by Maya Rodale
“Will you attend?”
“I doubt the duchess will give her blessing. Something as rough as a boxing match is hardly a respectable outing for the sister of a duke.”
“But you heard the duchess.” Then in his best British accented falsetto, James said, “He’s titled, wealthy, and easy on the eyes.”
Claire rolled her eyes. True on all counts. And yet . . .
“He is her definition of a perfect match,” James continued annoyingly. “And you know she will stop at nothing to see you all wed.”
“He is a hulking lummox of limited intellect. As such, he is hardly a man I could wed.”
But one who expertly knew how to kiss a woman. That had to count for something.
“Is this where I say ‘the lady doth protest too much’ or whatever it is?”
“It is where you remain blessedly silent and go tend to all your important ducal matters.” Claire waved an arm in the direction of his ducal desk on the other side of the ducal study.
“As head of the family, this is one of my ducal matters requiring my attentions. I must approve of my sisters’ suitors.”
Claire scowled at him and fixed her attentions on her calculations. She had come here to work, expecting to be free of distractions. But now her brother was looming over her. Staring at her. Annoying her.
“I think you should accept,” he said.
And giving her unsolicited advice.
“Because I fancy attending,” he added.
“The invitation was not extended to you.”
“I volunteer to attend as your chaperone.”
“Miss Green is my chaperone. Which is beside the point, because I have not accepted Lord Fox’s invitation. What do I care for a boxing match?”
“Oh, bloody hell, Claire, stop being so difficult. Let’s just all go and have a fun time not going to calling hours. Honestly, for a smart girl you think you’d recognize an opportunity to avoid making small talk for hours while sipping buckets of tea when it sends you a damned invitation.”
Claire set down her pencil. She had not considered the problem from that angle. She had simply seen the impossibility of her and Fox as man and wife and that was that. But this was merely an invitation to a boxing match, which was hardly an invitation to wed. James certainly had a point. There were worse things than privately enjoying Lord Fox’s appearance and company while not enduring more calling hours.
“You do have a point.”
“I know,” James said.
“I just don’t understand why he’s asking.”
“Does it matter?”
She supposed that it did not matter. In fact, she supposed a man like Fox could not possibly consider her as a prospect or have some other ulterior motive, for an ulterior motive seemed too complicated for a straightforward, plainspoken man such as he was. He must simply be the sort of man who thought nothing of inviting an unwed female to attend a boxing match with him.
Very well, that did confound logic and boggle the mind.
But the alternative to his invitation was sitting at home, enduring calling hours, with all the busybody matrons and obsequious fortune-hunting suitors and Bridget trying to sneak dozens of biscuits when she thought no one was looking, the duchess managing everyone, and Amelia . . . the less said about her behavior, the better.
Yes, Claire could do with an afternoon away from social calls.
“I shall accept,” Claire finally agreed.
“I will join you. As your chaperone.”
“Miss Green is my chaperone.”
“We can all attend.”
The boxing match
The duchess was led to believe that Claire, James, and Miss Green were joining Lord Fox for a picnic outside of London. She was not to know the real reason the foursome gathered in Fox’s large carriage for a little adventure.
“Well, aren’t I a lucky man to attend a boxing match with two beautiful ladies?” Fox remarked.
Claire and Miss Green exchanged wary smiles; they weren’t the sort often called beautiful. James coughed.
“And a duke,” Fox added hastily. “But really . . . beautiful ladies.”
“Why do I fear this is going to be a long afternoon?” Claire replied.
“But if I may be so bold, I’m certain it will be more exciting than calling hours,” Miss Green pointed out. “And I beg you—do not tell Her Grace I said that.”
“You know your secrets are safe with me,” James said to her, causing a blush to rise in her cheeks.
“But this won’t be nearly as exciting as a mathematical lecture,” Claire replied. “Ashbrooke will soon be presenting a paper, if anyone is interested.”
“No one is interested,” James said. Fox did not disagree.
“If last week’s lecture didn’t excite you, then I’m afraid you won’t find others entertaining at all,” Claire said. “That was quite a debate I had with Ashbrooke.”
“I’m afraid I’ll never have the opportunity to know about any others,” Fox replied, looking right into Claire’s eyes.
“Afraid or hopeful?” she countered. Then he turned on the charm.
“For you, Lady Claire, I would attend a thousand mathematical lectures.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” she replied. But she felt the telltale creep of a blush revealing that some small part of her actually cared.
She expected James to point this out and mock her for it, because brothers were hideous creatures like that. But for once, he did not. He was making eyes at Miss Green. Who was here to chaperone Claire.
“Who is fighting today?” James asked after a lull in the conversation.
“Barkley and Kearney. Which may mean nothing to you, but it is of great significance to the thousands of people likely to attend today.”
“Do tell us why this is so exciting,” Claire said.
“Barkley and Kearney last fought five years ago, and Kearney triumphed in a match everyone expected Barkley to win. Today, they meet in the ring again.”
“Ah, a rematch.”
