Lady Claire Is All That Page 15

  “Claire! Lord save me from absentminded sisters,” Bridget said, rolling her eyes. “Yes, it is Wednesday. Tonight we are going to Almack’s. And we ought to wear pink.”

  Bridget punctuated the reporting of these facts with a beseeching gaze. The kind that revealed how desperate she was for their family to fit into society, how she despaired at what little effort everyone but her was making, how she hoped that Claire would be the one to be sensible and see why it was vitally important that they all wear pink (except for James, presumably, though she wouldn’t put it past Bridget to have a pink waistcoat made up for him).

  Claire was not wearing pink, but not deliberately. She had let her maid select one of the dresses that the duchess had picked out for her. She cared little for clothes; she had more important things to occupy her thoughts; though, admittedly, her thoughts of late had been almost completely devoted to what had transpired between her and Fox in his study the other day.

  Just thinking about it brought a pink blush to her cheeks. That didn’t seem to appease Bridget now, who was giving Claire her most pleading look.

  “Are you asking me silently with your eyes and in your heart to change so that you can impress your friends?” Claire asked. Did she even own something pink?

  “Yes,” Bridget gushed.

  Amelia chose that moment to burst in.

  “Is she trying to make you wear pink as well?”

  Claire noticed that Amelia had been badgered into a having a pink hair ribbon woven through her large mass of dark curls.

  “Go away, Amelia,” Bridget said with a wave of her hand. “Go . . . read my diary or something.”

  “If you wish to bend over backward to impress a lot of simpering, scheming, vapid creatures, I will not stop you,” Claire said. “I will wish you the best. But I couldn’t care less about what any of them think of me.”

  “Yes!” Amelia gushed. “What Claire said!”

  Claire turned to her youngest, most trouble-prone sister. “You, young lady, still need to mind your manners.”

  “Except for the rule that a lady is only supposed to talk about the weather and how much she is enjoying the ball even if she is so bored she wishes to stick forks in her eye,” Amelia replied. “But you, Claire, talk about math all the time to anyone who will listen.”

  And even some who won’t.

  “First Lord Fox, and now you,” Claire muttered. She hadn’t forgotten his suggestion that she talked about math too much. It rankled, even though half the time she did it to deliberately scare off gentlemen. It wasn’t fair, though, that Ashbrooke should be admired for his displays of intelligence while it made her an outcast.

  She wondered, idly, if she should save such conversation for her visits with Ashbrooke or Mr. Williams.

  Claire also hadn’t forgotten what Fox had said about her spectacles. She looked at herself in the mirror, adjusting her glasses, wondering what reaction she would get if she left them at home. Even without them, she could tell that Fox was awestruck at the sight of her. What would the rest of the ton’s reaction be? She decided she would be too blind to see, it wouldn’t be worth risking an injury, and it was best to wear them.

  “I don’t care what you talk about,” Bridget huffed. “As long as you wear pink.”

  In the end, Claire added a pink shawl to her ensemble, not because she gave one whit about impressing Lady Francesca or anyone in the haute ton. She did so because it mattered to Bridget and Bridget mattered to her. It was that simple. Or so she told herself.

  Almack’s assembly rooms

  The Lady of Distinction was not the only one who wondered at the unlikely pairing of Lord Fox and Lady Claire. As she strolled through the crowds at Almack’s with her family, Claire happened to catch pointed looks in her direction and to overhear a few choice snippets of conversation.

  “I don’t know what a handsome charmer like Lord Fox sees in her.”

  “She certainly doesn’t compare to Arabella Vaughn.”

  “Not with those spectacles.”

  “I can’t believe she’s wearing pink.”

  Claire wanted to turn to that woman and say, “I can’t believe it, either, but it mattered to my sisters, so there.” And then perhaps stick her tongue out. While she was at it, she might also say that Fox didn’t mind her spectacles and severe coiffure the other day while nearly ravishing her in his study. But of course such things were not said and that type of behavior was frowned upon.

  It was also entirely beside the point. In spite of what happened afterward, and what she still daydreamed about, Claire meant what she said to Fox: they could not risk being seen together.

