by Maya Rodale
“Go,” Claire said. “We will wait right here for you.”
The carriage door closed behind her.
All the air in the carriage seemed to go with her.
Claire was left alone with Fox. He was impossibly large, impossibly handsome. Surprisingly . . . surprising. He had championed her in public. James had always encouraged her and stood up for her when the situation warranted, but Fox had brought her into the arena, shone a light on her, and cheered her on.
And, oh, what an arena it had been. What a matching of wits, too. She’d sparred with the Duke of Ashbrooke himself! And she’d shown that smug, red-nosed old man—and all the other Royal Society members like him—that she was not to be ignored.
Her heart was still racing from the thrill of it all.
“That was brilliant. Maddening, infuriating, exhilarating. But overall, it was brilliant.”
Fox gave her a lazy smile.
“I never thought I’d say this of a math lecture, but it was mighty entertaining. Not the whole thing, mind you. For most of it I wanted to slam my head into the wall repeatedly. But I did enjoy watching you take on those old windbags.”
“I have waited my whole life to engage in debate with the leading minds and experts. Did you see the look on Ashbrooke’s face when I asked if his engine might be able to operate on objects rather than just rational numbers? I daresay he never considered it.”
“You certainly shocked him.”
“Of course, my simply being in attendance was a shock. Foolish old men and their absurd notions of women’s intellect.”
“That lot doesn’t seem accustomed to having skirts in their company. Now, I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer but I got the sense that it was what you said that really had their unmentionables in a twist.”
Fox grinned and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Gah, he was close. In this private space.
Claire could feel herself beaming. Like her sister Bridget, mooning over the boy she liked. She felt like her eyes were starry and bright and her skin glowed and her heart was doing a la-di-da dance.
But how could she feel any other way? This man gave her the opportunity to be her true self; she had seized it and it had been wonderful.
“This would have never been possible without you. Thank you.”
“My pleasure—”
Impulsively, Claire leaned forward and kissed him.
She meant to lean forward and kiss him on the cheek—a polite, chaste kiss of thanks. But he turned his head and their lips collided.
She didn’t move away.
Neither did he.
In fact, he reached out to hold her arms steady. Not gripping like he would maul her, but gently holding as if to say, Please stay.
She felt herself soften. That was the only way to describe it. All the hard edges and sharp corners that held her back seemed to melt away.
Before she even realized it, the kiss deepened, a quick turn from shallow waters to unknown depths. He teased the seam in her lips, urging her to open. Softening further—what was happening to her?—she opened to him, let him in, tasted him, let herself be ruled by feelings rather than reason, and let herself get lost in this kiss.
There was no logic or sense to this, just a curiosity and a slow dawning feeling of desire. She’d never felt this before—not just a man’s touch and taste—his large hands holding her, the faint stubble on his cheek that she felt against her own, the way he tasted, like trouble. But this desire of hers was new. She’d never wanted these sensations, had never known to want them, and now her wanting felt insatiable.
And yet, her brain exploded with thoughts: Wait! Fox! Kissing him! What? I cannot—! This can’t be—! But, oh . . . Like a firework, there was an initial explosion, a burst of light and energy, following by little stars of light falling softly to earth.
Fox kissed her, slowly, surely, expertly. Thoughts fled; the whirring machine of her brain ground to a halt.
For once, Claire began to feel, just feel.
Her senses took over. His lips, firm but softening against hers. The taste of him. She breathed him in. She ached to touch him, thread her fingers through his hair and pull him closer. So she did, and he didn’t resist and it was a strange new pleasure to share such intimacy. Her heart began to beat in a calm, steady, driving rhythm. Her breath turned shallow.
Her brain had been on fire earlier. And now the rest of her was enjoying the slow burn.
And then, as quickly and unexpectedly as it began, the kiss was over.
There was a perfunctory knock at the carriage door.
“I have returned,” Miss Green announced as she pulled the door open and climbed in, carefully averting her gaze from the two of them hastily setting themselves to rights, with the shawl wrapped around her shoulders. “My apologies for detaining us when I’m certain you must all be so eager to return home after the lecture.”
“Oh, it’s quite all right,” Fox drawled with a charming grin that did nothing to hide what they were up to.
“Don’t worry, Miss Green,” Claire said, reaching up to fix her hair. “It was no trouble at all. I’m glad you have your shawl back.”
“Well . . . some trouble.” Fox gave her a wink.
Wits addled, Claire agreed. “Just a little.”
“I do apologize . . .” Miss Green murmured, with a smart smile on her full lips. She seemed to sense they were not speaking of her, or her wayward shawl at all.
“But a little trouble never hurt anyone?” Fox lifted his brow.
“No. A little trouble might do a girl some good. From time to time,” Claire said. She was aware of Miss Green looking perplexed, then shaking her head and deciding not to pursue a greater understanding, probably because she was smart and knew exactly what they were talking about. Fortunately, Miss Green was also discreet.
