“I’m looking forward to it,” Ash murmured.
But he wasn’t looking at his sister.
He was looking at Clare.
And Clare knew.
That dinner wasn’t about family obligations.
God help her. It was about her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
London, Thursday Night
Ash had spent the last four days trying to rid himself of his inexplicable, unhealthy, perhaps disastrous attraction to Clare Handleton.
And he had failed. Spectacularly.
He had fenced until his arms ached, boxed until his ribs were sore, and ridden through Hyde Park at a punishing pace, as if sheer physical exhaustion could drive her from his mind.
It hadn’t.
Not even his weekly faro game at the club, surrounded by brandy, smoke, and the usual meaningless conversation, had done the trick.
Nothing worked.
Because Clare had said she was infatuated with him. And because he wanted to kiss her again. He couldn’t stop thinking about either thing.
It was ridiculous. It was inconvenient. It was maddeningly frustrating. But it was true. And it was not simply the words themselves, butthe way she had said them—that teasing liltin her voice, the knowing gleam in her eyes. Like she’dbeen keeping a delicious secretand had finally decided to let him in on it.
She had meant it too. That much he was certain of.
And that knowledge had become a persistent, maddening itch he couldn’t quite reach.
So here he was, arriving at Meredith’s London town house on a Thursday evening, feeling like a damned fool for how much he wanted to see Clare again.
The butler showed him into the drawing room, and Ash made a valiant effort to appear relaxed. He poured himself a drink, leaned against the mantel, and told himself—for the hundredth time—that he needed to get this thing under control.
He lifted his chin, straightened his shoulders, and cleared his throat. He was a grown man, a marquess, a member of the peerage for Christ’s sake. He should be able to quash his attraction to one beautiful female.
Then Clare entered the room, and control became a thing of the past.
She had changed.
Not just into evening attire, but into something altogether more dangerous.
Her gown was a deep, rich burgundy that clung sinfully to her curves, the neckline just low enough to make a man’s thoughts turn wicked. Her golden hair was pulled up, but a few loose tendrils had escaped, curling softly at her nape.
She was, quite frankly, fucking stunning.
And the way she looked at him? Like she knew exactly what she was doing to him, making his cock ache unbearably.
“Lord Trentham,” she greeted, amusement tinging the edges of her voice.
“Lady Clare,” he drawled, setting down his glass. He should have bowed politely, but instead, he lingered—taking his time, letting his gaze drift lazily over her.
Her lips twitched. “You’re staring.”
