by Maya Rodale
Fox turned to her. Reached out to touch her sleeve. Days ago, moments ago, she might have leaned into the touch. But that was before she knew she was just a game. Or worse: that she discovered she had been infatuated with a man who gambled the things he loved on trying to change another. For fun. For sport.
Her heart, her body, her very essence, wasn’t sport.
“No.”
Claire turned and walked away. Meredith, bless her, fell in step immediately. But after ten paces—ten furious paces to the ever increasing rumble of thunder—Claire stopped, spun on her heel, and stomped back.
Fox hadn’t moved.
She marched right up to him, not caring at all how he was so big or strong or handsome or that people were walking and watching and whispering things like “Who does she think she is anyway?”
“I knew we didn’t make sense together.”
That was when the heavens opened up and the rain burst forth, soaking them both in a minute.
On the street, as Claire walks away
She knew they hadn’t made sense together. She knew it was odd that a man like him should take a liking to a woman like her. But he had introduced her to Ashbrooke and she enjoyed kissing him, so she ignored that missing variable throwing off the entire equation.
She didn’t think.
And that was precisely the thing: usually all she ever did was think. She was very good it, it excited her, and she was fortunately in a family and position where she was at liberty to do so.
But Fox had revealed to her that she was more than just her brain. Her body—living, breathing, pulsing with pleasure—needed attention, too. He showed her what she was missing, and gave her what she needed.
And now he was gone. She had been made a fool. Well, this was the last time that she listened to her body’s wanton desires instead of her head.
But there was an acute ache in the region of her heart and it could only mean one thing: she actually cared about Fox. He had tied her up in knots, swept her off her feet, taken over her brain, and wormed his way into her heart.
The truth of this wager clarified so much. What an inconvenient discovery. What a terrible thing to know. She had cared.
She had only been a game.
On the street, after Claire walks away
Fox was left to wrestle with a problem on his own. This was a state of being he usually avoided at all costs. But as he stood in the rain and watched Claire and Miss Green walk away, it was clear to him that this was a disaster of his own making. It was all his fault. And somehow, he had to fix it.
Stella nudged his hand with her nose, reminding him that they were idly standing in the rain on a city street and they were a pair who moved with purpose. They did not stand about, pining after a woman, in the rain.
What next, poetry? Tears?
His Male Pride would have none of that.
His Male Pride had had enough say though, and done enough damage. It had led him to this moment, where Fox loitered in the rain, and faced the stunning realization that the best thing that had ever happened to him was walking away.
Not that Lady Claire was a thing. She was not a toy or a pawn; he saw that now that as she stormed down the street and, unbeknownst to her, dragged his heart behind her.
Yes, his damned heart.
He had feelings after all.
Feelings that were inconvenient and ill-timed and, nevertheless, hammering away in the region of his heart. It pained him that he had hurt her. It pained him that he had lost her. Yet he was aware it might not even compare to the pain and humiliation she must be feeling right now.
Damned Mowbray, who had all but assured Fox lost the wager with that devious reveal. Damned Fox for agreeing in the first place.
Stella nosed at his hand again, reminding him that perhaps they ought to go seek shelter if they weren’t going to hunt and kill something. After returning Stella home—while it was still her home—he set off once more. When one was faced with losing a woman and a dog, there was only one thing to do: hit something.
Later that afternoon, Durham House
When Claire and Meredith returned home, Amelia was still missing and there wasn’t a clue as to her whereabouts. Shortly thereafter, Darcy escorted Bridget home. They were also soaking wet. There were baths to be had, fresh dresses to be donned, more tea to be drunk, and more and more trips to the window in the vain hope that one would see Amelia traipsing along the street toward the house.
The minutes ticked by, the tension within the family increasing until it seemed like they would all break into a thousand pieces, to be scattered all over England.
“You’d think the Runners would have found her by now,” James grumbled as he stood and strolled over to the window. He was too on edge to sit, so he paced around the drawing room, like a frustrated caged beast, terrifying everyone with his black mood.
“They did say they might have seen her at Vauxhall,” Bridget pointed out.
Indeed, an hour ago a Runner had come by with a report that their sister might have been sighted but she had caused a scene and ran away. That did sound like her.
“Idiots didn’t follow,” James grumbled.
Claire watched her poor, tortured brother, and was reminded of all the nights he stayed up with sick horses or set off across the countryside in search of one that had escaped the paddock. He didn’t give up on who or what he loved.
“Your Grace, I wonder if you all will be dressing for the ball this evening,” Meredith asked.
It had clearly slipped the duchess’s mind, which underscored the gravity of this situation. In the weeks that Claire had known her, the duchess never forgot something like a social engagement or what one said a dozen years ago that caused a scandal.
“Oh, that’s right . . . Lady Carsington’s affair,” the duchess said, shaking her head. “She told me in no uncertain terms that she is counting on us to attend, though I don’t see how we can, unless Lady Amelia deigns to arrive . . . Right. Now.”
