Lady Claire Is All That

by Maya Rodale

  “Of course, my lord,” she murmured, presumably only because to say otherwise would be impolite. He took advantage and took the seat beside her.

  “Yet again you manage to make ‘my lord’ sound like an insult.” He said this with his most charming smile, the one that made women swoon.

  “My accent has not changed. Neither has my interest in dancing or conversation. I am curious about your interest though.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be interested?”

  Lady Claire raised one eyebrow. She was clearly not impressed—not with his rakish smile, his attentions, his presence. It was unsettling. Unusual. Nerve-wracking. Fox decided a compliment was in order. Women loved compliments.

  “You were marvelous at cards the other night.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said pointedly.

  She turned to him and fixed her gaze upon him. Her blue eyes were magnified behind her spectacles. Her gaze unflinching.

  “I take your meaning. But I know that I am good at cards and math.”

  “And now the ton is learning, too.”

  “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.” Then, muttering under her breath, she added, “They all say that as if it were a bad thing.”

  “Do you care?” When he asked the question, he was genuinely interested.

  “No,” she said, her smile broadening. “Not in the slightest.”

  “Impressive,” he said softly, and as someone involved in a wager over essentially what everyone thought of him, he meant it.

  “You seem to have taken an interest in me,” she said pointedly. This must be the American directness he’d heard about.

  So the match begins, he thought. She was aware their pairing was remarkable and unusual. Being a logical female, she sought a reason. His heart began to pound as it always did when he had to think quickly on his feet. Saying anything about the wager was out of the question, but he didn’t have her quick wits and couldn’t think of a plausible reason.

  He decided to deflect her question. That had often worked when he was a green schoolboy and would hopefully work now.

  “Again, with the modesty.” He laughed.

  “Again, with the facts. I’m curious. Why?”

  Fox said the first thing that came to mind, the first thing he’d said after meeting her and her sisters, however briefly, at their first ball.

  “You’re pretty.”

  Lady Claire rolled her blue eyes. “There are far prettier girls here than myself.”

  “You seem to have not taken an interest in me,” Fox replied, dodging. Evading. Turning the tables.

  “Please don’t take it as a personal affront,” she replied. “I’m simply more interested in mathematics than courtship or marriage. Unless you are, despite your reputation, harboring a secret interest and talent in advanced mathematics?”

  “As a rake, I never thought I’d say this, but I find myself more interested in marriage than mathematics,” Fox replied. Then, dropping his voice to a suggestive murmur, he added, “Or at least the marriage bed, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” Lady Claire replied frostily. She was not charmed.

  “Surely, there must be one man in England who sparks your passion.” A pale pink flush crossed her cheeks. “One man who occupies your thoughts.” The pale pink deepened.

  He was forced to conclude that it wasn’t all men who bored her, but perhaps just him.

  His Male Pride reared its head and roared, Who is this man?

  But as a cultivated and reserved Englishman, he merely remarked, “Ah. I see that I am right.”

  “What were you saying about modesty?”

  “Not for me,” Fox said, straightening and wanting to flex his fists. “Who is he?”

  Lady Claire was quiet, as if considering whether or not to confide in him. Fox found himself holding his breath. This was progress. This pause, this moment of quiet reflection, was hope.

  She finally answered, in a low voice. “The Duke of Ashbrooke.”

  “You do know that he has recently wed.”

  “Yes, of course,” she replied, slightly annoyed. “And I am not interested in him romantically.”

  “Ah, you really have not met him, then,” Fox said, leaning back in his chair. The only man considered his rival in charm and appeal to women was Ashbrooke. Was, as the man was married and by all accounts besotted with his new bride, a former wallflower, in fact, and not completely unlike Claire, come to think of it.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “The Ashbrooke Effect,” Fox answered. “All women suffer from it, even my sister, who has a heart of stone and is immune to flirtation or passion and couldn’t care less for any man except Darcy. The only time I’ve ever heard her giggle is when Ashbrooke kissed her hand.”

  “For what it’s worth, I have no designs upon his person. I wish to converse with him about mathematics. Why, his difference engine is a work of genius! He has written about an analytical machine, but I think he hasn’t gone far enough with it. I have ideas for how it might perform even more complex and useful calculations, which could have profound implications for musical composition, for example, or innovations in other areas.”

  “Stop,” Fox told her, even though her bright-eyed excitement was adorable. He had a spark of insight and knew what to do and how to woo her. “You’re making my head ache. All those big words out of such a little, kissable mouth.” Her lips parted, speechless. “Let’s go introduce you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “If you want to meet Ashbrooke, then let us go meet Ashbrooke. He’s a friend of mine.” She peered at him skeptically, assuming that a brilliant mind like Ashbrooke would never deign to associate with a lackwit like himself. So Fox explained. “We fence together.”

  Fox then stood, drawing himself up to his full height. He extended his hand to Lady Claire to help her stand—of course taking advantage of their positions to look down her bodice. He liked what he saw. And he liked how it felt to have her small, delicate lady hand interlaced with his as he helped her to stand.

  He was glad, suddenly and oddly, that Ashbrooke was already wed.

