by Maya Rodale
“And so complex numbers can be represented on geometric diagrams and manipulated using trigonometry and vectors,” Claire continued.
She observed that the gentleman whom the duchess had introduced her to—she hadn’t bothered to remember his name—looked bored. Good. He did not appear to be in imminent danger of proposing marriage. Even better.
Claire loved math and she was truly passionate about it and all the other formulas with which one could answer questions and solve mysteries. Numbers spoke to her. She understood them. They played by the rules, always.
Claire was equally passionate about not getting married. Not yet anyway—not while her younger sisters were unwed and James was still unsettled in his new role. She had made a promise to her dying mother that she would always make sure they were happy. And Claire couldn’t do that if she lived away from them, with a husband and household to manage.
Those things would also get in the way of her true passion. Deep down, Claire felt she was too smart for merely managing household accounts. She wanted more for herself.
The duchess, however, had other ideas. Or rather: idea. If she could see the Cavendish sisters wed—to Englishmen, in England—then James would certainly stay and assume his title and all its responsibilities. He wasn’t keen to be a duke; the idea of returning to America had been mentioned more than once, much to the duchess’s dismay and horror.
And so the duchess constantly thrust eligible gentlemen before the girls and performed one introduction after another, hoping that sparks might fly and matches would be made.
Bridget was making a valiant effort to fit into society; she even had a beau she liked. Amelia, however, was acting out by saying scandalous things or acting ridiculously and avoiding all lessons in etiquette, dance, or anything that would make her into a proper young lady.
Claire’s strategy was to talk about math. Most people’s eyes glazed over when she did. Most gentlemen thought it unbecoming for a woman to possess a brain and to make use of it for thoughts other than how to please men. Speaking of math kept suitors at bay, leaving her free to focus on her siblings’ happiness and her own intellectual pursuits, all without giving the duchess reason to think she was deliberately trying not to get married.
Besides, if she ever were to marry—once she saw her siblings settled—it certainly wouldn’t be to the sort of narrow-minded man who thought a woman oughtn’t use her brain.
Anyway, she would much rather talk about mathematics instead of the weather, even if she was only talking with herself.
“I do enjoy the study of Argand diagrams,” she said.
“How fascinating,” he said, even though it was anything but to nearly everyone but her.
Every “exchange” was so predictable. Next she would say, “What topics do you find of interest to study?”
And then the gentleman would say, “I beg your pardon, I believe I promised this dance to someone.”
And she would say, “It was a pleasure speaking with you,” as if she meant it. And she did, a little.
He would say, “Indeed,” and be gone and she was free to stand by the sidelines with a bland smile pasted on her face while she contemplated numbers and all the things one might do with them.
But tonight was different. Tonight she was interrupted. Tonight a man approached her, apparently of his own volition, without the duchess dragging him along. This was something gentlemen of sense no longer did. Therefore, he must not be a gentleman of sense.
“Good evening, Lady Claire,” he murmured as he bowed.
He was handsome; she had to give him that. Tall, brawny, dark hair, and what could only be described as a smoldering gaze.
“Good evening. I don’t believe we have been introduced,” Claire said. If they had not been introduced, then they were not to speak, which did not exactly break her heart. Men as handsome as he were bound to be vapid, vain, and in love with themselves. They sought women who would reflect this back to them. She was not his girl. There was no point in wasting either of their time.
“You wound me, Lady Claire. Do you not remember?”
She blinked once, twice, trying to place him.
“I beg your pardon. I have met so many gentlemen and they are all . . .”
“Choose your words carefully,” he said with a grin. “Hearts are on the line.”
“British. They are all very British.”
“Why do you make that sound like an insult?”
“It must be a natural consequence of my American accent,” Claire replied. “Did the duchess send you over to speak with me?”
“I come of my own free will.”
“How curious.”
“You’ll have to explain. I’m just often slow to put two and two together.” He gave her a rakish smile. And a wink. How insufferable.
Claire smiled weakly. She had immediately identified and confirmed his type: handsome in a base, elemental way. Charming, in a simple way. Accustomed to having women swoon at his attentions. And he admittedly could not put two and two together, while she did things with two and two that would make his brain melt.
This man, whoever he was, was not for her.
“But who needs to put two and two together anyway?” he continued. “Mathematics are such a dreadful bore. Would you care to dance?”
“I’m afraid this dance is already claimed by another gentleman,” Claire told him.
She hadn’t expected him to care, and yet she saw a flicker of something in his eyes. But then he drew himself up to his full height in that way men did when they had something to prove.
“Is that so? Well, then, perhaps later this evening.”
Why was he so intent upon dancing with her? Most men asked once, out of politeness, she lied and said her dance card was full, and that was that. She’d only had a few lessons and was a terrible dancer—another reason for her to scare away gentlemen before they could invite her to waltz.
He also had to know that she was one of those Americans—and the bluestocking one, too. Surely he must know that there was no reason for a man like him to associate with a woman like her, unless he was after her dowry, in which case, good riddance.
