Lady Claire Is All That Page 11

  He just needed to win a wager.

  Keep telling yourself that, fool.

  Banishing thoughts of women and wagers, and the confounding Lady Claire, Fox dragged his attention back to the matter at hand: Rupert, sword gleaming, trying to kill him.

  Rupert feinted toward his chest and Fox parried to quarte. However, his parry was too aggressive, letting Rupert disengage, avoiding Fox’s blade, and lunge toward his unprotected side.

  “Point,” Rupert said. “Damn, Fox. You are unfocused.”

  “Shut up.”

  “And irritable.”

  “No, you are far too cheerful.”

  “It’s not every day I see my friends laid low by love.”

  “I am not laid low by love.” Fox had never been so sure of anything in his life. He was confounded by a woman, but that was due more to the mysterious workings of her brain than the occasional feelings of his heart. He had loved Arabella, and that had been a pleasant feeling. He was tortured by the impossible situation he found himself in with Lady Claire, that was all.

  “If you say so,” Rupert muttered. There was little talking after that, until the end when Rupert said, “Good luck with the girl.”

  Later that afternoon, at White’s

  Fox didn’t need luck with the girl. With any girl. He had half a mind to go out and seduce some other woman just to prove something. Instead he went to White’s, where he expected not to be plagued by women problems.

  He’d forgotten about Mowbray though.

  He settled into White’s with a drink and the latest issue of Gentleman’s Sporting Quarterly when a figure emerged, blocking his reading light.

  “Good afternoon, Fox.”

  “Mowbray.”

  He looked up and saw his friend and experienced mixed emotions. Ever since the wager, things had been different. Their easy camaraderie had been diminished by an undercurrent of tension that seemed out of proportion with the fun little bet, one of hundreds they’d made standing around a ballroom over the year.

  “How goes our little wager?” Mowbray asked, leaning against the wall, drink in hand. Fox remained seated.

  I endured two math lectures and nearly ravished her. No one saw and she hopes for secrecy on all fronts. In fact, she made me promise not to say a word.

  “Good. Excellent. Fantastic.”

  “Your vocabulary is impressive,” Mowbray replied. “But I daresay your progress is not. Escorting her to a mathematics lecture and helping her make a fool of herself? Taking her to a boxing match? How that helps her become a darling of the ton, I know not. But then again, it suits me just fine if that’s how you wish to spend your time with her.”

  Fox scowled because Mowbray had a very valid point. These activities had endeared Fox to Claire, but it did nothing to improve her reputation, nothing to make her popular. He was encouraging her in her strange, unfeminine, unfashionable ways.

  Fox didn’t have a quick, witty retort at hand. That was not his strong suit. A good punch to the nose—yes. But he didn’t really feel like standing up at the moment, not after that fencing match with Rupert earlier. And he didn’t fancy punching his friend in the face, either.

  So he just said, lamely, “This is all part of my plan. I have time yet.”

  It went without saying he did not have a plan.

  “Aye, but the clock is ticking. And she’s running around in her glasses and unfashionable styling, discussing obscure mathematical theorems no one cares about, and fleecing peers at the card tables. If she keeps that up she won’t even be welcome there.”

  Fox thought back to Lady Claire besting everyone at that card game so expertly. She defied expectations and demonstrated her brilliance and skill—especially to him, after he had patiently explained the game to her in simple terms. It was kind of marvelous of her, really. Seemed a shame to tell her to keep that part of her under wraps.

  “But then again, what do I care if you trade one dog for another?” Mowbray asked with a shrug. “This might be the easiest wager I’ve ever won.”

  And that was too far. Good-natured needling Fox tolerated—it was part of the game. But Lady Claire was not to be insulted.

  “Mowbray?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re an ass.”

  “So clever, aren’t you,” Mowbray taunted, folding his arms over his chest.

