by Maya Rodale
“No.” Her voice was just a whisper. He had opened her eyes to that.
“Frankly, I don’t know, either, though in this I probably know better than you, Miss Know-it-all.”
She deserved that. And she felt her skin warm as she thought of all that he knew about what happens between a man and a woman and how she wanted him to show her. “I haven’t been married—I was jilted, as you know. As everyone knows. My Male Pride was wounded and now I’m here because of a wager I made when my pride was suffering. Can’t say I’m terribly sorry about it, to be honest, because I got to discover you. But do you know the truth, Claire? I don’t feel like I have won at all.”
“You really know how to make a woman feel terrible.”
“I also know how to make a woman feel pleasurable. But only if she says yes.”
The following day, at the home of Arabella Vaughn
After their chance encounter at the boxing match, it had become something of a habit for Mowbray to call on Arabella. Mowbray had helped her return to London and her father had reluctantly taken her back into their home while Arabella and her mother plotted her return to society.
It would be no small task—to elope was scandalous enough. To do so with an actor was breathtaking in its madness and nearly impossible to live down. Their only hope was in Arabella reuniting with Fox. If he were to renew their engagement and demonstrate that he had forgiven her, then it was hoped that the rest of the haute ton would follow suit.
But Mowbray wasn’t optimistic about the success of this after what he saw at Almack’s, to say nothing of what he witnessed at the Cavendish ball.
“He’s bloody done it again,” Mowbray griped. “He’s won.”
He leaned against the mantelpiece in the Vaughn drawing room and gritted his teeth. There was no denying that Fox had won the wager—all the London papers were crowing about what a revelation Lady Claire Cavendish had been.
He had no idea how Fox had gotten her to agree to such a swift and sudden transformation after Mowbray had deliberately tried to ruin things between them by telling her about the wager.
“I told you he wins at everything,” Arabella said from where she lounged and pouted on a settee. Mowbray had filled her in on the wager as a way to explain the items in the gossip columns linking her former intended with the least likely woman imaginable. “So I don’t know why you are surprised.”
Mowbray wasn’t sure how to put into words for Arabella that it was his turn, his time, to step from behind the shadows and into the light, from second place into first.
“I didn’t think he had a prayer of succeeding with her,” he said.
“No one did. No one does,” Arabella said. “It can’t last.”
But Mowbray wasn’t sure about that. Perhaps she ought to know that her chances of winning with Fox weren’t assured, either, also thanks to Lady Claire.
“Did you know I saw them kissing?”
His gaze flitted over to her, now sitting up straighter on the settee. She was paying attention now.
“You did not see fit to mention that,” Arabella said icily.
“At Almack’s. They had stolen away for a moment.”
“He’s a tremendous flirt. I’m sure it means nothing.”
“But what if it does, Arabella?”
She was silent for a moment and he longed to know the thoughts behind those big blue eyes. His gaze drifted lower, to her mouth, pressed in a firm line of worry over Fox.
Mowbray knew he wanted to kiss her and make her forget about Fox. He wanted her to want him instead. He had a title, a fortune of his own. He could bring her back into the fold of society, could he not? Mowbray’s heart was pounding as his brain was whirring . . .
And then, she spoke.
“You just want him to lose at something for once. And I need to win him.”
“Yes . . .” Where was she going with this? Her eyes sparkled wickedly and, oh, what a devilish smile on her lips.
“Well, then, I have a plan.”
Chapter 18
It is confirmed Miss Arabella Vaughn is still Miss Arabella Vaughn and not Mrs. Lucien Kemble. But this author still has not been able to confirm the existence of her aunt in Bath.
—Fashionable Intelligence, The London Weekly
Lord Fox’s residence
By all accounts, Fox had won the wager.
Stella was slumbering at her preferred patch of sunlight in his study, blissfully unaware what a cruel fate she had dodged.
Arrangements were being made to transfer Zephyr from Mowbray’s stables to his own. Fox didn’t particularly want or need the animal, but Mowbray refused Fox’s “charity” and “pitiful” offer to let him keep the horse. Fox understood a thing or two about Male Pride, and so he shut up and accepted his prize.
And yet, he didn’t feel the thrill of triumph because in winning the wager, he had wrecked Lady Claire. The woman who had confounded him, transfixed him, and seduced him was gone and in her place was just another nice young lady. The papers were all raving about her transformation. They said things like:
At the family soiree, Lady Claire Cavendish proved to be a revelation. With her new look and elegant manners, she’s a rival to any young English Lady. This author does wonder what inspired the dramatic transformation. Could it be a man? Or perhaps it has something to do with her sister’s sudden illness and even more sudden recovery.
—Fashionable Intelligence, The London Weekly
They did not mention her intelligence, or her work with Ashbrooke and the Royal Society, or any of the unconventional and interesting things about her. They did not know about her quick retorts, the wicked way she kissed a man, that she was the one woman to bring him low, and that his heart ached for how she had changed and what he was missing. She was now just another lovely English lady, as if they needed any more of those.
One of those English ladies interrupted him. Lady Francesca strolled into his study, unannounced and uninvited.
