by Maya Rodale
Before he could say more, there was a crash and a splash and a female shriek. The boats had collided, launching the occupants into the water. There was Rupert and Amelia, laughing. Lady Bridget thrashing about, Darcy hauling her out of the water and not looking happy about it.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting to return to shore in anticipation of an immediate departure,” he said.
Claire just laughed and said yes. It was the prettiest sound he’d ever heard. She was confusing and a challenge, but, he realized, she was a game he didn’t want to stop playing.
Chapter 11
This author does not even know where to begin with recounting the adventures of the Cavendish sisters at Lady Winterbourne’s garden party. The sooner the Duchess of Durham marries them off, the better.
—Fashionable Intelligence, The London Weekly
The breakfast room, Durham House
There were three somewhat contrite Cavendish sisters at breakfast the following morning. Bridget and Amelia’s exploits at the garden party would certainly be covered at length in all the papers, but Claire hoped that her time with Fox had gone unnoticed.
Her hopes were quickly dashed by the duchess, or rather the newspaper she read from:
“If it weren’t bad enough that every paper is reporting on Lady Bridget and Lady Amelia’s spill in the lake, The London Weekly is suggesting that Lady Claire and Lord Fox were spotted behind a hedge together.”
“How shocking,” Lady Amelia declared, with a mischievous glimmer in her eye.
“How improper,” Bridget murmured, while smirking.
“How absurd,” Claire scoffed in the uncharacteristically illogical hope that she could convince everyone the report was false by pretending it was.
“No, it’s excellent,” the duchess declared. Claire choked on her tea.
“How do you figure that, Your Grace?”
“How many times must I tell you that he’s a catch?” the duchess asked impatiently. “And I would rather the ton gossip about a potential suitable match than . . . whatever one would call their behavior.” Here, she waved in the general direction of Bridget and Amelia, the ladies of the lake.
“Entertaining,” Amelia said.
“Outlandish,” the duchess replied.
“Or charming,” Bridget suggested.
“Scandalous,” the duchess declared. “And the last thing this family needs is more scandal.”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Pendleton, the butler.
“There is a caller for Lady Claire. Are you at home?”
“Who is calling at such an early hour?” the duchess inquired.
“Mr. Benedict Williams.”
“I am not aware of him,” the duchess said, which is all she needed to say in order to convey that he was not a person of consequence and thus not a suitable caller. Just wait until the duchess learned the reason he was calling . . .
“Who is this Mr. Benedict Williams?”
“He is an esteemed mathematician and academic. The Duke of Ashbrooke introduced us and suggested that we collaborate on a paper for publication detailing the intricate workings and immense possibilities in the design for his analytical engine.”
“I’m not certain that ladies of your station write papers for publication.”
“This one will,” Claire replied.
“Perhaps as long as your name isn’t on it . . .” the duchess said thoughtfully.
Claire pursed her lips, as she had seen the duchess do when confronted by a situation that did not please her. The thought of all her hard work being credited to someone else—even Mr. Williams, whom she liked—made her heart rebel. She realized in that moment that she didn’t just want the liberty to indulge her interests, but she wanted to share her ideas with the world and receive acknowledgment for them. But at the breakfast table with a caller waiting was not the time to argue the point.
Besides, she didn’t want to waste a minute arguing when she could be discussing more intellectually stimulating subjects with Mr. Williams.
“Perhaps we might talk about that later,” Claire replied, thinking that never might be a good time. “I should go see to Mr. Williams now.”
In the drawing room
When Claire stepped into the drawing room, door left slightly ajar behind her, her heart was beating quickly and she felt no small amount of anticipation for the visit—and visitor—awaiting. This is why she’d wanted to come to London and why she’d encouraged her family to seize this opportunity. This is what made suffering through all the rules of the ton and the social whirl worth it.
“It is so nice of you to call, Mr. Williams.”
He smiled warmly at her. He did have a rather nice smile, and fine eyes—bespectacled, like hers—and a boyishly handsome face. He didn’t quite compare to Lord Fox in terms of masculine strength and beauty, which Claire was horrified to find herself thinking, but that didn’t matter to her.
“The pleasure is all mine, Lady Claire. Ever since we discussed the prospect of collaborating on a paper together, I find that I cannot wait to get started.”
She grinned. “I’ve already started taking notes.”
“How excellent. And I must say I’m not surprised. You have a gift and your dedication to the study of mathematics is very admirable.”
“Thank you.”
Finally! Someone who appreciated that about her!
Her heart swelled and, under the warmth of his gaze, she wondered if perhaps he could be the one for her. If she wasn’t mistaken, by the way he was looking at her, his thoughts might be straying in a similar direction.
“Do you have a moment now? Shall we begin?”
“I would love to,” she replied. “I’ll ring for tea.”
By the time tea had arrived, Claire and Mr. Williams were deep into discussions. Her mind was buzzing with thoughts. Mr. Williams challenged her, questioned her, and made her brain explore new options. This . . . this is what she loved and was meant to do. How lucky of her to find a partner for it—finally, for the first time in her four and twenty years.