  It was Eton all over again. It was some pipsqueak mocking him for his intellectual capabilities, or lack thereof, feeling safe because they realized Fox was really a gentle giant—capable of immense force and power, but not really inclined to use it.

  There was only one tried and true way to make it stop and to ensure that any mockery of Lady Claire did not continue. Fox was compelled to haul himself up to his feet. He downed his brandy in one swallow, setting the glass down firmly.

  Dramatics, that.

  Then he stood, slowly, allowing his bulk and his height to grow and overshadow Mowbray.

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “You’re so clever, aren’t you?”

  “I do apologize but I cannot hear you from all the way up here.”

  Mowbray was not nearly as tall as Fox. Not nearly as handsome, charming, rich, or powerful, either. Fox made sure Mowbray felt keenly aware of it. Even though he considered Mowbray a friend, Fox was so mad at the slight toward Lady Claire that he wasn’t inclined to let it slide.

  “You’ll have to shout to be heard,” Fox said.

  They were in a quiet room.

  “All right, Fox, I see what you’re doing. You want me to shout out how clever you are.”

  “Oh, good, I was afraid my cleverness was a bit much for you,” Fox said. “Oh, and congrats on Zephyr’s winning race. I look forward to her joining my stables.”

  Mowbray gave him a dark look and stalked off. Fox settled back into his chair and motioned for another brandy.

  Then he plotted.

  Even later that afternoon, Fox’s study

  The problem was that Fox was not a plotter. Or a focuser. His intentions to sip brandy at White’s and sort out how to win his wager were derailed first by an interesting article in the Gentleman’s Sporting Quarterly about some new training techniques Lord Giddings was using with his hounds—something he might try with Stella and her future pups, should he be so lucky. Then he had a conversation with some gents about the horse race he’d missed earlier that week, which was followed by a quick card game, which he lost, which reminded him of Claire, which reminded him of his dilemma.

  He went home.

  He locked himself in his study, because his aunt and chaperone to his sister, Lady Wych Cross, left him alone there. Francesca, on the other hand, thought nothing of strolling in, uninvited.

  “What are you brooding about?”

  Lady Francesca could be the soul of sweetness and amiability when she wished to charm someone. Her older brother was usually not that someone.

  “None of your business.”

  “I don’t suppose it’s about your American girl,” she said with a sigh as she perched on the corner of his desk. “Honestly, I don’t know why everyone is so taken with them. They’re just so . . . forthright, and cheerful.”

  Here, she shuddered.

  “I’m not taken with them,” Fox muttered. First Rupert, now Francesca. Why were people thinking he was taken with her?

  “Oh, just the one?”

  “It’s just a wager, that’s all.”

  Maybe if he kept repeating it, it would be true. But it wasn’t just a wager; it was his Male Pride, his understanding of himself in the world, and his precious dog—who sat watching the conversation as if she knew—and it was Lady Claire, whom he had to change. But he was starting to think that would be akin to wrecking a great work of art.

  “Dare I inquire about your progress?” Francesca asked.

  “I have taken her to a mathematics lecture, a boxing match, and a visit to Ashbrooke’s to discuss his difference engine with yet more boring Royal Society members.”<
br />
  For obvious reasons, he did not disclose the kissing. But he wanted to, if only because Francesca was laughing mightily. Cackling, really.

  “Dear brother, you call that progress?”

  She was laughing so hard Stella trotted over to see what was happening. When it was nothing, she rested her head on Fox’s leg and gave him that adoring look with her large brown dog eyes. He had to win.

  “How are those activities supposed to endear her to the ton? Why, you might be only making things worse!”

  He mumbled something about “earning her trust and favor” but Francesca wasn’t buying it. She confirmed what Mowbray said, and his own worst suspicions. In the process of developing a relationship with her, he was encouraging her in the activities that made her unpopular with the ton in the first place. But Fox didn’t see any other way to proceed.

  “Look, I’ve often said you got all the brains in the family and we both know it’s true,” Fox said. They both regarded this as a statement of fact, rather than a compliment. “Why don’t you tell me what to do?”