  Of all the people in England whom Claire thought might make her dream come true by introducing her to Ashbrooke, she never thought it would be this lummox. This admittedly handsome, attempting-to-be-charming-and-somewhat-succeeding lummox.

  She knew Fox’s type. Handsome and he knows it. His muscles developed at the expense of his brain. Used to relying on charm and flirtation to get his way, rather than wits and intellect.

  He was not her type at all.

  But he could introduce her to Ashbrooke.

  The man she’d traveled across an ocean to meet, after late nights of reading his papers and early mornings performing her own calculations to develop his ideas further. They were strangers, but in her head they’d already spent hours together.

  Before she had time to panic and compose herself, they were face-to-face.

  The first thing she noticed was that the Ashbrooke Effect or whatever nonsense Lord Fox had called it was real. The man was breathtakingly handsome in the usual way—tall, strong, dark haired, perfectly formed features, et cetera, et cetera.

  But there was something about him that made her knees weak.

  She was glad her arm was linked with Fox’s, who performed the introductions.

  “Duke. Your Grace.” Lord Fox bowed and kissed the duchess’s hand.

  “Hello, Fox!” The duke greeted him warmly. “Haven’t seen you in an age.”

  “I believe that was because you were off on your honeymoon. You must miss losing to me during fencing matches.”

  “I hate to tell you but I was not thinking about you or fencing on my honeymoon,” Ashbrooke replied. The ladies present blushed.

  Then Ashbrooke turned his attentions to Claire. “And who do we have here?”

  “A woman keen to make your acquaintance,” Lord Fox said. “She traveled all the way from
the colonies. May I present Lady Claire Cavendish.”

  “The United States of America,” she managed, in something barely above a whisper.

  “Whatever,” Fox said, dismissively. “It’s not England.”

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Ashbrooke said. She felt herself become flustered.

  Flustered!

  Her wits, affronted by this revolt of her nerves, took their leave. And then she forgot everything else—manners, restraint, et cetera—and the words she’d traveled halfway around the world to say tumbled out.

  “Your Grace, it is an honor to make your acquaintance! I have been following your work on the difference engine and analytical engine for some time now and I daresay your work is an excellent starting point, but there is so much more one could do. For example, have you considered that the machine might be utilized for more than simply numerical calculations?”

  Ashbrooke just laughed. A friendly laugh at least.

  “I have heard rumors about a young lady who speaks extensively about mathematics in ballrooms all over London,” he said. “That must be you. I am very glad to make your acquaintance.”

  Claire nearly swooned. It went without saying that she was not the sort of woman who swooned.

  Then she was introduced to his wife. Claire felt a twinge upon seeing Her Grace, for Claire recognized a kindred spirit in her—a girl of unremarkable coloring and features, a girl who wore glasses, a girl who had more sense than the usual allotment.

  If only we had arrived sooner, Claire thought. She might have had a chance with him. Ashbrooke might have fancied her. But he was married—and very happily so, judging by the way he held his duchess close—and Claire respected that.

  But still . . . this meant there might be hope for her, that a sensible, brown-haired girl with glasses might find a husband who loved her for her brains and found her beautiful just as she was. She had been so fixated on keeping everyone at bay she suddenly dared to consider someone might care for her, just as she was, spectacles and numbers and all.

  It took her breath away.

  “Now, as to what you were saying about . . .” the duke began, and the world ceased to exist beyond this conversation about the analytical engine with Ashbrooke.

  Fox could have drifted away from this conversation about the different analytical engine and whatever numbers and whatnot powered it.

  He could have excused himself and no one would have thought any less of him for it. Her Grace did just that.

  “Much as I love an in-depth conversation on advanced mathematics,” the duchess said sweetly, “I see my friends. I’m going to say hello. Lady Claire, it was lovely to make your acquaintance. I hope to see you again.”

  With that, she took leave of the group. But Lord Fox remained.

  The conversation on advanced mathematics resumed, with Ashbrooke and Claire speaking animatedly about words he didn’t know and concepts he could not even try to understand.

  He should go. No one would fault him for it.

  Hell, no one would have even noticed.

  Certainly not Lady Claire, who seemed to have recovered from the Ashbrooke Effect and was speaking rather intelligently. He could tell because Ashbrooke appeared thoughtful, nodding his head at intervals, and said things like “You’re right—I’d never thought about that. But then what about—”

  No one expected a man like him to stay and listen to this, whatever it was. But Fox could not bring himself to leave.

  The reason: Mowbray was standing nearby, watching the whole damn thing. Hell, he was close enough to eavesdrop on the conversation, so he had half a clue what kind of hell Fox was enduring. Mowbray leaned against the wall, arms crossed against his chest. Did he really think Fox would give up and walk away? To surrender and forfeit?

  Fox smiled back and slightly inclined his head. Because here was the thing: Fox had a fighting spirit. When he suffered through round after round of brutal boxing matches, still he stumbled to his feet, arms swinging, fists flying. In any other game he was the first on the pitch and the last to leave. Fox played to win. Always.

  Especially when his dog was at stake. And his pride.

  This . . . this was just listening to a boring conversation he didn’t understand. It happened all the time.