He wasn’t at all like Fox. Once the thought of him popped into her head, Claire started comparing the two men. She’d never have a conversation like this with him. But then couldn’t quite imagine Mr. Williams teasing her, tossing their papers aside, and kissing her until her knees were weak.
“Lady Claire?”
“My apologies. I got distracted by a thought.”
“Do tell. I’d love to know what is happening in that brilliant brain of yours.”
She quickly thought of something to say that had nothing to do with being ravished in the drawing room by a man she had no intention of marrying.
By the time his visit concluded, Claire felt a new enthusiasm for their project. Even better: it was agreed that she would take the lead on writing it, and Williams would be available for assistance and to consult. She couldn’t dream of a more ideal situation . . .
. . . except for the distracting thoughts of Lord Fox that kept flitting through her head . . . and the thought that perhaps she might need to part ways with him.
If her sisters thought they might interrupt a kiss or romantic moment—or even eavesdrop on a conversation they’d find interesting—they were sorely mistaken. But that didn’t stop them.
Claire fully opened the drawing room doors to show Mr. Williams out and was treated to the unsurprising sight of her sisters lingering in the foyer.
“What a surprise,” Claire remarked dryly. “My sisters. Lady Bridget, Lady Amelia, this is Mr. Benedict Williams.”
Bridget swept into one of her well-practiced curtsies. Amelia embarked on one of her deliberately ridiculously extravagant ones—an extra deep bow, extra flourishes with her hands.
Beside her, Mr. Williams cleared his throat nervously.
“I am honored to meet you both, Lady Bridget, Lady Amelia. It is quite a sight to see three Cavendish sisters all together.”
Amelia gave him her excessively br
oad smile, the one that made her resemble a gargoyle. Claire shot her A Look.
“It is also quite a sight to see someone as interested in math as our dear sister. We never thought we’d see the day,” Bridget said.
“Well, except for Lord Fox,” Amelia remarked.
“He is hardly—” Claire said.
“He escorts her to lectures, among other things,” Bridget said in a rather suggestive manner that really needed to be corrected . . .
“Yes. I have—” Claire began, but she was cut off again.
“We are going to call on Lord Fox and his sister, Lady Francesca, this afternoon,” Bridget said.
“Oh, I had quite forgotten . . .” Claire said. Lady Francesca had left her card, which apparently meant that they owed her a return visit.
“Well, I shall leave you to it,” Benedict Williams said. He bowed, and kissed Claire’s hand and took his leave with a promise to be in touch regarding their work. She wasn’t sure if he meant just their work or if he might be a potential suitor.
Once he was gone, Claire turned to her sisters.
“What was that all about?”
“Just assessing his competitive spirit,” Amelia replied.
“I don’t think he has one,” Claire said. “He’s not that sort of man.”
“What sort is he?”
“The sort who is reasoned and logical. The sort with whom I could share a meeting of minds and a passion for our shared work.”
Bridget shrugged. “I think Fox is a better match for you.”
There was no denying their compatibility in certain ways that she did not discuss with her younger sisters.
Certain ways that made her forget all about the finite method of differences and Mr. Williams. Ways that made her skin tingle in anticipation. Ways that made her thoughts stray to kissing, just to start.
“Well, then, you pursue him,” Claire replied quickly. “The duchess thinks he is a good match.”
“But he’s already after you,” Amelia pointed out.
“What are you going to do about him, Claire?” Bridget persisted. “Are you going to keep encouraging him or tell him once and for all that he is not the man for you?”
It was a fair question, and it was the sort of question that required rational, logical thought. Fortunately, this was something at which she excelled.
Lord Fox was a catch, if one cared about things like title, wealth, the way a man filled out his jacket, or the way breeches lovingly clung to his muscular legs. Claire did not care about these things.
Mostly.
She was now distracted, thinking of the way clothes fit taut across his strong frame, and imagining him merely flexing his muscles and the clothes splitting apart, falling away, and revealing what promised to be a glorious specimen of the male figure.
Mr. Williams would certainly not be the duchess’s idea of a suitable match. Claire had ascertained that he did not have rich, titled relatives, nor wealth or a title himself. He did have a fine situation teaching at Oxford, a prospect that delighted Claire. She could be quite happy as an academic’s wife, spending her days assisting him in his work—or focusing on her own. They would socialize with fellow thinkers and scientists and have thought-provoking and important conversations around the dinner table, rather than gossiping at balls. And at night . . . well, she couldn’t quite imagine Mr. Williams bursting out of his clothes and kissing her until she wanted to rip off her own.
She knew she couldn’t imagine it, because she tried. Every time she closed her eyes and thought of kissing Mr. Williams she found herself envisioning a kiss, and then more, with Fox.
That handsome, hulking lummox who, despite all logic and reason, decided to pursue her one evening. The man who made her think less, and feel more than she’d ever felt before.
Usually she walked around thinking of numbers. Dry, cold, predictable, rational, understandable numbers. But because of him, she was beginning to feel. Full stop.
