Ash had always known Clare Handleton was trouble.
She wore it like a crown, carried it with the kind of effortless grace that made people forget she hadn’t chosen this reputation—it had been thrust upon her. She’d been ruined eleven years ago. Ruined and shunned. A terrible fate for a debutante. And instead of trying to claw her way back into Society’s good graces, she had simply shrugged, smirked, and made sure she hadthe last laugh. Which meant she had courage. Courage and an insolent streak. Who wouldn’t admire such a woman?
Scandalton, thetonhad named her.
She didn’t mind that moniker either, apparently. She’d just reminded him about it, actually, as if she couldn’t care any less.
Even now, standing in the dim glow of moonlight, barefoot and draped in nothing but silk and shadows, she looked completely at ease. As if this were her kingdom, and he was the one trespassing.
God help him, he liked that about her.
He liked a lot about her, actually. Her attitude, her demeanor, her…beauty. And she truly was a beauty. Tall, lithe, with blonde hair and dark eyes that shimmered with amusement and sparked with defiance. He’d never been alone with her before. Never had reason to. But tonight he was noticing her in a completely different way. That nearly see-through shift she was wearing didn’t help matters. Her body looked as if it was made for a man’s hands, and her face was equally gorgeous, with high cheekbones and long black lashes.
And despite her reputation, Meredith would not be so close to her if she wasn’t a good sort. Loyal. Steadfast. Clever. And witty. All things his sister valued in her friends. All things Meredith was herself.
Ash eyed Clare up and down. It was a pity what had happened to her. And damn unfair if you asked him. Women couldn’t make the same mistakes men did. The consequences were far different.
Everyone in thetonknew what had happened. Clare had been ruined, discarded, left to rot in the margins of polite Society. Some whispered in pity, others in scorn. But Clare? She only ever smiled in that slow, wicked way, as if she were in on a joke no one else understood.
But Ash understood. He was only too familiar with the disapproval of theton. Only he’d courted it. Wanted it. To the great concern of his beloved sister, he’d created a reputation for himself that left much to be desired. If Clare was a walking scandal, then Ash was a scandal magnet.
Yes, he and Scandalton had something in common all right. And here they were, alone in the dark, drinking stolen liquor like two people who didn’t belong anywhere else. And honestly, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so intrigued by a woman.
Clare lifted her gaze to his, her eyes glinting like polished amber in the moonlight. “Don’t you know my story, Trentham? I’m damaged goods.”
Ash took a deliberate sip from the glass he’d stolen from her, savoring the way her lips parted slightly in surprise. “You’re nothing of the sort,” he said, voice low and certain. “And I know the Earl of Marsden. He’s the biggest ass I’ve ever met.”
Something flickered in her eyes. Not gratitude, not exactly. More like…acknowledgment. A sharp glint of respect, maybe.
“That sounds like him,” she murmured. “Though I wasn’t aware that everyone knew his identity.”
“The ladies may not, but I assure you the gentlemen do, and we’re all itching to club Marsden in the head given the opportunity.”
“Really? I never knew. I’d like to join that hunting party.”
She was so damn close. Her breath brushed his skin, laced with brandy and something softer underneath—something sweet he couldn’t name but suddenly wanted to taste.
Ash exhaled slowly, willing himself to keep his hands right where they were. Off her.
If Meredith hadn’t been hosting this house party, Clare wouldn’t have been invited. If Meredith weren’t the sister of a marquess and a duchess in her own right, half the ladies inattendance would have refused to come, just to avoid breathing the same air as Lady Clare.
But Meredith was Meredith. And Scandalton was Scandalton.
It would have been easier if she were a naïve, wide-eyed debutante. If she batted her lashes and blushed prettily at his attention, like the rest of the ladies in attendance at this house party that his sister had insisted he attend. Because then he could have stolen a kiss and convinced himself it was harmless.
But Clare wasn’t innocent.
And for that very reason, he would never dishonor her like that.
Not her.
Not after what she’d been through, after the way the disapprovingtonhad already stripped her of everything and left her with nothing but her pride and that sharp-edged smile.
Damn it all though—hewantedto kiss her.
“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. “The earl wasn’t worth it.”
A crack of laughter escaped her, sharp and unexpected. “How well I know it.”