“I’m afraid my dance card is full.”
“For the whole evening?”
For infinity.
“Yes, for the whole evening.”
“Pity, that. I’m an excellent dancer.”
“I have every confidence that you are.”
Truly, she did. She could tell from the way he stood and the way he held himself that he was supremely comfortable in his body and confident with himself. He was obviously strong. And exceptionally well-muscled. And now she was thinking inane thoughts about this man’s muscles.
How absurd.
Mere proximity to this man seemed to lower the level of her thoughts.
“I know how to move a woman across the dance floor so it feels like she’s flying. Or floating on a cloud. Or making love,” he murmured in a way that was probably supposed to be devastatingly romantic, but that she found somewhat mortifying. “Not that you are supposed to know that.”
“Am I now supposed to tell you that in truth my dance card is not full and that I am a liar? Am I to be exceedingly rude to the gentleman who reserved this dance, by jilting him for another? Do tell—what is the intended outcome of such a statement?”
He appeared flummoxed, but she was used to flummoxing men.
“I thought I would let you know what you are missing. I do like to give a girl something to think about.”
“I assure you I have plenty to think about,” she said darkly.
“Dance with me,” he murmured, undeterred.
“This—” she gestured to him, in general, with his muscles and supposedly charming manner and smoldering looks “—this may work with the other ladies, but it will not work with me.”
Mere moments later
Though not on the scale of Arabella’s jilting of him, Lady Claire rebuffing his invitation to dance marked the sec
ond time this week—or ever—that Fox had, well, lost.
As the eldest son of a wealthy aristocrat, Fox had been born with every advantage into a life of ease and leisure. He had people to handle the things that didn’t interest him. And when it came to his two passions of women and sport, he played with the best and always won.
His natural athleticism meant that triumphing on the playing field came easily to him—and so did all the trophies and accolades.
Women usually threw themselves at him. Fox just had to smile and murmur a few choice words to the woman who struck his fancy and she was his. Such was life for a man of his rank, wealth, face, and body.
It was his expectation that life would continue in this manner.
And then, suddenly, the world had turned upside down.
It seemed everyone was witness to it.
As he made his way out of the ballroom, it proved impossible to ignore the stares and the whispers, and the fact that they were not of the adoring and swoon-inducing variety to which he was accustomed. Fox shot them all a murderous look; the subject of their conversation quickly shifted and they looked away.
Lady Claire made his head spin. But fine, most things did.
But Lady Claire was obviously impervious to his charms and she had a way of twisting things around and tying him up in knots when most women smiled coyly or laughed prettily. His attempts at banter and flirtation had fallen flat.
She did not even remember meeting him.
This was not a thing that happened.
The problem had to be with her, of course—she was a bluestocking, and so cerebral as to be unfeeling and unmoved by any man. She was not accustomed to society and perhaps did not realize what a catch he was.
Unless—here, he itched to loosen his cravat—the problem was with himself?
No. Unthinkable. He refused to consider it.
But Fox could actually put two and two together, so to speak: Lady Claire would not be easily won over by him. Winning this wager would not be the simple matter he had imagined. But he would win. He always won.
Besides, there was nothing that got his heart pumping and blood flowing like a challenge and the thrill of competition. Fox started to feel it now: the drumbeat of his heart, the blood roaring in his ears, his attention becoming focused on the prize. He concentrated on the inevitable triumph that awaited him: the girl, the glory, the return to the righteous way things had always been and should always be.
That was what he wanted: his world, restored to rights, where winning and women came easily.
Just as he was about to exit the ballroom, Fox turned and surveyed the room, the playing field.
My dance card is full for the whole evening.
The orchestra was playing. Dancers were whirling around the floor—men in dark evening clothes, women in white dresses with jewels glittering in the candlelight. Lady Claire was not among them.
He scanned the ballroom for her and found her standing with her sisters near the lemonade table. It went without saying she was not dancing.
They’re pretty, he had thought upon meeting them. Pretty was the least of it. The Lady Claire was something else.
Chapter 2
One hesitates to use the phrase social pariah, but of all the Cavendish siblings, Lady Claire seems like the one least likely to find acceptance in society, though that might change should her sister Lady Amelia cause a scandal as she seems destined to do.
—Fashionable Intelligence, The London Weekly
Later that evening, Durham House
Late at night, the Cavendish siblings were to be found in one of two places if they were not in their beds—either raiding the kitchen for cake, much to the dismay of Cook, or in Claire’s bedchamber, whether she wished to sleep or not. It was a habit developed when they were children wanting to stay up past their bedtime. Claire didn’t have the heart to put an end to it now that they were all grown. With all the changes happening, she found it as comforting as she suspected her siblings did.
Fortunately, as the eldest, she’d taken a spacious room with a large bed, which Bridget and Amelia crept into. A short while later James knocked softly on the door and then pulled up a chair. They all started chattering about the events of the evening, teasing each other.
“I think I have met more people since arriving in London than I have in my entire life so far,” Amelia said.