  “I am participating in a lecture at the Royal Society tomorrow,” Ashbrooke said. “You should attend.”

  Ah—this was Fox’s moment!

  “I would be happy to escort you,” Fox added. Two heads turned to stare at him, mouths agape in comical depictions of shock.

  “Tomorrow is also the Exton horse race,” Claire pointed out. “I am given to understand that it is an important and exciting event that those in the racing circuit keenly anticipate.”

  Fuck. He had been looking forward to that for ages.

  He was especially looking forward to it because Zephyr, Mowbray’s horse—and potentially Fox’s—was running.

  But he took one look at Mowbray, still skulking around and smiling at him as if the man had nothing else to do, and Fox’s competitive spirit flared. His Male Pride reared its head, pawed at the ground.

  He was going to the bloody mathematical society meeting with Lady Claire Cavendish if it was the last thing he did.

  “If you’ve seen one horse race you’ve seen them all,” Fox said with a shrug, even though the words tasted like ash in his mouth because that was not true at all. “But a math lecture . . . one doesn’t have the opportunity to attend those every day. Especially with such a beautiful woman.”

  Lady Claire scoffed. Again. But he caught the faintest pinkening of her cheeks. She turned away from him to address Ashbrooke.

  “Whether in the company of this ridiculous creature, or my brother, I look forward to attending the lecture.”

  “I should warn you that it may cause a scandal,” Ashbrooke said. “On account of you not being a decrepit old male.”

  “I have become accustomed to it,” Lady Claire replied. “Besides, what is a little scandal when compared to the opportunity to discuss mathematics with some of England’s most brilliant minds?”

  When the hostess indicated that it was time for the musicale to begin and everyone was encouraged to assemble, Fox expertly guided Claire away from Ashbrooke—she could have talked to him all night!—and toward the seats. She didn’t have a chance to protest, for she was too distracted.

  Her brain was happily humming with her ideas for the analytical engine and the questions she would ask at the lecture. Her brief conversation with Ashbrooke—she had finally met him!—gave her much more to consider. Oh, and she would have to get up early to reread his papers on the subject.

  Before she knew it, Claire was seated with Fox on a very small settee.

  She turned and peered at him curiously.

  Lud, but he was a handsome fellow, a classical type of beauty with perfectly formed and proportioned features. But that did not account for that glimmer in his green eyes. And that stubborn lock of dark hair that drew her attention.

  Her fingers twitched in the fabrics of her skirt, as if she wanted to push that lock of hair away and run her fingers through his hair. Which she would never do, of course, because that suggested an unfathomable level of intimacy between them.

  And he positively radiated heat, especially when one was wedged up against him on a minuscule piece of furniture. Especially when such close proximity made the unfathomable seem somewhat fathomable.

  “You stayed through that entire conversation on mathematics,” she said, honestly a bit awed and surprised. “You must have been terribly bored.”

  “I was. But then I noticed I had a prime view down your bodice and I wasn’t.”

  “Did you actually just say that aloud?”

  “What I meant to say, very inelegantly, is that you are not without attractions. Namely, the contents of your bodice. And your brains. Admittedly, I didn’t understand a word of your conversation with Ashbrooke, but it was nevertheless clear that you had
many smart things to say on the subject of whatever the subject was. I was impressed.”

  Claire was shocked. These were not things that men had ever said out loud, or at least to her. It took her a moment to figure out what to say, such was the extent of her shock. Even then, it was pathetic.

  “I am shocked.”

  “I have hidden shallows.”

  “Hidden depths, you mean.”

  “I have no depths, hidden or otherwise, Lady Claire. I am who I am and what you see is what you get.”

  He was serious. Fancy that, a person who was who he said he was. No dissembling or posturing. How unlike every other aristocrat she’d met in England thus far. For the first time, she was intrigued.

  Knowing him to be simple and direct only made her more curious about why he had suddenly deigned to seek her out and pay attention to her. She was about to question him, when he leaned in close and murmured something in her ear.

  “Don’t look, but your family is staring at us.”

  She looked.

  The duchess nodded approvingly. James looked from Claire, to Fox, then back to Claire. He lifted his brow, a question.

  You? Him?

  She gave a little shrug. Truth be told she didn’t have much to say beyond that.

  Her sisters were less discreet. Both Amelia and Bridget forgot that they were grown women who had made their debut in society and instead reverted to the behavior of twelve-year-old girls bored in church.

  They made faces. Rude faces.

  Claire bit her lip, refusing to encourage them, as she knew she ought to do. But her shoulders were shaking from holding back laughter. Fox noticed. He couldn’t not notice, given how close they were sitting.

  “What is so amusing?”

  “My sisters. They are making faces at me.”

  He gave a quick glance in their direction and caught Amelia’s gargoyle smile. He chuckled softly.

  “Sisters tend to do that. Mine is shooting daggers with her eyes.”

  Claire glanced over at Lady Francesca and she was indeed shooting daggers with her eyes, though once she saw Claire looking she quickly smiled as if nothing were remiss at all and she wasn’t sending waves of dislike in their direction. Why, Claire wondered, would she care who her brother sat with at a musicale?