“Why are you brooding? You won the wager. You have your dog, and a new horse, and presumably your Male Pride is soothed.”
Yes, but he didn’t have the girl. But that was not something one said aloud to one’s decidedly unromantic sister. Instead, Fox said gruffly, “I’m not brooding.”
Francesca scoffed. Dusk was falling and he was sitting alone in dwindling light with a glass of brandy. She pressed on, not even dignifying that with a response.
“Are you not happy with my work? I have performed a miracle. In fact, some of the papers are calling it a miracle. All for you, dear brother.”
“I only asked you for advice.”
“Yes, and so did she.” That caught his attention.
“She enlisted your help?”
“You don’t think she suddenly knew what to wear and how to style her hair, do you?”
He hadn’t thought about it. Fox had only noticed that the authentic, original girl he’d fallen for was gone, replaced by some generic version. It was one thing for Claire to take on the transformation, another to enlist the help of Francesca. It had to mean something, that.
But his mind kept returning to one truth: “We have wrecked her.”
“I thought you wanted her to be popular. I have helped you make her popular. You’re welcome.” Francesca finished this with a pout.
“She transformed herself—”
“—with my assistance.”
“In spite of me. Or to spite me. Either way, it’s not good.”
“I see what has happened.” She nodded sagely. “You have fallen in love with her, spectacles and all. Now you want her back, just as she was before your silly wager. But only after weeks of insinuating she was too odd and unfashionable.”
“Yes. Is that too much to ask?”
“I have no idea,” Francesca said with a shrug. “But I do know that you have quite a bit of wooing ahead of you if you are to try.”
Of course he had to try—and not because of his Male Pride or some bloodthirsty need to win—bu
t because he put two and two together and figured that he needed her in his life, the real her, to be happy. And he thought maybe she might feel the same way.
Calling hours, at Durham House
Wooing was not something Fox had ever had to put much effort into and he hadn’t wooed in some time—not since Arabella, ages ago, and she hardly made it difficult for him since they both seemed to recognize that they ought to be together for practical reasons, such as their looks complementing each other.
But wooing Lady Claire was different.
Wooing her after everything they’d gone through thus far would require dedication, careful planning, and flawless execution. Experts were consulted. His valet advised on what a contrite gentleman should wear when courting (not the purple waistcoat). Francesca told him in no uncertain terms that he should arrive with a massive bouquet of flowers.
Expensive, fragrant hothouse blooms were procured.
“Dear brother, are you nervous?” Francesca said with a laugh as she saw him in the foyer on his way to calling hours.
“Why can’t you say something supportive like ‘Just be yourself and she will return your affections’?”
Francesca made A Face.
“All right, now I am nervous,” he muttered before stepping out of the house and toward his awaiting carriage.
Wooing was a sport he was unpracticed in, with a woman who defied everything he thought he knew about women. Yes, he was nervous in anticipation not of a game or a battle, but of laying his heart bare.
In the drawing room at Durham House, the duchess sat on a grand chair, like a throne, overseeing all, particularly three Cavendish sisters seated in a row on a settee. Lady Bridget was eyeing the biscuits longingly, Lady Amelia looked like she wanted to launch sugar cubes with a spoon to the far side of the room or in the faces of these suitors, and Lady Claire had a placid, vapid smile pasted on her face.
Ah, so Lady Claire was still carrying on with her Perfect Lady and Society Darling routine.
And the men—the drawing room seemed to be swarming with them—were eating it up. There was an assorted lot of second sons and fortune hunters in the room, and many were directing their addresses to Lady Claire, who seemed to be encouraging them with pretty smiles and a tittering laugh.
Bloody hell, he had created a monster. Seeing her thusly renewed his determination to love her so much she felt she could be the Claire he met who talked about math to deliberately get rid of fools like these.
“Lady Claire, how good to see you.” He bowed.
“Good afternoon, Lord Fox.”
She smiled and batted her eyelashes. Which were not magnified behind a pair of spectacles. He fought a scowl.
“These are for you,” he said, handing her the flowers. He was pleased to note they dwarfed every other bouquet in the room and pleased that they were probably large enough for her to see without her glasses.
“Why, thank you. They are beautiful.”
She handed them to a maid and returned her attentions to her callers, who were all chattering away about some new theater production or other. Fox, not often having the attention span to sit through the theater, had nothing to add.
So he changed the subject.
“Lady Claire, how fare your studies?”
For a second her eyes lit up, and a second later that spark was gone.
“I’m sure no one here wishes to hear about the simple studies of a young lady,” she said with a little laugh.
Fox caught Lady Amelia rolling her eyes and frankly wished to do the same. He raised his brow at her, as if to ask, What has gotten into your sister? She shrugged her shoulders in response.
Bridget gave up her internal battle and popped a biscuit in her mouth.
“When I saw Ashbrooke, he told me you were collaborating on a paper.”
“You heard the lady, Fox,” some young buck drawled. “No one is here to talk about dry, boring stuff such as that.”
