by Maya Rodale
Once ready, Bridget and Amelia entered Claire’s bedchamber without bothering to knock. Claire, standing before the mirror, turned at the sound of rustling silk and squabbling sisters.
“How do I look?” Claire asked them.
“See for yourself,” Amelia replied, flopping on the bed without a care for her dress and the hours that went into pressing it free of wrinkles. “You are literally standing in front of a mirror.”
“If you haven’t noticed, I cannot see because I haven’t got my spectacles on.”
“Then put them on,” Amelia said, staring up at the ceiling.
“I cannot,” Claire replied. “Or rather, I will not.”
“Then how are you going to manage all night?” Bridget asked. As far as Claire could tell, she was looking at herself in the small mirror on Claire’s vanity table. “Oh, I do hope you won’t be stumbling around and bumping into people and things. We’re supposed to be Elegant Ladies.”
“I’m not sure how it’ll work, but it must.”
Venturing out without her spectacles was the height of idiocy. But she wanted Fox to win the wager and Lady Francesca had told her in no uncertain terms that it was essential to the success of her plan. She wanted to protect her family. She wanted the ton to talk about something other than how scandalous they all were. If she had to remove her glasses, subject herself to fashion and simper all night, then, by God, she would do it.
“Now can you just tell me how I look?”
She couldn’t quite see and she really wanted to. Claire turned around to face the direction of her sisters’ voices. There were soft coos.
“You look beautiful, Claire.”
“And don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look like . . . you,” Bridget said.
“Excellent,” Claire murmured. That was the whole plan. She wasn’t going to look like Claire Cavendish, lady mathematician, but Lady Claire Cavendish, darling of the haute ton.
She was going to win that wager for Fox. She would give him exactly what he thought he wanted. She calculated it was the only way to reveal what his true feelings were, and the best way to test her own.
She turned back to the mirror. Her reflection was blurry to her eyes, but she knew what was revealed. A pretty young lady in an exceedingly fine gown—selected by Lady Francesca—cut low, to better enhance her breasts, and decorated with tiny sparkling beads that caught the light and presumably would catch gentlemen’s eyes.
More importantly, it was worn with confidence.
Francesca had drilled her on the importance of acting as if she were an esteemed duke’s sister, and heiress, a sought after woman of brains and beauty. She was not to think of herself as a quiet girl from the former colonies and now a social pariah in London society.
Claire’s hair had been styled differently than usual. Instead of her simple coiffure, her maid had done an elaborate something on top of her head. There were wispy tendrils that did look pretty, even if they got in her way. Francesca had advised her on this particular style and insisted that she was not allowed to blow stray strands of hair out of her face. She was to smile placidly, even if she was bothered by them.
Claire couldn’t see how she looked without her spectacles, but she remembered Fox’s reaction when he saw her without them. She had taken his breath away.
How silly that a pair of glasses could make such a difference in how the world perceived her. It wasn’t, perhaps, that they changed her appearance so dramatically, but that without them she appeared more normal—simple and not complicated.
Tonight, Claire looked like any other pretty girl. She vowed to act like one, too. She would walk with tiny, elegant steps and keep her movements restrained and delicate. She would laugh gently at supposed-to-be-amusing bon mots. She would discuss the weather without mentioning the different types of clouds.
To be clear, she was doing this so that she could win Fox’s wager for him. She was not doing this to win his affections. He would have to love her as she truly was, or not at all.
That evening, at the ball
The ballroom at Durham House was overflowing with guests. It had been ages since the duchess had entertained, and with the general scandal that had been the entire Cavendish existence in London—the ton turned out, in force.
Lord Fox was among them. He had no illusions about how this evening would proceed—he would lose the wager, Mowbray would win, and Claire would go on to solve real problems in the world with her genius brain when she was free of distractions like him.
He knew he would lose because he had made no overtures to Claire since his deception had been revealed. He had not tried to explain himself, woo her, or beg her forgiveness. Groveling wasn’t going to be a sufficient way to prove that he was sorry and that he had changed since the night he made the wager. She had made him a better man.
His plan was to lose, spectacularly, and to sacrifice his beloved dog and his Male Pride. His plan was to subject himself to Mowbray’s gloating and glee. His plan was to show Lady Claire, in the only way he knew how, that he did not want her to change, that he loved her, just as she was, spectacles and unfashionable dresses and all.
Losing was a strange feeling for Fox and losing deliberately was almost unfathomable. Thus he was in an unfamiliar and uncomfortable state when Mowbray approached.
“Good evening, friend.”
“Mowbray.” Fox gave him a curt nod. He wasn’t so sure friend was the word for them anymore.
“Tell me, how does it feel to lose, Fox?” Mowbray asked. Of course he assumed he won, after that deuced unsporting stunt he pulled by telling Claire about the wager. “I know it’s a new feeling for you.”
Fox wanted to grab the man by his cravat and throttle him and rage that he didn’t even know losing. Mowbray, being a person with misplaced priorities, would think Fox cared about losing this wager. In truth, Fox was discovering—the hard, aching way—that he cared about losing Claire.