  Fox was not the sort of man that she had ever imagined herself becoming involved with, in part because Claire was not the sort of girl who ever imagined herself with boys or suitors. She had more important, lofty things to do with herself and her brain.

  But what about the rest of her? The rest of her body that Fox had so lovingly explored and pleasured just the other day? What about those kisses that made her knees weak? What about the adventures he’d brought her on?

  When she had, vaguely, considered the prospect of marriage she had expected a meeting of minds; someone with whom she could enjoy intellectual conversations with at the breakfast table, who would encourage her work, challenge her, teach her. Someone like Mr. Benedict Williams.

  But Claire had forgotten to factor lust into the equation.

  Until Fox reminded her that she was not merely a brain, but a living, breathing woman with a body that had feelings, desires, and needs.

  Those feelings, desires, and needs had, of late, been overpowering her logic and reason. The other day was the perfect example: she’d gone to him with every intention of putting an end to this madness and instead he’d brought her to the peak of pleasure and sent her off with flushed cheeks, lips full from kisses, her hair in disarray, and her thoughts preoccupied.

  Which is why she would have to avoid him at all costs tonight.

  Lady Claire was wearing pink on a Wednesday, Lord Mowbray noted with disdain—though not as much as he reserved for the fact that he knew that young ladies of fashion and some social standing wore pink on Wednesdays to Almack’s.

  But there it was: proof of her effort to fit in. As far as Mowbray was aware, this was the first time she’d even deigned to try to align herself with the young, unmarried ladies seeking societal approval and husbands. One pink shawl carelessly flung about her shoulders revealed this.

  What was next? Mowbray wondered. Would she lose the spectacles, too?

  He sauntered closer to her, morbidly curious to learn more. As he lingered nearby, he overheard the duchess wrangling a young man for an introduction, a polite conversation between two utterly disinterested parties, an obligatory invitation to dance, and then . . .

  “I do apologize but my dance card is already full.”

  Shocked, Mowbray watched as she flashed a dance card, apparently full of names.

  A full dance card. Pink on Wednesdays. Her name in the newspapers, linked with Fox’s. There was no denying that she was making progress and there was still time for her to complete the transformation from hopeless spinster and frightening female to society darling.

  Fox would win. Again.

  Mowbray would lose. Again.

  Lady Claire’s resolve was tested almost immediately. She’d had just enough time to fill in her dance card herself, so as to have an excuse if any gentleman dared to ask her to dance, and find a spot near the wallflowers when she noticed Fox.

  He was there, of course, with his sister. Predictably, Bridget joined Lady Francesca and her cohort of simpering young ladies and they all wandered off to be holier than thou elsewhere.

  When the duchess saw Lord Fox approaching, she mentioned something about introductions and practically dragged James and Amelia away.

  Ah, subtlety.

  Remember your resolve. The reminder was necessary. Watching Fox make his way through a crowded ballroom, in her d
irection, with his gaze fixed on hers, and his intentions clear, was something else. He was resplendently dressed, and he was large, and the crowds parted for him.

  Her heart began to beat faster. She thought, I have kissed this man. Tasted him. Felt him. He had made her heart beat faster, her breathing become shallow, her thoughts focused only on him. The fact that she should not have done only made it all more delicious.

  “Good evening, Lady Claire.” He murmured her name like they shared a secret. Which they did. Which she would do well not to think about.

  “Good evening,” she replied, smiling, because it wouldn’t do to be rude. And because she did, actually, like him. She had to admit that now. She had to admit this yearning was real; it could not be disregarded or ignored, so she would have to account for it somehow.

  “On Wednesdays you also wear pink?” He gave a lift of his brow and a teasing smile. Her heart did a little pitter-pat thing that embarrassed her. “I didn’t think you were that sort of woman.”

  “Apparently I am,” she groaned. “The things I do for my sister.”

  He reached out and touched a corner of the soft, pale pink silk shawl.

  “The color suits you.” Then he leaned in close and whispered, “It reminds me of your lips when I’ve been kissing you.”

  The color reminded her of sunsets and blushes and kisses. It also reminded her of Bridget and Amelia and the reason she was wearing it—to help her sisters become settled in this new life in this new world. The color reminded her that they would have to come first and her needs and desires could wait.