There was a moment of tense silence. No one moved. No one breathed. Everyone waited and hoped to hear the sound of the door opening and Amelia’s footsteps.
Nothing.
“Very well,” the duchess said wearily. “We must attend, though we’ll tell everyone that Lady Amelia is ill.”
“I’m not going to a damned party while my sister is missing,” James said flatly.
Both Claire and Bridget nodded their heads in agreement.
“I cannot pretend to be happy and socialize while she’s at large,” Claire said. Fortunately, no one pointed out that she was never one to pretend to be happy about socializing. Between Amelia and Fox and his horrid wager, Claire was certain she did not need to go out tonight, or ever again.
“Of course I understand, Duke, but we must keep up appearances,” the duchess said, but James spun around, his expression thunderous.
“Don’t call me ‘Duke,’” he said sharply. “I am a person. James. Not a title. I am a person who is terrified for the fate of his beloved sister. If I am going to leave this house, it will be to keep searching for her, not to be the entertainment at some batty old woman’s party.”
“I am in no mood to go out, either,” Claire said. She could not bear to face the ton right now—how many, she wondered, had known about the wager? Would they all be gossiping about her behind their fans or to her face? She wanted to believe that she didn’t care what they thought, but that was before a man had hurt and humiliated her.
Claire glanced at Bridget, who paused from writing in her diary to shake her head that no, she didn’t wish to go out, either.
“Very well, I shall send our regrets to Lady Carsington,” the duchess said. At that, Meredith stood to fetch the duchess’s writing things. “But we cannot hide forever. We will have to face society eventually.”
Later that afternoon, Horse and Dolphin pub
At this early evening hour, there weren’t too many men hanging around at Bill Richardson’s place. Most lords had gone home to dress for an ev
ening out or had retired to the club for a late-afternoon drink before the night ahead.
Fox had Richardson to himself. Good. He needed a proper fight. One that would make him forget that he had possibly just lost his beloved dog and a woman for whom he actually possessed feelings.
Real, complicated, messy, loving, lusting feelings.
Fox had adored Arabella—she was beautiful, his social equal, his perfect complement. And that had been that. They seemed to match, like little knickknacks on a shelf.
But he and Claire seemed to fit together like puzzle pieces; strangely shaped, but they clicked together just right to be greater together. Already he felt incomplete without her and regretted the loss deeply.
Such were his thoughts whilst in the ring with Richardson, and they had nothing to do with keeping a close eye on his opponent, anticipating his next move, or planning his own.
This was how people got hurt.
“You’re distracted again,” Richardson warned, fists raised. “I can see you losing focus.”
“I’m not—”
His protest was cut off by Richardson’s fist connecting solidly with his jaw. Fox staggered back. He lifted his hand to the sore spot where he’d been hit. He thought of Claire’s furious expression.
I knew we didn’t make sense together.
“I’m not even sure if you’re still in the game,” Richardson taunted.
“I’m here,” he said through gritted teeth. But again, he thought not of the recent hit to his face, but the stunning pain of Claire discovering that she had been a game to him. Or at least she had started as such—and now?
“Are you?” Richardson taunted him now and really went after him, lunging forward, darting to the left—no, the right!—throwing a swing here, a jab there. Usually, Fox would have loved the surge of adrenaline from this sustained attack, and shut out everything but him and his opponent and this moment.
Today, he couldn’t stop thinking of Claire and the mistakes he’d made, and so he took one too many hits. He raised his fists to cover his face and started looking for a way out.
“You know the game isn’t over until one of us is knocked down or thrown off our feet,” Richardson taunted. “Are you on the ground or off your feet?”
No. Yes.
Fox knew what it felt like to be knocked off his feet before crashing to the ground. It was Arabella jilting him. He had lost his equilibrium, his sense of secure standing in the world. It felt like Claire discovering the wager. He felt like he was falling and could only brace himself for the inevitable crash.
“I’ll ask you again,” Richardson growled. “Are you on the ground or off your feet?”
He was still on his feet.
The match was still on.
The game was still in play.
There was still time. The wager wasn’t technically lost until the evening of the Cavendish party and he had a day or two at least. He had not lost yet.
The realization struck like a fist to the chest. Oh—wait, that was actually Richardson’s meaty fist connecting solidly with his solar plexus, blowing the wind right out of him.
He had to play hard until the end.
This realization renewed him. Fox drew himself up to his full height. Richardson smiled, a flash of white teeth, as he realized something had changed in his opponent. Fox darted to the left, threw a punch, missed, but tried again. And again.
The fight, which might have been over in a minute, stretched out now as the two opponents put everything into it.
Because here was the thing: Fox did not lose.
Or did he?
And yet, as they went around and around throwing punches and dodging hits, Fox realized that he did not want to win. To win the wager with Mowbray was to lose a lifetime with Lady Claire and that would be the real prize.
Lady Claire, just as she was—with spectacles and speaking words he didn’t understand—was lovely. That was the woman he had fallen for and who dragged his heart behind her as she walked away. That was the woman he was endlessly sorry to have hurt when he really wanted to sweep her into his arms and kiss her for hours (and maybe more; very well, definitely more). But how on earth was he to convince her that he wanted her?
