And Ash hated unfair things.
And for the first time, a thought—a dangerous, mad thought—took root in his mind.
Perhaps there could be more between us.
The idea hit him with the force of a well-placed punch to the gut.
He nearly staggered with it.
No.
That was insane.
He wasn’t the marrying kind. He wasn’t even the courting kind.
And even if he were, it wouldn’t bewith Clare. It couldn’t be with Clare, for reasons that had nothing to do with her sullied reputation.Ifhe were to marry, he would need a wife who would let him be. Leave him alone while he did as he wanted. Clare would never be that sort of wife. He already knew that about her. He’d make her miserable.
Wouldn’t he?
“Why are you asking about Clare?” Southbury’s voice cut through Ash’s tangled thoughts, snapping him back to the present.
“Oh, er, uh… no reason.” It sounded unconvincing, even to his own ears. He was never that ineloquent.
Southbury arched a brow, clearly suspicious. “Was there a reason you danced with her at the house party?” he pressed. “Other than nearly giving my poor pregnant wife a fit,” the duke drawled.
A slow, devilish smile curved Ash’s lips. “I wouldneverendanger my dear sister’s health.”
“Then whydidyou ask Clare to dance?”
Ash’s smirk deepened. “Because a beautiful lady deserves to dance,” he said smoothly, his tone light but laced with something else—something unreadable. Then after a beat, he added with a glint in his eye, “especially when she’s spent far too long standing on the edges of the ballroom.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Clare sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers toying with the folded slip of vellum in her lap. She had read it three times now, the single word written in Ash’s bold, slanted script—it was vague, but she knew exactly what he was asking.
Again?
Her body still thrummed with the memory of his touch, the way he had commanded her, unraveled her, put her back together again. It had been blistering. It had been reckless. And it had been exactly what she needed.
But it could never happen again.
Another scandal wouldn’t just ruin her further—it would destroy her. Her mother had made that clear. If she embarrassed the family again, if she drew any more whispers, there would be no mercy. She would be sent away to a convent, and this time, the threat wasn’t idle. Her mother had mentioned it more than once, and Clare knew she would follow through.
Living with her mother was unbearable, but at least she could sneak away and steal moments of freedom. A conventthough? Nuns watching her every move, judging, suffocating? The thought alone made her shudder. No. She needed to win the last bit of money necessary for her to leave the country. And the sooner the better. Once her mother came to fetch her in a fortnight, she wouldn’t have another chance to return to London until spring.
She sighed, pressing the vellum flat against her palm. She could say yes. She could go to him again, lose herself in him again, let him ruin her in the most delicious ways.
But that would be foolish.
She was already walking the razor’s edge of scandal. She had got what she wanted—what she had craved for years. A taste of Ashford Drake. An unforgettable coupling. And it had been glorious.
Now, she needed to stop before she lost herself entirely.
She picked up a quill, hesitated for only a moment, then scribbled her reply.
No.
She folded the note, sealing it carefully before handing it off to a footman with a good coin and instructions to ensure it reached Lord Trentham without delay. As the door shut behind the servant, Clare exhaled, steadying herself.