“We’re here to discuss light things,” Claire replied. “Did you know Eversleigh has a horse racing at the big event in three days’ time?”
Fox didn’t know or care who Eversleigh was, but he was suddenly immensely competitive with him.
“Best of luck to you. My new mount, Zephyr, will be running as well.”
“That’s the one from Mowbray, isn’t it?” This, presumably from Eversleigh. “How’d you get him to part with her?”
Claire’s expression darkened, because in spite of her stupid act, she probably correctly surmised how exactly Fox came into possession of the horse. Fox decided a change of subject and scenery was the best course of action. Perhaps if he could get her alone, they could have a proper and honest conversation.
“Lady Claire, would you care for a turn about the garden?”
“I would love a turn about the garden,” Lady Amelia quickly replied.
“He’s not asking you,” the duchess retorted. “Lady Claire, it would be rude to refuse his kind offer. Do stay in view of the windows though.”
Claire smiled tightly, politely, and said, “I would love a turn about the garden, Lord Fox.”
In truth, she would love a turn about the garden. Keeping up the ruse of a Perfect Lady was exhausting, especially in the company of such superficial gentlemen as the ones packed into the drawing room. At one point she would have lumped Fox in with them, but now she knew better.
He might make foolish wagers, but he was kind. He had passion, talent, and dedication for the things that interested him. He wasn’t just some idle lord.
They linked arms and he escorted her toward the doors to the garden, where they would have the privacy to speak freely, though she still felt the need to keep up this act. She had her reasons, and they didn’t entirely involve testing Fox.
“Careful now,” he said as they walked through the French doors to the garden. “I wouldn’t want you to walk into anything.”
“But I thought you liked me without my glasses.”
“I do. I just don’t want anyone else to see you thusly. But I also like you with your glasses. You are beautiful to me, Claire.”
Ba-bump went her heart. This is what she had wanted to hear from him, now that he hadn’t any excuse to say it other than it being his true feeling.
But she heard him earlier—he had Mowbray’s horse (he had wagered a horse for her!) and presumably had then kept his dog (he had wagered a dog over her!). The reminder of this lessened any inclination she had to make this easy on him.
So she cooed like a silly female and said, “Oh, Fox.”
It came out sounding like a missish swoony sigh.
“Claire, what the devil are you doing?”
“I am being perfect and popular,” she replied, forcing a lilting laugh. “I thought this is what you wanted, so I cannot imagine that you’ll have a problem with it now.”
“I do have a problem with it now. As I did the other night. And as I will do if you continue.”
“And yet you accepted Mowbray’s horse.”
He turned to face her. Those green eyes of his darkened as they gazed deeply into hers.
“I was prepared to lose. I wanted to lose, if it meant you stayed you.”
Her heart skipped a beat or two. That was something else she had wanted to hear. But this from a man who prided himself on always winning? She couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it so easily.
“So says Mr. I Win at Sports and Women All the Time.”
He paused. And in that silence, her heart skipped another beat. Because he was so serious in the way he looked at her, like she meant something—no, everything.
“You changed me, Claire.”
“You changed me, too.”
There was the obvious change in her appearance and her feigned Perfect Lady demeanor—but that was all just an act.
And in publicly disavowing one of her passions for the sake of this ruse, she was confirming that her studies were essential to her happiness. She would not give up her work.
His kiss had woken her up to the truth that there was more to her than her brain . . . she possessed a body with desire and capable of giving her pleasure. He helped her realize that she needn’t choose between her head and her body and that passion was passion and should be celebrated.
She would refuse to compromise, to live with only one or the other.
“I am sorry, Claire, if I have turned you into this—” He waved his arm in the general direction of her frilly pretend self.
“Are you?”
Her heart was beating hard, slow and steady. Her nerves were sparking to attention because Fox had that effect on her, especially when he was looking at her like that—green eyes glimmering, a gaze full of love.
“I am sorry. I am not as smart as you, Claire. I do not think things through with logic and reason. I am driven by my Male Pride and a competitive spirit. Occasionally, it leads me into trouble, but that’s passion for you. But sometimes, it leads me to you. I cannot entirely regret it.”
This was the moment where she wanted to launch herself into his arms and kiss him senseless. Her every nerve, every beat of her heart, was crying out to connect with him, body and mind and soul. She might have done, were it not for the very good reasons she had to keep up this Perfect Lady routine.
Later that night, Durham House
The hour was late, but Claire was still awake and working on the final edits for her paper on the analytical engine. On her desk, beside the candelabra, was a stunning bouquet of hothouse blooms.
By day, she kept up the ruse of Perfect Lady—stumbling around as elegantly as possible without her spectacles and having conversations about not much at all. There was a lot of smiling and some simpering.
But at unfashionable hours—before noon, mainly, or late at night—she would meet with Mr. Williams, and occasionally Ashbrooke, to continue progress on their paper. She had reworked the table with the Bernoulli numbers until it was perfect; Mr. Williams had inked over her pencil marks and Ashbrooke had reviewed it once more before approving it. She just had a few more notes to write and then the paper would be off to the printer.