  One would think Francesca had given the matter extensive consideration, given how quickly she spoke.

  “She wears her hair too severely, which suggests she doesn’t have any interest in fun or pleasure, which is off-putting to those who do, which is nearly everyone in society. You also need to do something about her spectacles,” Francesca said. “They make her look too . . .”

  “Smart.”

  “Aye. And gentlemen don’t want to be confronted with a woman who is smarter than themselves because it makes them feel inadequate, which makes them question the validity of their position of authority in society. It calls into question the entire social order. ’Tis a troubling line of thought,” Francesca explained. “Also, spectacles are just plain unfashionable. Have you ever seen a fashion plate in a magazine wearing spectacles?”

  “Can’t say that I’m in the habit of perusing fashion magazines, even though you leave them lying about the house as if you were the only one who lived here.”

  Francesca ignored that.

  “Her clothes are quite finely made and the current fashion—that’s the duchess’s doing, surely—but Lady Claire doesn’t wear them well. She wears them as if she didn’t care at all. With her plain styling and those spectacles, it all suggests that she can’t be bothered making herself pretty and presentable.”

  “So?”

  “That says she’s not interested in fitting in. That she’s not interested in playing the game. That she thinks she’s better than everyone else because she is concerned with ‘more important’ things.”

  Fox stared at his sister, somewhat in awe and somewhat terrified. What she said had a ring of truth to it. Claire did care about more important things and she didn’t care who knew it. But perhaps there was a way to make it seem like she cared for society’s good opinion of her, without compromising what made her her.

  “Are you telling me that all she has to do to be popular is change her hairstyle and lose the spectacles?”

  “Well, she also needs to stop talking about math,” Francesca said bluntly. “She has gained a reputation as one to be avoided at all costs, lest one find themselves on the receiving end of a lecture when one wants only to gossip and dance.”

  “Ashbrooke talks about math.”

  “Yes, but not at soirees and balls, and certainly not as incessantly as she does. Also, he is a man. He is allowed to display his intelligence. It’s unbecoming in a woman.”

  This Francesca said with no small amount of bitterness. Even he noticed it. Even he took a second to consider that his fiercely smart sister might have to hide her intelligence behind a pretty smile, or simpering laugh, just so it wouldn’t hurt the delicate sensibilities of some nitwit peer of the realm.

  And there was, within the recesses of his chest cavity, a pang. Because it seemed wrong to ask Lady Claire—or any woman, really—to shut up about the thing she loved just so she could be popular.

  “All that sounds impossible, Franny. How am I supposed to get her to change her hair and lose her spectacles and speak only of the weather?”

  “Now that you have earned her favor—or at least her attention—make suggestions when the opportunity arises. How nice she’d look in blue, how pretty she’d look with her hair curled. That sort of thing. But you must do so delicately,” Francesca said with a pointed look suggesting that was beyond his abilities. “Or at least change the subject when she mentions her studies.”

  “I’m not sure I can manage that without gravely offending her.” Fox was not keen to undo all the progress he’d made just to get her to speak with him in the first place. He still felt so uneasy about it, too.

  “Well, there is also popularity by association. It’s what Lady Bridget is attempting with me.”

  “What the devil do you mean?”

  “You need to be seen together, publicly. Even better, you need to be seen together in a manner that suggests that you two are courting. Or even better, in the throes of a wild romance. Then let the force of your popularity and good favor with the ton shine on her.”

  “I’m afraid my reputation at the moment is hardly such that an association would be beneficial to her . . .” Since Arabella jilted him, he hadn’t noticed as many adoring glances and sighs from young ladies whenever he walked by.

  Or had he simply not noticed because he was so focused on Lady Claire?

  And because he’d lately been attending boxing matches and math lectures, where there was a dearth of young, swooning women?

  It was something to think about, if he thought about things.

