by Maya Rodale
She wanted to hate him completely, but that logical and reasonable part recognized that if it weren’t for his encouragement she wouldn’t be working on this paper with Mr. Williams right now.
“Lady Claire?”
Mr. Williams. Yes. He was speaking to her. Asking a question. She had been lost in thought.
“I apologize, Mr. Williams, I have been distracted by family matters.”
“Yes, of course,” he said consolingly. “I heard your sister was ill. Has she recovered?”
“Yes, she is on the mend.”
“Now about this sequence here . . .” Mr. Williams began, and the conversation about the numbers and perfecting the paper continued for another quarter of an hour. Claire managed to push thoughts of Fox and family out of her mind and focus. It was a blessed relief to feel free of all that and concentrate only on numbers that followed clear rules and formulas.
“I think the paper is almost ready for publication,” Mr. Williams said, once their work wound down. “There is one other consideration as well. We must determine which name to publish it under.”
“I have yet to make a decision whether it shall be under Lady Claire Cavendish, or simply ‘C. Cavendish,’” she said.
“You should claim credit for your work,” Williams said. “None of this hiding behind an initial.”
“I would like to, but I must consider my family,” Claire replied, thinking of what the duchess had said, and thinking that she didn’t want her siblings to settle in matrimony because their brainy sister shocked the ton by authoring a mathematical paper.
“We have some time before you must decide,” Mr. Williams said. “But you deserve credit, Lady Claire.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. Their eyes met. There was no denying they shared a connection—one that went beyond a shared interest in math, and one that could deepen if given the chance.
“I hope we can celebrate the publication together,” he said. “And continue our friendship.”
Mr. Williams placed his hand on hers. It was warm and soft, and his touch was pleasant enough, but she didn’t feel the same spark and slow burn of desire she’d felt from simply being near Fox, let alone how she burst into flame when he touched her.
This suggested that it wasn’t just that her body’s desires had been neglected at the expense of her brain, as she’d thought. She had to acknowledge that it wasn’t any touch she wanted, but Fox’s.
It was plain to Claire that she would have some decisions to make: between her wish for publicity for her ideas and her wish for her family to avoid scandal and to find happiness and between her brain, her body, and her heart. But this was an equation she had no idea how to balance.
Later that afternoon, in the stables
Most of the time, brothers were a bother. They were rude and annoying, masquerading as “protective,” and occasionally revolting. But occasionally they could be helpful, such as when one was in need of advice on dealing with males.
Presumably. Claire had never asked James for romantic advice before, not having had any romantic entanglements previously. Even in America, young men were more interested in girls that flirted instead of ones who spent parties doing sums in their head.
She found James in the stables, the first place she looked. Despite the best efforts of the duchess, he still spent as much time as possible escaping the pressures of the dukedom to care for the horses. But since the horses were very well cared for by the grooms and stable hands, Claire suspected James just liked being near them and in an environment that was somewhat familiar to home. No matter whether in England or America, horses smelled like horses and didn’t care about one’s station in life.
More specifically, she found him in a stall, brushing down a beautiful chestnut mare.
“I need man advice.”
“Not you, too,” James groaned.
“Who else has been here seeking man advice?” Claire wanted to know.
“The duchess,” James said dryly. She huffed and rolled her eyes. “Take a guess, Claire. You are the smart one.”
“I know,” she said. Except that she had been so very foolish. But now that her wits were no longer addled with lust, she could resume being intelligent. “Part of what makes me smart is that I accept the facts and follow them to their logical conclusion.”
“What upsetting conclusion have you come to?”
“I might have fallen for Lord Fox.”
This was the most she could admit to herself, love being too strong a word. But after a perfectly amiable visit with her previously defined Ideal Man, with everything she’d ever wanted in reach, and complicated feelings for Fox that wouldn’t quit, she had to consider that this is what had happened.
James started coughing. Violently.
The horse stomped one foot impatiently.
“The one known mostly for his prowess with sport and less for his wits?”
“Yes. Precisely. That one.”
She could scarcely believe it herself. James paused in brushing the horse. “Didn’t see that one coming.”
“Neither did I.” Claire began to pace as much as one could in a stall with a rather large horse and another full-sized person. “But we had struck up a sort of friendship, which turned somewhat intimate.”
James’s response of “La la la la” merited a withering glare.
“I am a very cerebral person,” she continued. “But we shared a profound physical connection that showed me what I had been missing by focusing exclusively on intellectual matters.”
James closed his eyes now and said, loudly, “LA LA LA LA LA.”
“Why are you making that noise?”
“Because I don’t want to hear about my sister having physical connections, profound or otherwise, with men. For a smart girl, Claire . . .”
“Oh, shush. It turns out he had wagered that he could make me popular.” She stopped pacing and starting concentrating on not crying. One tear might have escaped. “His attentions were not real. They didn’t mean anything. I was just a game.”
“I’ll call him out.”