“Just once in a while?” Fox asked. He was asking to kiss her again! Claire forgot all about Miss Green.
“A lady shouldn’t make a habit of it,” Claire replied. Because it was absurd enough that she had kissed him once, never mind again. Repeatedly. He was a rake and she was a bluestocking and that combination rarely added up to anything.
“Pity. I like to engage in a spot of trouble regularly. Before breakfast, in the afternoon, late at night . . .”
“That sounds excessive.”
“Just wait until you experience it to pass judgment.” Fox gave her one of those grins, like a rake thinking utterly wicked thoughts in the company of an innocent. But Claire wasn’t that innocent. That grin did things to her—stoking the fire inside, making her cheeks turn pink, making her think of kissing him again.
“You give a girl ideas,” Claire murmured.
“Among other things, I hope.”
Her lips parted, a perfect O shape of shock, and a little gasp escaping. That cad! That was a bit much. But her brain . . . oh, her brain started imagining and calculating the possibilities.
The next day, Durham House
Breakfast at the Cavendish household consisted of the same items each day: strong black tea, toast, eggs, bacon, and the gossip columns. Plural.
The duchess sat at the head of the table, impeccably dressed and styled, even at the early hour. She sipped tea out of a pale blue china cup decorated with gold leaf. Everything about her was elegant and collected, even the way she turned the pages of the newspapers—an assortment of which were always freshly ironed by the butler, Pendleton, and left next to her place—stopping only to read the society gossip.
Claire took little interest in this. After all, it almost never concerned her, and when it did, it was to criticize her: her card playing at balls, a dismissive reference to her as an odd girl from the colonies, the occasional linking of her name with Fox’s. But there was never anything dire.
That was reserved for Bridget, who did things like fall on her backside in the middle of a ball and thus immediately became known as The Girl Who Fell. Or Amelia, who intimated that she wore the stable h
and’s breeches when riding astride—that had caused more than a few matrons to reach for their smelling salts. Or Arabella Vaughn, who scandalized everyone by eloping with an actor—and ditching a marquess to boot.
Nothing Claire did ever compared to any of that.
Thus, she had no expectation that there would be anything reported about her. She pushed a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, adjusted her spectacles, sipped her tea, and carried on with her serious thoughts about how exactly the analytical engine might be programmed to create musical compositions.
But she had kissed a man.
She had kissed Lord Fox.
A man to whom she was not betrothed.
She would never pledge her troth to him. What a preposterous idea.
It had been in a closed carriage.
It hadn’t meant anything. No one saw.
In an unfashionable neighborhood.
In another reality, really.
At an event that was essentially the opposite of scandalous or interesting, and that certainly did not attract those prone to gossip. Lectures at the Royal Society were not exactly hotbeds of scandal.
She had attended a math lecture with Lord Fox! In what world did that occur? Why on earth would anyone even care?
It had been a mathematical lecture, for Lord’s sake.
Why, she could have ripped off her dress and dashed around the lecture hall and the haute ton wouldn’t learn of it.
His kiss had made her think about ripping off her dress.
His kiss had made her thoughts stray to him, once or twice, here or there. Or, more specifically, in bed, late at night when the house had gone dark and quiet and she was alone with her thoughts and memories and desires.
Claire felt her cheeks reddening at the memory. The breakfast table was not the place to think of such things. Perhaps it would be best if she focused on sipping her tea and buttering her toast. Priorities. She had them.
“Well, this is interesting,” the duchess murmured. She attracted no attention; the Cavendish siblings did not usually share her definition of interesting.
“What is it, Your Grace?” Miss Green asked.
“It concerns Lady Claire.”
“Well, now I am intrigued,” Amelia said, setting down her knife and fork and giving the duchess her full attention, which is something that almost never happened.
The duchess read aloud from The London Weekly:
A young lady scandalized the Royal Society not only by daring to attend the lecture, but by engaging in what was called a “fierce” debate with one of the society elders, abetted by none other than the Duke of Ashbrooke. This author has a distinct lack of interest in a debate over math; however, she is very intrigued by the young lady’s companion. He is the last person on earth anyone would expect to see at a lecture of any sort. Or in this young lady’s company. Of course, I’m talking about Lord F—.
Claire exhaled a sigh of relief when her siblings showed no interest. Of course she went to a math lecture and engaged in a debate; it was like breathing to her. They had known that she went with Fox—since they all refused to attend with her—and teased her endlessly about it.
But Claire caught Miss Green’s eye and saw a sparkle there.
The duchess sighed. “Another day, another Cavendish in the newspaper for all the wrong reasons,” the duchess lamented. “Though at least you were linked to an eligible gentleman, Claire.”
“Not in that way,” Claire pointed out. “He is not my sort of gentleman. He wasn’t courting me.”
“He is a marquess, wealthy, and easy on a woman’s eyes. That should be any woman’s sort of gentleman.”
“Josie, I am shocked,” Claire replied evenly. Josephine frowned; she did not like being called Josie.