“But it’s more than that,” Fox said, now growing animated. “It’s a battle between two different fighting styles. Kearney has a more scientific style, which relies on nimble footwork and correctly judging the distance of a hit. But Barkley, on the other hand, relies on the brute strength of his entire body, a little too much, if you ask me.”
Intellect and calculation version strength and passion—for the first time in her life, thanks to Fox, Claire could relate to the battle. With one deep kiss, Fox had tempered years of logic and reason with a hot jolt of passion.
Fox carried on explaining the differences in their fighting styles and the long tortured history between these two opponents. Neither men had fought since that initial battle, and this one had only come about due to a challenge issued in the pages of The London Weekly. Unprecedented sums were being wagered today. This was, according to Lord Fox, a potentially historic occasion, at least in the world of sport.
By the time they arrived at the match—a mob scene in a field on the outskirts of London, essentially—even Claire was actually keen to see it and eagerly anticipating the outcome. Fox’s passion for the sport, his descriptions of the players, and explanations of the stakes had actually sparked her interest.
She had thought it was merely grown men grunting and hitting each other, with more brute force than grace and strategy. Based on Fox’s explanation, she learned there was so much more to it—skill, precision, even intellect.
It so happened there was also less to it. As in, it happened to involve grown men with minimal attire. No wonder it was frowned upon for gently bred ladies to watch.
The fighters wore breeches. Just breeches.
That meant that there were wide expanses of bare chests, rippling muscles glistening with sweat.
Claire fanned herself, discreetly.
She had seen farmhands on a hot summer day making adjustments to their attire to better stand the heat, and inadvertently revealing
parts of themselves young ladies were not to see. She had not seen grown men live, in the flesh, circling each other, gazes locked, attention fixed, tensions high.
She had not been standing next to Lord Fox.
Lord Fox, whom she was quite certain probably gave these men a run for their money when his own jacket and waistcoat and shirt were removed and set aside. Or cast on the floor in a fit of passion.
She could easily imagine it. Frantic kisses, mouths crashing against each other, the wrenching off of a jacket, a linen shirt being ripped in two. In fact, she was imagining it right now. In public. In this seething mob of humanity.
“Are you all right?” Fox asked, leaning close to murmur in her ear. She trembled. Not because she was chilled—not in the slightest—but because her nerves had become overexcited and the low hum of his voice and his nearness was just too much.
“Yes, perfectly well. Why do you ask?”
Oh, damn, her voice was shrill.
“You seem overheated. The crowds here are intense. Perhaps it is too much for a lady. Shall we loosen your bonnet strings? Or find some shade? Perhaps you’d like a respite from the crowds.”
It wasn’t the crowds. But she could not admit it was the sight of sweaty, naked men (how elemental!) and the fevered imaginings of her brain that was having a profound effect on her temperature. She did want to loosen her bonnet strings, and corset strings, and find some shade—in private, with Fox. She was a civilized, intellectual woman, naturally inclined toward logic and reason; how could this be happening to her?
She resorted to her usual calming tactic of repeating as many digits of pi as she could: 3.14159 . . .
The crowd roared and she was spared from answering.
Barkley and Kearney circled each other, fists raised, in the square that had been roped off. There were supporting men nearby to pass out water to the fighters, or oranges for a burst of energy. Umpires stood at the ready.
Fox placed his hand on the small of her back, urging her forward, in front of him, where she might enjoy a slightly better view. It was a polite, chivalrous gesture, not a caress.
But tell that to her nerves.
Every last, tingling one of them.
3.1415926 . . .
But then Barkley lunged and Kearney expertly dodged the advance, then took an opportunity to swing. His fist connected solidly with Barkley’s jaw. The crowd roared and she found herself focused on the fight before her and not the internal one waging between her brain and her body.
She gasped when Kearney swung and missed.
She cried out, “No!” with the rest of the crowd when Barkley landed a fierce blow on his opponent.
Whereas before she might have just seen two brawny, sweating men brawling like Neanderthals, she now saw a pitched battle between two disciplined fighters, two fighting philosophies, two personalities sweating it out in the ring to emerge victorious.
Looking beyond the fighters, she saw the passionate faces in the crowd, shouting, reeling, and cheering with each move. James among them, standing awfully close to Miss Green, who also appeared riveted.
It became clear to Claire that this wasn’t just a brutish fight, but something more. To say nothing of all the money wagered today; some men would emerge rich, others broken.
Thanks to Lord Fox, she saw all these things she would not have noticed otherwise. He had taught her something and showed her a more nuanced view of the world. Perhaps he was not the dolt she had originally thought.
Perhaps there was more to him than muscles and kisses. This was not something she wished to contemplate, so she turned her attentions back to the fight before her, a mass of physicality, of blood and guts and skin and bones. And sweat. And muscles. Pure, unadulterated male.
Just like Fox, her brain whispered.
Shut up brain, she whispered back, for the first time in her life.
The fight continued for some time. These two nearly naked men, duking it out in the ring, circling and waiting for the perfect moment. Fists flying, connecting, cracking against bone. Roars and punches. Sweat.
