”

She sighed. “Meredith?—”

“You cannot keep hiding forever,” her friend interrupted, stepping farther into the room.

“I’m not hiding.”

Meredith arched a single, unimpressed brow.

Clare exhaled sharply, setting down her hairbrush with a quiet thud. “I simply don’t enjoy these gatherings.”

“Come on, Clare. You haven’t been out socially in weeks.” She placed on a hand on her belly. “And this is the last time I’ll be able to go out in Society for months.”

“I haven’t been out socially in years ,” Clare muttered. “And I’ve survived just fine.”

Meredith rolled her eyes. “You used to love parties. And you cannot let them win.”

Clare stiffened. “Let who win?”

“The ones who whisper behind their fans. The ones who think you’re too ashamed to show your face.” Meredith met her gaze, steady and unyielding. “You aren’t ashamed, are you?”

Clare narrowed her eyes. “Of course not.”

“Then come,” Meredith pressed. “Let them see you. Besides, this is your last taste of freedom before the winter.”

Clare hesitated. Her friend knew her well, knew which argument to use to convince her. And normally, she would refuse. She would let them all go without her, content in the quiet solitude of her room.

But tonight… Tonight, something shifted.

Perhaps it was Meredith’s words, the reminder that she had spent too long letting Society control her. Perhaps it was the anticipation of Ash’s absence, the emptiness that was already settling in her chest at the thought of not seeing him again after she returned to the country tomorrow.

Or perhaps, just perhaps, she was tired of being the woman everyone whispered about.

Lifting her chin, she met Meredith’s gaze. “Fine. I’ll go.”

A bright smile covered Meredith’s face. “Good. Let’s make them remember who you are.”

And for the first time in a long time, Clare intended to do exactly that.