“Perhaps you are shocked because you are spending all your time at mathematical lectures,” the duchess replied, her insinuation clear. There was soft choking laughter from Bridget and Amelia. James, at the far end of the table, just groaned. “I daresay your threshold for interesting is excessively high and your consideration of other qualifications of a potential spouse woefully inadequate,” the duchess replied.
“I am proud of Claire for her ability with math,” James said. “I am glad that she now has an opportunity to further her studies. It is one of the benefits of coming to London.”
“Thank you, James.”
Her thanks were mainly for his attempt to change the subject.
His attempts failed.
“This is not about her ability with math,” Amelia said, smirking. “It is about our dear, respectable, bluestocking older sister being linked with a handsome and eligible gentleman. Repeatedly.”
“I’m so proud,” Bridget said, beaming.
“You ought to follow her example, Lady Amelia,” the duchess replied. “I’d be delighted to read your name linked with an eligible gentleman’s instead of whatever scandalous thing you said or did.”
“What if my name were scandalously linked with a gentleman’s?” Amelia questioned.
“Then I would start planning a wedding,” the duchess replied. “You’ll be marching down the aisle and saying your vows before you know it.”
“Ha. Watch out, Amelia. She’ll see you wed yet!” Bridget crowed.
“She’ll see all of you wed,” Miss Green said, with a knowing glance at all the sisters.
James gave Miss Green a long look from the other end of the table. “Even me?”
“Even you, Duke,” Miss Green replied evenly, holding his gaze with her dark eyes. “The duchess will settle for nothing less than perfect matches for each and every one of you.”
“That’s right.” The duchess punctuated this with a harrumph.
James looked away. Miss Green sipped her tea. Claire pushed food around on her plate and worried about their vastly different ideas of a perfect match.
After the kiss, she had considered the situation and decided that as pleasant—pleasant being a woefully inadequate word for it—as it might be, it would not be repeated. It was a spur of the moment thing, when they had been swept up in the spirit of . . . a math lecture . . . and it would likely never happen again.
This was fine, of course. It wasn’t as if they were courting. That would be an exercise in futility because they would make a terrible match.
She was . . . her. Cerebral, intelligent.
He was . . . him. More brawn than brain—and content with that.
The two of them together added up to nothing and it went without saying that she was an expert in something as basic as addition.
But something nagged at her . . . why a man like Fox would seem to have even a passing interest in her—and to take her to a lecture hinted at more than a passing interest—to say nothing of his intentions. He could have had any woman, he and the gossips would have her believe.
But why her?
Something in this equation did not add up and despite her halfhearted attempts to discover why, she hadn’t a clue. But she would have to either avoid him completely or attempt to discern what and why before the duchess got more Ideas.
“Now that Lady Claire has found a suitor,” the duchess said, “I can turn my attentions to you, Amelia. And you, Duke.”
And then there was that: the duchess’s relentless dedication to ensuring they all wed. Soon. To perfect, prestigious matches. To men who were wealthy, titled—ease on eyes optional.
Claire saw quickly that her ruse to push away all suitors would only work for so long. Once the duchess secured matches for her little sisters, her full attentions would be fixed on Claire’s prospects.
In the meantime, better the devil you know, Claire rationalized. Better the devil who is easy on the eyes and at least knew how to kiss a woman. And who took her to mathematical lectures.
Chapter 7
The most anticipated event of the season is not to be found in the ballrooms of London, but on the outskirts of town: the long awaited boxing rematch between Barkley and Kearney.
&nbs
p; —Sporting News, The London Weekly
Later that afternoon, the duke’s study
Claire had been working on a vexing math problem in James’s study when Pendleton interrupted with a letter for her. She had barely skimmed the contents before James quit his own work, crossed the room, and snatched the paper from her hands.
“He invited you to join him for a boxing match?” James glanced up from the letter he had so rudely stolen. Duke or no duke, he was an older brother who made a habit of annoying his sisters. Stealing one’s correspondence was just one way to do that.
Especially when one’s correspondence was from a man.
Especially when one’s correspondence from men was almost never a personal invitation.
“He suffered through a mathematical lecture so apparently it is only fair that I suffer through a boxing match. And then I’m certain that shall be the end of that.”
Was this because of the kiss? Claire dismissed the thought as soon as it popped into her brain. It had been a good kiss, she supposed, but not the sort of deep, ravishing kiss that required another outing—especially to a boxing match, of all things. It was hardly a proper and customary destination.
This made her mind wander to the sort of deep, ravishing kiss that would require another outing, and would such a kiss take place at a boxing match?
“This is not normal,” James pointed out.
“I never had the impression that it was.”
“It is not a normal courtship,” he clarified.
“Perhaps because it is not a courtship.”
“Then what is it?”
“Devil if I know.” She shrugged her shoulders and turned back to the calculations before her. She was attempting some equations to support her idea for the analytical engine. In other words, a more interesting problem and one that was actually solvable rather than the matter of why Lord Fox was interested in attending a boxing match with her. Surely he had friends for that.