Fox also wanted to issue some devastating setdown in reply. But he deserved all the taunting that came his way.
“It was a stupid and unsporting wager, Mowbray, one we should never have agreed to.”
Mowbray’s reply was lost in a sudden buzz and hum in the ballroom, the collective murmur of hundreds of people witnessing something sensational.
Fox turned and looked, but it took him a moment to register the sight before him. It was Lady Claire, as he had never seen her, never even imagined her. He scarcely recognized her in that fancy, sparkly dress with her hair done differently and her spectacles stashed away somewhere.
This was not the woman he knew.
What had she done?
It took a moment of dreadful confusion, but Fox finally understood.
A grin tugged at his lips; she had just changed the game.
Fox straightened, exhaled slowly.
“You tell me, Mowbray. How does it feel to lose?”
He inclined his head in the direction of Lady Claire and the sensation she was causing. People were staring, murmuring, gossiping—but also smiling and welcoming her. Fox watched from a distance as the guests ate it up. Mowbray stared, slack jawed.
That was not the Lady Claire Cavendish they had known and ignored. The woman who had just arrived was a revelation. She was beautiful, yes, and they could see it now that she removed her spectacles and softened her coiffure and simpered.
She moved differently, too. Her steps and gestures were hesitant and delicate, as if she were asking permission for even the slightest movement.
The Claire he had fallen for moved with a purpose, quite at odds with this fragile, oh-do-help sort of way that aroused a man’s chivalrous and protective instincts, including his own. It took all his self-control not to lunge through the crowds to clasp her hand and hold her close.
Lady Claire smiled demurely. A smile that conveyed I am so delighted you are here. I am so anxious to please you. I do hope you like me.
It was not her usual sphinx-like smile, which suggested I
know things you don’t know.
Fox knew two things: he had won the wager. But he had lost the girl.
Claire couldn’t see a damn thing, but she was still painfully aware that everyone was staring at her. She wanted to shout, It’s still me! Was this transformation really so great?
She was not an unkempt person. She did not wear dowdy clothes or maintain a slovenly appearance. She simply did not usually go the extra mile—an hour spent doing her hair was an hour not spent on more intellectually stimulating pursuits. So she wore whatever dress the maid picked out, she kept her hair simple, she wore her glasses so she could see, and she stormed through life with her priorities in order.
But not tonight.
Tonight, she tried. More than tried. Endured.
She had slipped on her glasses for a peek in the mirror and even then she barely recognized herself.
Hair, done in an elaborate, twisted, curled, towering arrangement. It had taken two maids, hot tongs, papers, ointments, and the direction of Lady Francesca. For extra effect, a strand of diamonds and pearls had been threaded through so every time she moved her head, it sparkled. All this because she was the sister of a wealthy duke, by God, and everyone should know it.
There were audible gasps when people saw her. Audible being the key word as she could scarcely see anything. There were vague, blurry shapes of humans in the vicinity. Splotches of color to indicate a dress, dark patches to indicate a gentleman.
Names and faces were beyond her.
Moving had become a high risk endeavor. So she kept her steps delicate, her movements small, and as a result had perhaps finally achieved the ladylike comportment the duchess was always striving for them to acquire. She felt rather like a newborn fawn, learning to use its legs.
Between the reduced vision and the uncomfortable shoes she wore (but they sparkled!), there was no chance of Lady Claire breaking the rules and moving about the ballroom unescorted. The thought of her finding the card room and attempting to play was laughable. She would stand right here, and be seen and not heard, and would be at the conversational mercy of whomever came by.
She wanted to fidget—wring her hands, tap her foot, that sort of thing. She did not fidget. She repeated epitome of grace in her head a thousand times instead.
She reminded herself why she had done this.
Because it would set an excellent example for her sisters. With her great adventure, Amelia had demonstrated that she very badly needed a positive role model to emulate. Furthermore, it would give the ton something else to talk about when it came to the Cavendish family. This, then, was her gift to them. She hoped it bought them all time to find their true happiness.
Because she wanted to publish that paper under her full name and an improved reputation with the ton would lessen the potential scandal.
Because she wanted to know what would happen between her and Fox once the wager was no longer a factor.
And, oh, because that adorable dog should not live with a dissolute rogue like Mowbray.
Reasons. She had them.
Claire sensed a man approaching her—but she instinctively knew it wasn’t Fox. This man wasn’t as tall, wasn’t as wide, and seemed to have a woman on his arm.
“Lady Claire, you look beautiful this evening.”
She smiled in recognition. “Ashbrooke, hello. And I presume that is Her Grace?”
“Claire, can you see anything without your glasses?” the duchess, Emma, asked, sounding concerned.
“Not a thing. But don’t I look beautiful?”
“You do,” Emma agreed hesitantly.
“That is,” Ashbrooke cut in, “until you are black and blue in the face after walking into a pillar.”
“That is an excellent point, Your Grace. Which is why I plan to stand right in this spot for the duration of the evening. Unless, of course, a gentleman should escort me for a turn about the ballroom.”