“You’ll do no such thing. He’ll murder you.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence.”
“Fox is a gifted man with regards to athletic pursuits, whether it is fencing, boxing, shooting, rowing, wrestling—”
“All right, I get it,” James muttered. “You’ve made your point.”
“But his talents are entirely beside the point. I learned about the wager, confronted him, and he just said, ‘Yes, it’s true, terribly sorry.’ He said he was sorry for the whole affair and he should never have engaged in such a scheme. He said we ought to forget the whole thing ever happened. But I cannot. I am hurt and furious and even more furious that I am hurt.”
“What does he stand to lose?”
Claire stared at her brother, bewildered. What did that have to do with anything?
“His dog!” And now she wailed. Because a man had wagered an animal over her. This upset her in so many ways—that he played so carelessly with a living creature’s existence. And surely she was at least worth an enormous sum of money or a hunting box in Scotland. Not something low stakes like a pet.
“So, probably the thing he cares about most in the world,” James said.
She hadn’t thought of it like that.
Claire remembered seeing the way he looked at the dog and explained how he’d bred, raised, and trained her himself. She saw the way the dog looked at him, like he was the sun, moon, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, too. In other words, everything.
And it wasn’t altogether unlike the way this particular chestnut mare was nuzzling her brother as he fed her sugar cubes likely pilfered from the breakfast table when the duchess wasn’t looking.
“Well, he must have been awfully sure of himself,” Claire muttered, even more furious that he thought changing her would be easy.
“I suppose,” James said with a shrug. “But I can assure you he is probably very sorry about t
he wager, then.”
“He’s not supposed to be sorry because he’ll lose the wager, but because he’ll lose me.”
“Maybe he is. I’m assuming you stormed off in a dramatic fashion, breaking his heart.”
“What makes you think I am the sort of woman who does that?”
“All women are, given the right circumstances. Such as finding out a man they like wagered a dog that they could make her into some stupid, simpering miss.”
“I came here for comfort and I am not being comforted.”
James heaved a sigh, the sort he did when he felt like he was being plagued by women, particularly his sisters. This was a fairly regular demonstration of exasperation.
“Since it’s you, I shall provide some logic. If you like him, and you think that he cares for you, your course of action is simple: be with him.”
“Why do men always simplify things?”
“Why do women always complicate things?”
“That was not the advice I came looking for.”
“Well, it’s the advice I have. Here’s a question for you, Claire. Do you think you love him?”
Love? Well, she took a step backward and found herself up against the stable wall. She didn’t know about love—she’d never experienced the romantic version herself, and Claire wasn’t in the habit of reading poetry and gossiping about boys with other girls, either. She didn’t know love from Adam. And yet.
There was something in her—something stubborn and fiery and determined—that wasn’t yet done with him. She had not kissed him enough, she supposed. But she also didn’t know him as well as she might, and she wanted to. She wanted to see if he was sorrier about losing the bet or losing her.
But there was something else as well.
“My dream man just called. We discussed the various complicated problems of the analytical engine for a quarter of an hour and he praised my brilliant intellect and insightful mind. We are going to publish a paper together. This is everything I’ve ever dreamt of. And the whole time my thoughts kept straying to Fox. Particularly kissing Fox.”
James closed his eyes and covered his ears. “LA LA LA LA LA.”
“You are a duke. Surely dukes do not cover their ears and shout nonsense words in the middle of conversations.”
“But I am also your brother. And here is my worldly man advice to you: put your brilliant brain to solving the problem of Lord Fox just as you would with any other math problem.”
That was hardly advice at all, but it set the machinery of her brain in motion.
“I must find the formula . . .” Claire murmured, after giving her brother a quick thank-you before returning to the house. She must break the problem down into solvable parts. She must solve for x.
X being whether Fox was sorry to have lost her because he had fallen for her, or whether he was sorry because he was losing the bet and losing his dog to Mowbray.
A mad—but oddly logical—idea was occurring to her.
If she did become popular, then the wager would be won.
If the wager was won, there would be no reason for Fox to pursue her unless he wanted to. It was the only chance for this possible thing that might be love to develop.
Even if she didn’t manage to win the wager for Fox—and make no mistake, this was almost entirely in her hands—it would benefit her family.
Claire was arriving at the logical conclusion that she would have to do something she never imagined: become one of those girls she always scoffed at. The ones who sat patiently to have their hair styled, who cared about dresses and jewelry, who flirted and talked only of gossip and the weather. It was possibly her only chance at happiness.
* * *
Well, here is something this author is shocked to report: Lady Claire Cavendish and Lady Francesca DeVere were seen shopping on Bond Street together.
—Fashionable Intelligence, The London Weekly
Claire went to great lengths to ensure this embarrassing errand went unnoticed and unremarked upon. The last thing she needed was an audience before she was ready.
First, she read the sporting section of the newspaper to learn when there was an event that Fox would more than likely be attending, that is, not at home. It so happened there was a horse race that afternoon.
