Lady Claire Is All That

by Maya Rodale

  “How wonderful for you to always have women throwing themselves at you. Always. Forever. I would not wish to live in fear of finding my husband in darkened corridors with other women.”

  “Not always. Not forever. Not anymore. Not now that I have you.”

  Fox pulled her close. There were mere inches between their bodies—he would swear he could feel the heat of her hurt and anger radiating off her—but it felt like oceans separated them.

  They’d been so close. Happiness had almost been in reach. But he saw now that he’d been set up: he’d fallen for Mowbray’s plan to meet, Arabella’s seductive scheme to get him back. He saw now that he was lucky to be free of the woman he’d one called his betrothed and the man he once called a friend.

  They were a small price to pay for a future with Lady Claire. If she would have him.

  “You don’t have me,” she said coldly.

  “Please, Claire.”

  She placed her hands on his chest. Could she feel the pounding of his heart? Could she feel his lungs constricting and refusing to work? Could she feel the tension in his chest as every muscle was coiled, taut, tense, waiting for her judgment?

  Claire pushed him away and walked briskly down the corridor, needing to get away. Her heart had been so full and her hopes had been so high.

  She was so mad that Fox had fallen for what was clearly a trap set by a pretty girl, with long legs and honey blond hair and a mouth that promised all kinds of wickedness.

  And she was so mad at herself because actually seeing the infamous Arabella Vaughn in the flesh, all tangled up with Fox, made Claire feel so provincial and inconsequential, so odd.

  She’d worn her glasses tonight. Her badge of intelligence and honor, now that she was no longer trying to hide herself or change herself to win a wager or a man. She hoped he wanted her—brainy, not-quite-a-seductress, but loving—her.

  She thought he might.

  But just when she thought she knew him—really knew him, the contents of his character, the goodness of his heart—she was confronted by that awful sight of Perfect Lord Fox with Perfect Arabella being Perfect together.

  Well, it was perfectly awful and humiliating and she just wanted to get away from all of it.

  But Fox was hot on her heels.

  “Claire, wait . . . Please.”

  It was the please that gave her pause. She turned to face him.

  “I know what I saw,” she said stubbornly, jutting her chin out. “I saw you and her, the perfect couple, all tangled up.”

  “You’re wrong,” he said flatly, and she laughed.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m wearing my glasses tonight. I know what I saw.”

  He took a step toward her.

  She took a step back.

  “I know you think you know everything, Claire. But in this, you don’t.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oh.” He took another step toward her. Claire took another step away and found her back up against the wall. Fox loomed large before her. Her heart started to pound.

  “What you saw was Arabella toying with me, trying to get what she can’t have.” He spoke softly, but surely. “What she’ll never have. Because I want another woman. You, Claire. You’re the only one I want. I’m sick of all this talk of matching and perfect couples and what society says. None of it matters. The only thing I care about is you and the connection we have together.”

  Fox took another step closer and she had nowhere to go. She was acutely aware of a mere inch or two of space between their bodies and that her traitorous body ached to close the distance.

  “You’re the one for me,” he whispered. Fox placed a palm on either side of her head and leaned forward. “I don’t care what anyone says. Except for you.”

  God, she wanted to feel his weight on her, his mouth on hers, but he kept that distance between them. Then he started speaking, murmuring low in her ear, words for only her to hear . . .

  “I was devastated when Arabella left me, but now I’m so glad. I thought nothing of making that stupid wager, but I see now it was the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Tonight was a test and I know in my heart that I passed because she was offering me anything and I only want you. I want to be with you, Claire. Tonight. Tomorrow. Forever.”

  Her knees were weak.

  Her heart was pounding.

  It was then that he kissed her. A slow, tantalizing promise of pleasure forever and ever if she would just say yes. If she would just open to him, trust him, give herself to him, open her heart and kiss him back.

  “You can’t just kiss me and . . .”

  Whatever Claire was about to say would have to wait—there were voices farther down the darkened corridor. Fox was not going to secure her hand in marriage by something as low and devious as allowing them to be caught in a compromising position. He tugged her through the nearest open door, into some dimly lit parlor that was empty, thank God.

  Then he shut the door.

  And locked it.

  “Apologies for the interruption. You were saying, ‘I can’t just kiss you and . . .’”

  “You can’t just kiss me and make everything fine.”

  “Is that a dare?”

  She inclined her head.

  “Why is everything always a game with you?”

  “That is just the way I am. Just know that in this game, though, I’m playing for keeps. I may have won the wager—all thanks to you—but I didn’t win your heart.”

  Claire reached for the door and glanced over her shoulder. “You want my heart?”

  “Yes. I want your love and your smiles and your exasperated sighs because you’re smarter than me, and your sighs of pleasure that only I can give you because I am beginning to know you and I am dedicated to learning what makes your heart beat fast, what takes your breath away, and what makes you cry out in pleasure.”

  Claire turned, her back to the door.

  She didn’t say anything.

  The silence was deafening.

  His heart was pounding so hard he thought it’d burst right out of his chest.