“Lady Claire, what is this about?” She caught a vision of Ashbrooke gesturing generally toward her person. “This isn’t you.”
“A man, of course,” Claire said flatly.
“What I presume you cannot see,” the duchess explained, “is the look of incomprehension on my husband’s face. If I might attempt to describe his expression it might be but I thought you were smarter than that.”
Claire gave a little laugh.
“Indeed,” Ashbrooke agreed. “But anyway, I was going to tell you when we met next, but I cannot wait—” Here, he launched into a detailed description of a new line of thinking for the analytical engine, which solved a critical problem they’d been grappling with. It made her heart sing to hear about it, to think about it, to be discussing with Ashbrooke, inventor of the difference engine. How far she had come!
“How very impressive, Your Grace,” she murmured, even though she wanted to corner him and ask a thousand questions. But tonight, she had to be on her Best and Most Ladylike Behavior and that meant she was not to discuss math. Not even with a duke.
“I’ll explain it in more detail when we next meet. And wear your glasses, you don’t want to miss anything.”
Claire forced a smile to remain on her lips as they walked away even though that one interaction had caused a little crack in her heart. She did not want to pretend to be someone she was not. She did not want to hide her light under a bushel.
But she was determined to see this experiment through to the end. Thus, Claire kept up the charade. She expressed her hope that her guests were enjoying themselves. She laughed politely at terrible jokes. She made excuses for Amelia’s “illness” and “recovery.” She commented upon the weather. She repeated all of it for what felt like a thousand times.
Though Claire couldn’t exactly see the reactions, she could hear them and it sounded like murmurs of approval.
Claire had expected Fox to find her, and it felt like an eternity before he finally did. She could tell it was him standing before her, even without her glasses, by the size of a dark splotch in her line of vision, and by the way his mere presence made her heart beat in a ridiculous rhythm.
“What. Is. This.” His voice was a low rumble.
“I do not know what you mean,” she replied lightly.
“You have bits of sparkly stuff in your hair.”
“Those would be diamonds.”
“And where are your glasses? Can you even see a damn thing?”
His concern and distinct lack of enthusiasm thrilled her. It probably shouldn’t, but it did.
“I cannot, but I have no need to see. A lady is not to go about the ballroom unaccompanied, so if I move from this spot it will be with an escort, whom I have every faith will not lead me straight into a pillar.”
Then Fox did the strangest thing.
He knocked on her head. Rapped his knuckles on her skull, without a care for the intricate styling of her hair that he was disrupting. An hour of her life, for naught.
“Hello, is anyone home in there?”
Claire wanted to laugh and cry in equal measures. He was seeing through this to the real her, seeking her out and saying nothing about the wager. He wasn’t happy with this show she was putting on.
Fox took a step closer and clasped her hand.
“May I have the honor of this dance?”
“What does my dance card say?”
“It says Lord Fox for every dance.” He didn’t even look.
“That cannot be true.”
“Well, you can’t see to argue with me now, can you?”
And so, they waltzed. It was their first time dancing together. He had been right; dancing with him was like flying or, she could perhaps imagine, making love. Claire was not a good dancer, but he was and he didn’t allow either of them to make a misstep.
“Why are you doing this?” Fox asked softly after a moment.
“Doing what?” Claire tried her best to do a simpering laugh.
“Don’t. Not with me,” he said softly, which didn’t make the request any less forceful.
> “I am doing this so you can win your wager. I should think that was obvious.”
“Ah, you’re still a spitfire even when you’re all trussed up like a proper young lady.”
“It’s quite a challenge to truss myself up like this, I’ll have you know.”
“Well, don’t do it on my account. I’m not some pitiful maiden who needs you to come to her defenses.”
But . . . he was going to lose if she hadn’t done this. He was going to give up his dog. He didn’t seem like the kind of person who just gave up and lost when things didn’t go his way. And it wasn’t just done on his account—she needed to do this for her family.
“You were just going to lose?” Claire couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice.
“Yes. This doesn’t exactly feel like winning,” he murmured.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. But I know what winning feels like—the surge of exhilaration and joy, the feeling of triumph, like all the pain and sweat was worth it—and it doesn’t feel like this.”
“After all the trouble I’ve gone to . . .”
“I never asked you to.”
“You couldn’t possibly like me the way I truly am. The way I was.”
The way I still am, deep down.
“What makes you so sure of that?”
“We’re just so different, you and I . . .”
She wished she had her spectacles on so she could read his expression.
“Now I may not be terribly smart here, Claire. But I wonder if what you’re trying to say is that you can’t like me the way I am.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered. But she did. Oh, she did. Fox, proving himself to be more astute than she imagined, gave voice to the innermost thoughts she barely acknowledged to herself.
“I don’t know a rhombus from a Pythagoras. The only kind of pi I care about is the pie one eats. I need pencil, paper, ten minutes, and a whiskey to perform even the simplest calculation. I’m happiest when I am sweaty, breathing hard, and on the verge of injuring myself in pursuit of athletic glory. You want a man like Benedict Williams to match wits with. But do you think marriage and what happens between a man and a woman is all math problems and intelligent conversations?”
