“Oh, I’m well aware of who you are,” he murmured, tilting his head. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re here. A woman whose name is already whispered in scandal should be a touch more careful, don’t you think?”
She eyed him up and down. Oh, no. Not him.Hecouldn’t be smug. The man was far from a saint himself.
But let him think her reckless. Let him think her ruined beyond repair. “Your thought process is flawed,” she informed him. “Because one of the very few perks of being well and truly ruined is the freedom to do precisely as I please.” She lifted her chin in the air and narrowed her eyes at him. She took another sip of brandy.
Trentham pressed his lips together, as if suppressing a smile.He liked that. She could see it in the way his gray eyes sparked with something dangerously close to admiration. She had a feeling he’d only said what he had to see her reaction. She would never back down in the face of judgement. She had far too much experience with it.
“What are the other perks?” he asked. His voice was softer now, more curious than mocking.
She blinked. A small crease formed between her brows. “Pardon?”
“You said one of the few perks,” he reminded her. “I’m intrigued. What are the others?”
For the first time that night, Clare hesitated. He had caught her off guard. And worse—he had amused her.
A slow, knowing smile played at the corner of her lips.
“You’re very interested in my ruination, Lord Trentham.”
His eyes darkened slightly, the humor still there but laced with something heavier. Something unreadable. “I’m interested in a great many things.”
She refused to let herself react to the way he said it. Instead, she reached for her glass again, but he pulled it away, held itjust out of reach. Then he took another sip before handing the glass back to her. Their fingers brushed—brief, fleeting, sending an unwanted shiver up her spine. She could only hope he hadn’t noticed. That sort of information in the hands of a man like Trentham could be dangerous. It occurred to her that she’d never seen him like this. They’d never been alone together. Ash was normally the center of attention at every party. The devil-may-care charmer who held court with plenty of brandy and plenty of beautiful women fluttering about him. And Clare was the precise opposite. She rarely appeared in Society these days. And when she did, she’d made it a habit to stick to the sidelines, the shadows, where fewer people would see her. Where fewer whispers would start.
It was off-putting, being the sole focus of his attention here alone in the dark. Off-putting and…exhilarating.
“You’re down here in the middle of the night,” he continued, tilting his head. “Which tells me you havesomeregard for propriety, or you’d be here in the middle of the day.”
Her smile faltered, just for a second. He was astute. Perhaps more astute than she’d ever given him credit for. The man was beautiful, tall and muscled, with thick dark hair and steely gray eyes. A sharp jaw and a mouth so perfect it looked as if it had been carved from stone. A man so handsome was not usually clever as well. She supposed it had been a fantasy of hers, knowing him all these years, and assuming he was little more than a feast for the eyes.
“You could be here in the middle of the day,” he said, watching her. “Why aren’t you?”
That was an excellent question.
One that had little to do with scandal—and everything to do with the truth she wasn’t willing to speak aloud.
Because it wasn’t the thrill of rebellion that kept her awake at night.
It was loneliness. It was restlessness.
And it was the man standing right in front of her.
The Marquess of Trentham—the one man who had always made her feel something other than numb.
But she wouldn’t tell him that. She refused to.
Instead, she took another sip of brandy and let the slow burn of it fill the silence between them. Then she looked up at him with a slow, wicked smile.
“Because, my lord,” she murmured, handing him the glass, “some things are best done in the dark.”
CHAPTER TWO
Ash shifted his stance, letting the cool weight of the crystal tumbler rest against his fingers as he studied her.
Clare Handleton.
His sister Meredith’s closest friend and the woman every debutante in London had been warned not to become.
She stood before him, golden hair tumbling in wild, untamed waves down her back, her light-pink dressing gown slipping off one bare shoulder, revealing a thin white chemise beneath. She should have looked vulnerable like that, standing barefoot in the duke’s study, drinking stolen brandy in the middle of the night. But vulnerability wasn’t something Clare wore. No, she draped herself in defiance like the finest silk, her chin lifted, her mouth curved in an insouciant smile.