For the first time in her life, she felt lust—pure, molten lust.
She found her thoughts wandering toward erotic scenes that were maddening and wonderful all at once. When he was near, or when she thought of him, she found herself more aware of how the silk fabric of her dress caressed her skin; she noticed a strange heat that began deep inside her, making her feel feverish. Her nerves tingled, sometimes pleasantly, sometimes agonizingly, in anticipation of something.
Because of him, she was torn between her brain and her body—and now, when it was never more important that she be focused and brilliant. This was her time to shine, to share ideas that might change the world, to show everyone what women could do, what Lady Claire Cavendish could do.
Fox was tempting. Oh, so tempting. But not tempting enough.
Chapter 12
Later that afternoon, Lord Fox’s residence
The Cavendish women had only just arrived for their social call to Lady Francesca and her frightening chaperone, the tea had only just been poured, and the pleasantly malicious small talk had only just begun when Claire excused herself to go to the ladies’ retiring room.
The butler popped out of his pantry just off the front door and pointed her in the right direction. When he had returned to his closet, she wandered the halls, peeking into rooms, in search of Fox. She had no idea if he was at home or wished to see her if he was.
Her heart was pounding.
This was ridiculous.
This was the behavior of a lovesick schoolgirl, when in fact it was the logical course of action of a reasonable woman. Claire had decided on what to do. She wanted—needed?—to have a rational conversation with Fox. They had to discuss this something between them—what it was, why it didn’t make sense, why it had to come to an end.
There was not to be any more kissing—not in carriages, or behind hedges at garden parties, or wherever they might happen upon each other. Kissing was dangerous, and as much as she might want to indulge, she needed to play it safe.
But perhaps a small, insistent part of her did simply want to see him and kiss him, to hell with the consequences. With every stolen moment and illicit kiss they shared, she wanted more. Blast. That was confounding. But still, enough logic and reason remained in her brain that the more time they spent together, the more they indulged, the more likely they were to be caught.
If she could keep her wits about her, she might ask the right questions, guide the conversation and relationship to its logical and inevitable conclusion: they didn’t suit, not in any real long-term way, and it was best they part now.
Claire opened a door, only to close it when she saw it was a lady’s private parlor. There were a few more doors to try.
She felt color rising in her cheeks—was it anticipation or embarrassment? Probably embarrassment, as she was snooping through the halls, opening this door and that. In the end, she did find him in a study.
She was treated to the unexpected sight of Lord Fox . . . reading.
He had dressed informally—breeches and boots, a shirt open at the neck, and a waistcoat. He was seated informally, too, with his heels kicked up on the desk as he sat back in his chair. She noted his forearms, tan and muscled and exposed from his rolled shirtsleeves. Gah, she was mooning over his forearms.
There was a dog sleeping at his feet. Some sort of pointer or retriever that seemed like it should be more at home in the country than the city.
“Well, this is a sight I didn’t expect to see,” she said, by way of hello.
He looked up, surprised. And, if one could judge by the light in his eyes, not an unwelcome one. The dog also looked up at her, then at Fox, as if awaiting his direction on how to greet the visitor.
“I could say the same,” he said, standing. The dog did as well—what a loyal and obedient creature. “To what do I owe the honor, Lady Claire?”
“My family is calling on your sister. I got lost on my way to the ladies’ retiring room.”
“Oh, it’s just down the hall.” He closed the distance betwee
n them—mostly. And the dog followed, then trotted all the way over to her to sniff her skirts.
“And who is this?”
“The best hunting dog in England. Otherwise known as Stella.”
“She’s a beauty.” The dog beamed up at her and wagged its tail, as if she understood she was being praised and adored. Claire held out her hand for the dog to sniff and then, when she’d been approved, she pet her.
“And she knows it,” Fox said, with pride. “What she won’t tell you is that she’s also the best hunting dog in the country and the envy of all my friends. I raised her from a pup and trained her myself.”
Claire glanced up at him, noting Fox beaming with pride and something else she couldn’t quite place. So much for the idle lord she’d assumed him to be. She knew from her brother what dedication, patience, and kindness was required to train an animal.
“She’s a country dog, of course, but I like having her around too much to leave her at Norwood Park,” Fox explained.
After a moment, the dog trotted back to a spot on the carpet in a patch of sunlight and made itself comfortable, though she kept her eyes on Fox. What a life that Stella must lead.
“She seems like she prefers to be with you,” Claire replied, and Fox made a noncommittal noise.
There was an awkward moment of silence when they seemed to have run out of things to say.
“Apologies for the distraction,” he said. “I’ll show you the way.”
She was acutely aware of the distance between them. He was near, but not near enough. Was that . . . longing she felt?
“No, silly,” she explained. “I ‘got lost.’ If you catch my meaning.”
Lud, but she felt ridiculous. And then something in her stilled at the way Fox gazed down at her.
“Am I to understand that you have sought me out? Where we might not be seen?”
That burned.
“I came with some idea of apologizing to you about that,” she said, nervously adjusting her spectacles. “And to speak to you about us being seen together.”
