Page 4 of The Marquess Match (Love’s a Game #3)

CHAPTER FOUR

A sh couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent such a restless day. He’d done everything expected of a man in his position—gone riding across the property with the other gentlemen in the morning, endured a tedious luncheon on the veranda with the entire party, taken an afternoon drink with Southbury in his study, and even walked alone through the orchards in a desperate attempt to shake the growing impatience inside him.

None of it helped.

By the time dinner arrived, he was in a foul mood, though he hadn’t fully admitted to himself why.

Then he realized she wasn’t there.

“Lady Clare will not be joining us this evening,” Meredith had said casually as they walked into the dining room. “She’s feeling unwell.”

A megrim, she had called it.

He hadn’t believed it for a second.

Clare Handleton was not a woman who retired early.

He had spent the evening feeling absurdly irritated at her absence, sipping his wine too fast, barely hearing the conversation around him. When he finally escaped to the study, he told himself it wasn’t because he was hoping she would be here.

And yet, here he was. He’d waited for too long. Far longer than he’d ever waited for anyone in his life, come to think of it. Patience was not a virtue he possessed. Still, something inside him held out hope. Told him to continue to pretend to read, even though he’d been staring at the same page of the book he’d opened for what felt like hours.

And then—finally—just as he was giving up hope, just as he was about to toss the bloody book aside and march up to his bedchamber, the door burst open, and Clare rushed inside. She was breathless and beautiful, her golden hair slightly mussed from her hasty movements. Her long limbs all fluid and graceful as she flew into the room like a goddess.

Relief. That’s what hit him first. Pure, undeniable relief.

“There you are,” he said before he could stop himself. Damn it.

Her lips quirked. “I thought you’d be gone by now,” she said rather breathlessly.

Ah, there was that refreshing candor again. Most of the women in his acquaintance wrapped their words in careful implication, laced with coy glances and false innocence.

Clare Handleton didn’t waste time with such nonsense.

Honesty deserved honesty in return.

“I was just about to leave,” he admitted. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“My mother was up later than expected,” she said, rolling her eyes and smoothing down her flaxen hair. “Reading, no doubt.”

“Really?” he drawled. “What does she like to read?”

A sharp laugh escaped Clare. “Treatises on how to handle scandal-ridden daughters, no doubt.”

Ash couldn’t help his smile. She was funny, Lady Clare. Funny, self-deprecating, and sharp. All things he admired. He narrowed his eyes at her. Tonight, she wore a bright-blue gown instead of a chemise. A real pity.

“Why weren’t you at dinner?” he asked before realizing he should have been more subtle about it.

Clare lifted a brow. “Didn’t Meredith tell you?”

“She said you had a megrim.”

“And?” A hint of amusement played at the edges of her full lips. “You doubted her?”

“Let’s just say,” he said as he moved to the sideboard, “you don’t strike me as a woman who suffers from megrims.”

He poured two fingers of brandy into a glass. He briefly considered pouring two glasses, but something told him she should be the one to decide if he drank tonight.

So he turned, extending the drink toward her. “Ladies first.”

She took it without hesitation, lifted it to her lips, and downed a hefty portion without so much as a blink.

Not even a cough.

He chuckled, watching her. “The lady can obviously hold her liquor.”

Clare handed the glass back to him, her fingers warm against his. “Are you surprised?”

“Not in the least.” He lifted the glass to his lips but didn’t drink. Instead, he tilted his head. “Do you have this at home?”

She gave him a knowing look. “Are you asking if I drink this every night?”

Astute. Very astute.

“Yes, that’s what I’m asking.” More honesty.

“Nearly every night.” She said it so matter-of-factly, as if it wasn’t something most women would never dare to admit. “Just enough to calm my nerves.”

He had expected her to dodge the question, to make a joke, to evade. Instead, she told him the truth again.

And he would be a hypocrite if he faulted her for it.

“I drink nearly every night too,” he said, taking a sip and handing the glass back to her.

She studied him. “For your nerves?” A slow smile played around her lips, teasing and clever.

“For the hell of it.”

That made her laugh. And damn if that sound didn’t do something to him. It was as if, in this room, they had made a silent pact—no lies, no games, only honesty.

It felt so damn good.

But then something shifted. Clare went quiet, running her fingertip along the rim of the glass, eyes focused on the amber liquid inside. She took a sip and handed him the glass. He took one too.

“Would you kiss me?” she asked suddenly.

Ash nearly choked. He laughed, shaking his head. “No.”

A beat of silence. Then, with an edge of something unreadable, she asked, “Why not?”

He slapped his chest, still trying to right the choking. “Isn’t it obvious?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Because I’m not pretty enough for you?”

That nearly made him spit out his brandy.

“What?” he barked, incredulous. “Christ, no.”

She just watched him, waiting, blinking at him with those unfathomable dark eyes of hers. Intelligent, watchful eyes that seemed to take in everything all at once.

He exhaled, forcing himself to focus. “Frankly, I don’t want you to think I’m trying to take advantage of you.”

She tilted her head slightly, considering. “What if I have a quite specific and quite good reason to ask you to kiss me?”

Ash handed the glass back to her, then he crossed his arms, eyeing her warily. “This ought to be good.”

Clare lifted her chin and gave her head a little shake. “Marsden was the first and only man who has ever kissed me.”

A muscle in Ash’s jaw clenched. Marsden was a horse’s ass .

“I don’t want him to be the last,” she continued. “I need to know if he was even any good.”

Ash bit his lip. Oh, damn. Careful, Trentham .

“I can tell you now,” he said slowly, allowing the barest hint of amusement to play about his lips, “knowing Marsden, he’s a rubbish kisser.”

“I don’t doubt it.” She took another small sip from the glass, her voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “But can you not take pity on me?” She blinked at him, her black eyelashes impossibly long, her pink lips ridiculously tempting.

Ash’s stomach tightened.

“I’d like a kiss that will wipe the memory of his from my mind forever.” She paused, then added, “And I’m convinced you’re the man to do it.”

Ash stilled. He had never been one to hesitate when a beautiful woman asked him for a kiss. He had stolen them in dark corridors, in moonlit gardens, in empty salons.

But this wasn’t just any woman.

This was Clare Handleton.

And something told him—something deep in his bones—that if he kissed her, there would be no forgetting it. Not for her. Not for him.

So he did the one thing he never did.

He hesitated.