  “Nonsense,” Francesca said. “You are a renowned rake. She is, admittedly, not the sort of woman people would associate with you. This will cause gossip and speculation. Women will be curious about what you see in her—men, too. Both of your profiles will be raised. People will seek you both out for conversation in order to attempt to discern the truth. This will give you both an opportunity to charm them.”

  “I see.” And he did. Just be seen with her publicly, in a manner that suggested they were linked romantically. This was a brilliant but simple course of action that he could follow.

  “The Cavendish family will be at Lady Winterbourne’s garden party. I trust you can put two and two together.”

  Chapter 10

  The most important element of any social event this season is the presence of the Cavendish family. One never knows what this scandalous batch of Americans will do next . . . or with whom.

  —Fashionable Intelligence, The London Weekly

  Lady Winterbourne’s garden party

  Fox was a man on a mission: be sighted with Lady Claire and avoid the temptation of stealing off with her for another one of those devastating kisses. He’d never imagined that a woman like her would arouse him so much, but there was no denying she did. Seducing her, however, would hardly solve his problems.

  Shortly after arriving at Lady Winterbourne’s garden party, he sought out Lady Claire, who stood with her family at an awkward distance from the other guests. He noted three dark-haired sisters decked in pretty white dresses with bonnets and parasols; the duke standing idly by, looking like he’d rather be elsewhere; and the duchess, trying to herd them all in the direction of the other guests.

  Fox bravely ventured toward the pack of Americans. He overheard comments and conversations on his way.

  “Do my eyes deceive me, or is Fox seeking the company of the Americans?”

  “I heard he has taken up with Lady Claire, the especially odd one.”

  “Well, it’s not as if anyone compares to Arabella Vaughn.”

  “But really . . . one of the Cavendish girls?”

  Fox swaggered past, refusing to acknowledge what he’d overheard, and paid his addresses to the object of his attentions.

  “Lady Claire, it is lovely to see you today.”

  “Good afternoon, Lord Fox.” She gave a slight curtsy.

  “My day is brighter n
ow that I have seen you.” He treated her to his most dazzling smile. The one that usually elicited a starry-eyed sigh from the ladies.

  Was everyone watching? He hoped they were watching.

  Lady Claire leaned in, nearly stabbing him in the eye with her parasol as she did so. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

  “Do what?”

  “Flirt.”

  “Who says I am flirting with you?”

  She straightened immediately and blushed tremendously. “I beg your pardon, I just thought . . .”

  He grinned. Flustering her was such fun actually.

  “I confess. I was flirting with you.”

  “You have made me doubt myself.” She was not pleased with this. He wondered if she would smack him with the parasol.

  “How terrible of me. Would you care for some lemonade?”

  “That’s so kind of you to offer, but—”

  “She would love some lemonade,” the duchess said, practically pushing them together and off in the right direction. Her Grace was doing him a favor and yet she still managed to terrify him; but that was the Duchess of Durham for you.

  He and Claire linked arms and he found himself standing straighter, taller. It was a way of commanding attention, in the event that guests weren’t already agog by the unexpected sight of him gallantly paying his addresses to Lady Claire, the “especially odd one.” He wanted everyone milling about at this garden party, under a blasted hot sun, to see them together and to think of them as together.

  A part of him might have also wanted to impress her with his towering strength. She seemed to like that about him.

  Lemonade was procured.

  Lady Claire sipped her drink, seemingly oblivious to the other guests’ curious looks. He was all too aware. This was part of the plan, and yet he found himself uncomfortable because people were watching them awkwardly standing there, mute.

  He struggled to think of something appropriate to say. The only questions he could think of were about Ashbrooke, the machine, and math—all topics Francesca had told him to avoid. But the more he thought of inappropriate topics, the more he became aware that time was passing in which they were not conversing, and she was drinking her lemonade like she would get a reward upon finishing it, and the whole garden party seemed to be watching them.