“That can’t possibly be true,” Claire said, starting to tally up some numbers in her head.
“Well, it feels like it is,” Bridget said. James agreed.
“And not one of them is interesting,” Amelia grumbled.
“I saw you speaking with Lord Fox tonight,” Bridget said pointedly.
“Who?” Claire yawned, not quite following it all.
“He is Lady Francesca’s brother,” Bridget explained. “And he is friends with Lord Darcy.”
Claire knew that Bridget was infatuated with Darcy’s brother, Rupert, and angling to be friends with the popular Lady Francesca. She knew this because Amelia read Bridget’s diary and related pertinent information to the rest of the family, much to Bridget’s constant vexation.
Claire had met these people, of course, and hadn’t formed much of an opinion of them. They weren’t Ashbrooke, inventor of the difference engine, after all.
“Lord Fox was the incredibly handsome and swoon-worthy man with whom you were speaking for at least five minutes before you stalked off,” Bridget said.
Ah, now Claire knew just the man. The one who thought he was God’s gift to women because he had a handsome face and the body of a Greek god (or so it seemed). The one who smoldered and said ridiculous things like I know how to move a woman across the dance floor so it feels like she’s flying. Or floating on a cloud. Or making love. She wanted to groan now just thinking about it.
“Oh, that one.”
“That was an exchange between my sisters that I did not need to hear,” James said.
“If that troubled you, then a word of advice: do not read Bridget’s diary. She goes on and on about the handsomeness and swoon-worthiness of—” Amelia was silenced with a pillow to the face.
Claire did not chastise Bridget for that; it was the least Amelia deserved.
“Well, dear sister, how was your conversation with Lord Fox?”
“Yes, do tell,” James gushed, like a girl, leaning forward and propping his head on his hands.
Claire chucked a pillow at him.
“Careful with His Grace,” Amelia admonished. “He is our last and only hope for the continuation of the Durham and the Cavendish line. Which is the most important thing in the whole world.”
His Grace chucked the pillow at her. James hated the formality of being a duke, was uneasy with the responsibilities that came with it, and chafed at the way it restrained him. So naturally they teased him about it endlessly.
“Please,” Bridget said. “Can we focus on the fact that our sister Claire was seen conversing with a handsome man?”
“I do so all the time. The duchess insists on it.”
“Indeed. But the duchess didn’t force Lord Fox to speak to you, did she?” Bridget replied. “I saw him approach you of his own free will.”
“There is nothing to focus on,” Claire said honestly, deliberately ignoring how newsworthy it was that a handsome man should choose to have a conversation with her. She deliberately ignored a little twinge of feeling about it, too. She had long ago understood and accepted that she was not the sort of girl who attracted men; she was destined for more brilliant things. “He was one of those preening males with an inflated sense of his own charm and attractions. He asked me to dance and I begged off and that is that.”
But judging by the smug, skeptical, and curious expressions on her siblings’ faces, it wasn’t so simple. But this—some trifling matter concerning a man—wasn’t the sort of problem that excited or challenged her. As far as Claire was concerned, Lord Fox was not an equation worth solving.
The next morning, Hyde
Park
Early the next morning found Hugh, Lord Mowbray, riding through Hyde Park on his second best horse. His prize racehorse, Zephyr, was presently stabled at his country estate, finishing her training for the season of races up ahead. This year, Mowbray had dreams of winning.
To be fair, he often had dreams of winning.
Whether it was a horse race, a boxing match, a rugby game, or vying for a woman’s affections, Mowbray always imagined crossing the finish line first, scoring the winning goal, or getting the girl. In reality, he was always so close that he could see the sweat on his competitor’s neck, feel the bruises on his knuckles, or taste a woman’s kiss.
In reality, he always came in second, usually to Fox.
They’d been friends for an age, ever since their days at Eton. In sport, they always claimed first (and second) place. In class, they didn’t fare as well, though when it came to academic achievement Mowbray did best his friend, not that it was much of a challenge to. When it came to sneaking out into the village tavern to flirt with women . . . Fox was first and Mowbray was right behind him.
Always. It never changed.
Mowbray had even been the one to see Arabella Vaughn first. He had held her in his arms for a waltz first. He had called upon her first, bringing a bouquet of expensive hothouse blooms. He’d been the first to claim a smile from her bee-sting pout of a mouth. For a moment there, he had been her first choice.
But then Fox came back from an extended hunting trip to Rothermere’s place in Scotland and once he stepped in the ballroom, and all the new debutantes that season set eyes on him, it was all over for the other gents. Arabella promptly dropped Mowbray—handsome enough, wealthy enough, though a mere viscount—and promptly took up with Fox, who was widely regarded as impossibly handsome, ridiculously wealthy, and with a marquessate that trumped his own title.
No one was surprised.
It was the way of things.
But Mowbray started to seethe.
Why should one man always have everything? All the prizes, all the most beautiful women? All the power, all the regard? And why was Mowbray always the one in the shadow? It wasn’t fair.