Eventually, the crowd grew impatient. And drunk. And rowdy.
En masse, the seething group of mostly stinking-drunk men surged toward the ring. Claire, accustomed to quiet afternoons in drawing rooms, or reasoned discussions with refined and educated persons, began to experience the physical manifestations of panic: a racing heart, a shortness of breath, an overwhelming desire to escape.
There were too many, the crowd was too strong, she was surrounded. She could see herself being trampled underfoot by this unruly mob. Escape. She had to escape.
And then she felt a strong arm around her waist, pulling her close, and keeping her safe from the crowd.
Lord Fox.
Her physical manifestations of panic did not subside. Her heart still pounded. Heat suffused her limbs. Breathing was impossible. But the crowds? She forgot about them. She felt Fox’s chest hard against her back.
Strong, like a wall that would protect her from anything and everything except the desire to melt against it.
Claire saw that James had pulled Miss Green close as well. The men were making every effort to protect the women from the crowd.
It was basic chivalry. It was nothing to swoon over. It certainly didn’t signify anything. She didn’t want it to signify anything.
Her body had a mind of its own, it seemed.
She delighted at the touch of his hand.
She, Lord help her, actually welcomed the feeling of his arm around her, holding her close and protecting her with an intimate embrace. They had kissed in the carriage, but he hadn’t held her. Now she knew both and the logical thought was to add them together and long for that experience.
“Shall we take leave of this scene before it turns into mayhem?” Fox suggested. “The duchess would never forgive me if anything were to happen. Besides, I’m not scared of much but I’m terrified of her.”
“That is so touching,” Claire replied.
“What kind of man would I be if I failed to protect the female entrusted to my protection?”
“And here I thought you cared about me.”
“Didn’t say I didn’t.” Then he winked at her.
Lud, he was the sort of man who winked at women. He relied on a twitch of the eye rather than words. But then again, a wink from his green eyes was far more effective. Claire was certain he knew it, too.
In the carriage ride back to London, Fox carried on an exuberant discussion about the fight with the duke, reviewing and analyzing the key moments and choices that led to Kearney ultimately triumphing. Claire and Miss Green occasionally chimed in as well, but eventually the group fell silent.
In the silence, Fox was left with his own thoughts.
He realized too late that the boxing match had probably been a stupid idea. He had wanted to show her his world, as she had shown him hers. Perhaps he also wished to put himself in a position to show that he was knowledgeable about certain things, though he had perhaps shown that he was too knowledgeable about the entire history and philosophy of competitive boxing in Britain.
How this would help him win the wager, he knew not. He suspected it was the doing of his Male Pride, wanting to impress her.
But Claire had seemed only vaguely interested in all the men sweating and brawling like animals. Which was to be expected by anyone who had even considered whether a woman like Lady Claire Cavendish would be interested in attending such an event full of hulking masses of humanity with the likes of him.
Fox, being Fox, hadn’t considered it. He just knew he had to capitalize on the success of that initial meeting of the Royal Society of X = Boredom and keep up the momentum of his developing relationship with Lady Claire. At some point, now that she was speaking to him, he would have to start making her popular.
The wager was never far from his mind.
The challenge of transforming her—and reclaiming his position as leading charmer of the haute ton—haunted him. He knew he had to
do it—one dog and his Male Pride depended on it—but he wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. His random thoughts on the matter added up to more Lady Claire and that was it.
Which is why when, over a fencing match the other day, Ashbrooke mentioned a gathering of Royal Society members at his home, Fox actually paid attention for once. He even made an effort to secure the information into his brain.
The information retrieved itself and communicated itself to the Lady Herself as they were parting ways after the match.
“There is another meeting of the Royal Society of Boring People to Death with Numbers, on Tuesday. I shall come ’round at two o’clock for you,” Fox told her as he held her hand when she alighted the carriage at Durham House.
The duke and Miss Green had already gone into the house; he had this brief moment alone with her to make something happen.
“Oh!” Her lips parted in surprise. Then he kissed her palm. He was gone before she had a chance to say no.
Though it would be a certain torture for him, it would give them another opportunity to spend time together. Perhaps by then he would have figured out how to make her popular—though he had a suspicion that encouraging her studies in mathematics wasn’t the best tactic.
After the fight, the Bull and Bear pub
Hours after the match, Lord Mowbray was to be found in the crush of people in the Bull and Bear pub, mug of ale in hand, the promise of more and plenty of blunt in his pocket.
He had won!
He had wagered on the outcome of the match and had picked the winner! This is what triumph felt like. This, surely, was a sign of more winning to come.
Hours passed as he and his friends merrily (the winners) and grumpily (the losers) drank mugs of ale and animatedly discussed, argued over, and occasionally reenacted every facet of the fight—that one move of Barkley’s in the fourth round, and the way Kearney dodged that left hook in round eight, or was it twelve? Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
And then someone had to go and mention Fox.
“Did you see Fox there?” someone asked. Mowbray hadn’t. And he felt a pang, because attending a fight like this was something they would have done together if things between them weren’t so fraught. “And did you see who he was with?”