  Finally, she smiled. A coy, dangerous smile.

  “Well, then, show me.”

  He closed the distance between them in a few brisk strides and pulled her into his arms. His mouth crashed down on hers. He kissed with everything he had—with his love for her, with his fear of losing her, with his desire to kiss her everywhere, every morning, noon, and night for the rest of their lives.

  And then, by some miracle, she kissed him back.

  “Oh, you . . .” she whispered. “You . . .”

  “Yes . . .”

  She reached for his shirt, grabbing fistfuls of fabric and pulling it apart, and ripping the fabric.

  He grinned.

  “I want to see you. Feel you.”

  Her little palms splayed against the bare skin of his chest, roaming, caressing, possessing.

  “I’m yours,” he whispered. “All yours. Now. Forever.”

  Her reply was a kiss. With her kiss, she told him yes. She opened to him and their tongues tangled, a delicate give and take and taste. He nibbled her lower lip. She threaded her fingers through his hair, bringing him closer to her.

  He pressed against her, feeling the soft vee of her thighs against the hardness of his cock.

  This kiss didn’t end. Fox traced hot kisses along her neck, and she moaned softly. He skimmed down the sleeves of her silk dress, pushing the fabric aside. He lavished attention on her breasts, taking the dusky pink centers into his mouth, teasing gently until she couldn’t contain her own soft moans.

  Claire slid her fingers along the waistband of his breeches. He was already hard but somehow became harder still.

  “I want you. I need you.”

  This time it was her turn to whisper, “Yes . . .”

  And then, because he knew she loved his strength and muscles and because their future happiness was on the line, he lifted her up like she weighed nothing. She wrapped her arms around
his neck and her legs around his back and held on to him.

  Never let me go.

  Faintly in the distance, there was the sound of the orchestra playing and hundreds of people enjoying the party. Here, though, there was nothing but the sound of their frantic breaths, and the rustling of fabric as it was ripped and pushed aside.

  With his fingers he found her sensitive spot and began to stroke in a slow and steady rhythm as she writhed against his hand. He clasped a handful of her hair and kissed her while still teasing her with his fingers, bringing her higher and higher, as the pressure built inside of her.

  Pressure building from the way he enveloped her in those strong, muscled arms of his, holding her close like he never wanted to let go.

  Pressure building from the way his hands, skimming up her legs, pushed her skirts aside. His fingertips lingered around her garters, where the stockings gave way to her soft, bare flesh.

  “More . . .” she moaned. “More of you.”

  Fox slid one finger, then another inside. She moaned and clung to him. Nothing, nothing would make him stop now—not until she cried out in pleasure.

  “You’re so wet. So ready.”

  “Yes . . .” she gasped. She slid her hand along his breeches, her palms skimming the hard length of him and he issued a low groan.

  “More . . .”

  “More?”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  Hearts pounding.

  Frantic kisses. Frantic unbuttoning of breeches.

  He slowed as he entered her, wanting to savor every second of this moment . . . as much as he wanted to be inside her, be one with her. Now. Forever.

  “Oh, yes.” Claire let her head fall back as Fox filled her up. He held her in those strong, muscled arms of his. She clung to him, burrowing her face in his neck to breathe him in, or turning her head to kiss him, taste him.

  He moved within her in a steady rhythm that seemed designed to drive her wild. Every thrust made her gasp. Every time he groaned in pleasure she wanted to sigh.

  They were one now. One, fused together, connecting, needing, giving, taking, and wanting. Hearts beating as one. A tangle of arms and legs and kisses and whispers until he didn’t know where he ended and she began.

  The world was reduced to her. And him. And that exquisitely torturous pressure building within her. The heat started in her core and started to spread. Her skin felt hot. Her breath was caught. Her heart was pounding, pounding. He was thrusting, steady and relentless. And when she didn’t think she could take so much pleasure anymore, she didn’t.

  She cried out as waves of pleasure pulsed through her.

  He captured the sound with his mouth for a kiss.

  He groaned and his mouth closed around her shoulder as he came with a few last, passionate, possessive thrusts.

  They held each other in the aftermath.

  Hearts were still pounding.

  Breaths were not quite caught.

  Words still unspoken.

  Chapter 21

  The next day, Durham House

  When a man is ready for the rest of his life to begin, there is no point in waiting, which is why Fox was seen on the doorstop of Durham House at the earliest possible hour.

  He was swiftly granted an audience with the duke in his study.

  Durham stood to greet him and Fox noticed mud on the duke’s boots. It was one thing in the country, but in the city . . . It wasn’t the sort of thing that wouldn’t help the rumors, but it oddly improved the man in Fox’s opinion. Showed he was the sort of man who wasn’t afraid of a little dirt and activity. Perhaps they might get along.

  If Fox didn’t bungle the reason for his call.

  After a polite interlude of small talk—of horse races and boxing matches and nothing to do with women—Fox finally started to get to his point.

  “The reason I’m calling is that I would like your permission to wed Lady Claire.”