Next she borrowed a rather large and atrocious bonnet from the duchess, the better to obscure her face.
Miss Green waited in the carriage, on lookout.
The butler, thankfully, was quick to open the door and usher her inside where he took her card, looked at the name, raised his brow, and went to see if Lady Francesca was at home to Lady Claire.
The odds were not high.
The two women hardly cared for each other. Frankly, Claire thought Francesca the sort of poisonous woman who gave other women complexes about themselves. She was certain that Francesca didn’t spare the slightest thought for her, and if she did, it was certainly not a favorable one.
But no matter.
Lady Claire had her priorities in order. She had to ensure that wager was won, and if she was to have a prayer of doing so, it would be because Lady Francesca deigned to help her.
The butler showed her to the drawing room.
Lady Francesca appeared curious, in spite of herself.
“I know we don’t really care for each other,” Claire started as she took a seat.
“Is this really how you are going to begin?” Lady Francesca asked, shocked. “Shall we not sip our tea and converse about mutual acquaintances first?”
“Lady Francesca, we are both intelligent women in a world that wants us to be stupid and silly if we even speak at all. Can we not be honest and direct with each other?”
Lady Francesca gave her a long look as if to discern that yes, Claire was serious. “All right, then.”
“Your brother—” Claire began.
“—is an idiot,” Francesca finished.
Unfortunately, Claire could not entirely deny that. “He has also made a wager. With Mowbray.” Francesca groaned at the mention of the name. “He wagered that he will turn me into the darling of the haute ton by the time of my family’s ball, in just two days’ time.”
“Thus proving the validity of my previous statement,” Lady Francesca replied.
“I hope you mean that as a statement upon his foolish wagering and not the impossibility that I should be transformed into a darling of the haute ton in a mere two days’ time.”
“I already knew about the wager.” Francesca dropped that casually into the conversation and followed it up with a sip of tea. Claire was left to contemplate whether she ought to feel embarrassed to know this whole charade had had an audience.
“He’s known for foolish choices,” Francesca added. Now Claire was left to contemplate whether she was one of those foolish choices.
Yes, Fox was a fool. He didn’t always make good choices. But somewhere along the line, Claire had started to see that he was also kind, in possession of his own talents and interests, and not the ignorant lummox she’d initially supposed him to be. And so, she didn’t quite care to hear Lady Francesca speak of him thusly.
She wondered, idly, if his sister had always made clear that she was the brains of the family and he wasn’t and so he didn’t try . . . But that was neither here nor there at this point.
“It so happens that I have developed a certain fondness for him,” Claire said softly.
“To each her own, I suppose.” Lady Francesca shrugged and managed to do so elegantly. No wonder Bridget was fascinated by her.
“I should like to ensure that he wins,” Claire said, returning to the matter at hand and the reason for her visit. “And for that, I shall need your help.”
“That’s a bit rich. Why should I help you? Your sister is attempting to steal my intended.”
“Darcy? Bridget despises him.”
“Is that so?” Francesca was clearly skeptical. In fact, Claire now wondered what Bridget was up to and with whom and why this stranger might know her own
sister’s heart better than Claire did. This only renewed her determination. She had to become popular by the time of their party.
“She fancies his brother, if you must know,” Claire said. At least, that was the last update she’d heard from Amelia, who regularly read Bridget’s diary. Lady Francesca turned away, clearly skeptical.
“I’m still not sure why I should help you.”
“Think of it more as helping your brother. Your foolish but still somehow lovable brother. And if not him, then that poor dog who will have to go live with a vile rake like Mowbray.”
“Oh, dear Lord,” Francesca cut in. “I will help you, for the sake of my idiot brother, but only under one condition. No more sentimental nonsense and no one is to know about this.”
Claire bit her tongue, knowing better than to point out that was two conditions. With Lady Francesca’s assistance, she might have a chance at winning after all.
Chapter 17
The most sought after invitation in town is of course the one to the Duchess of Durham’s soiree, to be hosted with the new duke and his sisters. Some are hoping for success, others eagerly await more missteps, and more than a few are curious about Lady Amelia’s sudden illness and miraculous recovery.
—Fashionable Intelligence, The London Weekly
The duchess had determined that a necessary component of the Cavendish siblings’ education and entrée into society was hosting a ball. Not just any ball, either, but one that would showcase their wealth, the prestige of the title, their transformation from poor provincial relations from the former colonies to darlings of the English aristocracy.
It was quite a task.
One they were not up for.
Or were they?
The Cavendish sisters spent more time than usual preparing for the evening. First, there were naps and baths before the real preparations began in earnest. Their exceedingly fine gowns had been pressed and draped on the bed, ready to be worn with silk stockings and delicate shoes. Their hair had to be done just so in intricate coiffures that necessitated hot irons and ribbons and strands of pearls. The whole process took hours. Hours!