Richardson took one last swing, his fist connecting solidly with Fox’s face. He had only one thought as he went down: if he really wanted to win, he would have to lose the wager.
Chapter 16
The haute ton is asked to believe that Arabella Vaughn has an aunt in Bath, whom she was visiting, rather than attempting a failed elopement with actor Lucien Kemble.
—Fashionable Intelligence, The London Weekly
The next day, Durham House
Mercifully, Claire’s prayers were answered and deals with God had been accepted. Amelia arrived home late the previous night, intact and looking no worse for wear. But something about her had changed. She was quieter and more withdrawn—or perhaps she was merely exhausted after a day of adventure. Whatever happened, she was not telling. It was, the Cavendish siblings agreed, the first time Amelia kept a secret in her life.
“Now that Amelia is home safely—” the duchess began at breakfast the next day.
But all eyes turned to Amelia’s empty chair.
“Has someone checked on her this morning?” Claire asked. “I think someone should check on her.”
“You already did. As did I,” Bridget pointed out.
“Frankly, I have half a mind to station a maid and footman outside her door and window,” James added.
“You are the duke,” Miss Green pointed out. “There is no stopping you.”
James caught the eye of a footman standing by and merely nodded. The footman left immediately.
“How ducal of you, James,” Claire said. “Perhaps you’re suited for this role after all.”
Ducal or not, he scowled mightily at her. For that brief second, everything was back to normal. Just brother and sister, teasing at the breakfast table, never mind runaway siblings and the humiliation of a broken heart.
“As I was saying,” the duchess began. “Now that Amelia is returned to us, we must focus on ensuring that word of her adventure doesn’t capture the ton’s attention. And of course it would behoove us all to ensure we have allies, should there be some whiff of scandal.”
She looked up from the newspapers spread out before her and gave a pointed look to each one of the Cavendishes. It was an argument they’d heard before: if they married well in society, they would have powerful families to help smooth their way toward social acceptance. Her motives were even deeper: if the sisters wed Englishmen, James was more likely to stay and assume the duties of the title, rather than hightail it back to America.
“Duchess, I think this pressure to wed is what sent Amelia running,” Claire said. And, she thought, what motivated her to repel suitors with talk of math or to use Fox as a distraction. In her own way, she, too, was running.
“I cannot help the way of the world. I can only try to ensure you all find happiness in it. And I daresay you would all be happier with proper matches than being cast out from society.”
The duchess faced three skeptical expressions. The thing was, they knew what it was like outside of society and it was fine. They were at liberty to follow their passions and be familiar with each other. There were fewer rules to follow. It was trying to fit into society’s strict little boxes that seemed to be the problem.
But telling that to the duchess had thus far proven fruitless.
“Bridget, you have a potential suitor in Rupert.”
“I suppose,” Bridget said. Then she took a large bite of toast so she wouldn’t have to answer further.
“And, Claire, Fox has been pursuing you . . .”
“There will be nothing between Fox and me,” she said sharply. Too sharply. It attracted notice—a few raised eyebrows and curious stares. Claire shrugged and sipped her tea.
She was firm in this. Her brain would once again override her heart (or other parts of her tha
t desired more and listened to logic even less). She would not give herself to a man who had made a sport of trying to change her, who dallied with her but didn’t want her true self, with her spectacles, passion for numbers, and quirky, scandalous family.
But the duchess’s point was not lost on Claire. This quirky, scandalous family was pushing the ton’s limits of acceptability. She might not give a fig for herself, but she would not stand in the way of her siblings’ future happiness, no matter the cost. If she would not use Fox as a cloak of respectability and a way to deflect scandal, she would have to do something else . . .
Her family’s happiness depended on it.
Later that morning, in the drawing room
Thoughts of saving her family from scandal and ensuring their future happiness were on Claire’s mind—even whilst entertaining a call from Mr. Williams. They had planned to meet to review her initial draft of the paper. She would have postponed the meeting, but in the madness surrounding Amelia’s “adventure” and that wretched business with Fox, she had quite forgotten.
And so, Claire found herself in the drawing room with Mr. Williams, trying to focus.
“Your note on how the machine would work out Bernoulli numbers is fascinating, but I think we should further discuss the table you provided.”
“I relied on Ashbrooke’s own formula when creating it.”
“I might have discovered one or two errors in it that will require correction before we could publish,” Williams said. Claire paused for a moment, not accustomed to making errors. But she wasn’t surprised—she had been so distracted of late.
“Of course, let us review it.”
And so they reviewed it, extensively, going over each line of the table and revising some of the calculations with pencil on paper. Her mind became focused and she got lost in the numbers . . . for a little while. Then she heard Amelia’s voice in the hall, and remembered what a precarious position the family was now in. She was reminded of the events of yesterday, particularly the acutely painful revelation that she’d only been a bet, a game, to Fox.