  The duke appeared skeptical, perhaps slightly murderous, which gave Fox pause. He came here to do things properly—ask permission, propose, et cetera—not duel. He did not want to duel. For one thing, he was exceptional at pistols and swords and didn’t fancy doing an injury to his hopefully future brother-in-law.

  Before he could finish the sentence, there was a knock on the door immediately followed by the door opening. It was the sort of perfunctory but pointless knock done by someone who was intent upon barging in with or without permission.

  Lady Bridget came barging into the library, oblivious to the fact that people were trying to have a potentially life-altering private discussion.

  “Oh! I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I was just looking for my diary . . .”

  “You lost it again, Bridge?” The duke rubbed his temples wearily. Fox was starting to sympathize with the duke. He had an estate to run, society to conquer, and these sisters . . .

  “How can you be so careless after the last time?” the duke asked. “That was nearly a disaster.”

  “Well, it turned out well enough,” Lady Bridget said smugly.

  “Well enough indeed,” Fox agreed, no thanks to his own sister, which he decided not to mention at present.

  “Aren’t you going to look for it?” James asked. “And I don’t want to know why it would be lost in my private study.”

  “Oh, right. Yes. I’m searching for it.” Lady Bridget made a show of searching for it on the bookshelves and, oddly, under the chair cushions. James sighed wearily. A moment ago, Fox had been a tight ball of nerves but now he was beginning to enjoy himself.

  This family was ridiculous in a funny, wonderful way.

  “You didn’t lose it, did you?” the duke asked. “You are just using that as an excuse to come and eavesdrop on this private conversation. A private conversation between two gentlemen about business,” James reminded her.

  “Why do I suspect that this business has to do with Claire?” Lady Bridget asked. “Are you about to propose to her, Lord Fox?”

  Yes, if he could get blasted permission first. He was spared from answering by the interruption of another sister.

  “Who is about to propose?” Lady Amelia asked.

  James just groaned and dropped his head in his hands.

  “Sisters. A man has no peace when he has sisters. I give up. If you want her, Fox, she’s all yours. If you don’t, please consider taking her off my hands.”

  “That’s a fine way to talk about your sisters!” Amelia admonished.

  “Your beloved sisters,” Bridget added.

  “Who have endured so much to support your ducalness,” Amelia said.

  “It was your idea to come here,” the duke replied to the lot of them.

  “You were the one who inherited.”

  “Not on purpose.”

  “What is everyone arguing about?” Enter the duchess.

  Her Grace, the notoriously terrifying Duchess of Durham, swept into the library and surveyed the scene: a guest besieged by her nieces and nephew. Her eyes narrowed when she caught sight of Fox. They narrowed in the way of a marriage-minded mama’s in the presence of unmarried gentlemen of rank and fortune, such as himself.

  “Lord Fox, how do you do. It is a pleasure to have you call upon us,” she said graciously.

  “Thank you, Duchess. I am actually quite enjoying the company.”

  “Though after witnessing this display, if you wish to pretend there was some other reason for your call, then I completely understand and will not hold it against you,” the duke said.

  “I find it charming actually.”

  The duchess just smiled.

  “I suppose you wish to see Lady Claire, but I’m afraid now is not a good time,” the duchess said.

  “She’s with the Duke of Ashbrooke,” Bridget said.

  “And that crashing bore, Benedict Williams,” Amelia said, making a face.

  “She’s presenting her paper to the Royal Society,” James said, beaming with pride. “It was just published.”

&n
bsp; “We were just on our way out to attend and to show our support,” the duchess added. “Would you care to join us?”

  The Royal Society

  Love did strange things to a man, like make him eager to get to a meeting of the Royal Society of Numerical Things That Make No Sense to Normal People.

  Fox and the Cavendish family arrived just as the doors were closing and the meeting about to begin. He had some idea of striding up to the lectern where she stood and making a grand declaration of his love and dropping to one knee to propose as soon as possible.

  But the duchess stopped him.

  “Not yet,” she murmured. “Let her have this moment.”

  And so he took a seat for Lady Claire’s lecture and was pleased to see that she was herself again. Her hair was pulled back simply and she wore a plain but elegant dress, because this wasn’t a ballroom and this wasn’t a demonstration of ladies’ fashion. She wore her glasses.

  After an introduction from Ashbrooke and Benedict Williams, she presented her paper, speaking eloquently and passionately about things he absolutely did not understand. He caught something about how the digits on the cogs of the proposed analytical engine could represent things other than mathematical quantities. This did not make any sense to him but he loved that it made sense to her, and even got some murmurs of interest and heads nodding around the room.

  And so she spoke, at length, and though he didn’t follow what she said, he was happy to sit there to watch and listen.

  He must be in love.

  It was the only logical conclusion to why he was enjoying a math lecture.

  Finally, she concluded and took questions. After addressing the concerns of the man in the front row, replying to a point from the man in the blue striped waistcoat, answering a question about the table of Bernoulli numbers (whatever those were) from the gentleman on the left, she shuffled her papers together and said, “Thank you for your attention. If there are no further questions—”

  Fox raised his hand and said loudly, “I have a question.”