  “May I have the honor of this dance? Or is your dance card all full again?”

  If she danced with him, they would be seen by one and all. It would be reported in the papers.

  If she danced with him, one of his hands would be on the small of her back and his other would hold hers. It would remind her of all the wicked loveliness that had happened in his study. It would make her want him more. She would gaze up into his eyes and wonder what he was thinking (anything, other than what she looked like naked? Was that wrong?) and it would make her confused and bothered, the way a good math problem did, but this one would have no solution.

  If she danced with him, it would feed this mad desire of hers, which would distract her just when she needed her wits the most.

  And above all, everyone would start those questions again: What does he see in her? She’s no Arabella Vaughn. She’s just so . . . and he’s just so . . . Who does she think she is? How smart is she if she can’t even manage the steps to a waltz without being so embarrassingly clumsy?

  “I’m afraid my dance card is full,” she said truthfully. Mostly. Out of fear, mainly.

  “Is that so?”

  Before she could protest he lifted it up, squinted at her handwriting, and began to read.

  “Ah, I see the first waltz is promised to Lord Denominator. And the next to Lord Rhombus. And then the Duke of Pythagoras.” He paused and adopted a quizzical stare while she wished the floorboards were opening up beneath her and she was falling, falling, falling. She should be so lucky. A hot flush of shame enveloped her. “I have not made the acquaintance of these gentlemen.”

  “They are new to town,” she whispered.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  But her cheeks flamed pink because she had thought him foolish, but he wasn’t. He had discovered her ruse and obviously did not find it amusing. It was just something she did, to get rid of all the gentlemen. This wasn’t the first time. Was he hurt? she wondered. He seemed hurt. Why did that make her feel a swell of shame and an ache of her own?

  She could see him thinking now of all the other times he’d asked her to dance. It was one thing to lie to him then, before they had shared kisses, and before he’d brought her to climax, before they’d ceased being strangers to each other. At some point between then and now, things had changed between them.

  He was not having it. He would not tolerate being lied to.

  She had thought him a dolt, but now he made her exceedingly aware of his integrity, his good heart that she had wounded, and that he was sharper than she had supposed.

  Fox was large; she had known this. But now she felt it. He towered over her, radiating a quiet strength and power, and making her feel small.

  Fox grasped her wrist and stepped aside, tugging her into a private alcove.

  She stumbled after him, not exactly resisting.

  He was close. Fox leaned down so he could speak softly in her hear.

  “I may not know what a denominator or a rhombus is or what they do when they are together. But I do know when a woman is lying to me.”

  “I am so sorry. Truly.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he said, annoyed. “A woman as logical as you must have a reason. And a man as stupid as me obviously cannot grasp it unless you explain. And please, use small words.”

  Wasn’t that a knife to the heart. She could see that he was emotional in that male way—an internal battle to identify an emotion, wrestle it into submission, and put it away in the locked box inside so one might never be confronted with it again. It manifested as a tight jaw, gritted voice, forced composure.

  She decided she owed him an honest reply.

  “I do not see us as . . . marrying.”

  He gave a quick, “Ha!” that deflated her.

  “Did I ask you to? I don’t recall. And if I did, I think it’s a memory I would like to have. So please, remind me.”

  That sucked the air right out of her lungs. Look at her, being so presumptuous that a man like him would fancy a woman like her. Fancy her so much that he’d want to wed her! She’d been so preoccupied with how he didn’t fit into her image of her ideal life partner that she’d never considered what his intentions might actually be.

  “No, you didn’t propose,” she said, now feeling annoyed. Was it with him? Or with herself, because, dear Lord, was that a shred of care she was experiencing? It was some sort of emotion that manifested its presence physically, in the region of her heart. But while they were asking the hard questions and getting to the heart of the matter, she had a question for him. “But tell me this: What other reason would you have to pay attention to me?”

  “Are you one of those women blind to her own charms?”

  “Not at all. I just don’t think my charms are ones that appeal to a man like you.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You are interested in sport, and such, while I am interested in more intellectual pursuits.”

  She was not tall, and leggy, and blond, and bosomy. She did not cling or hang off his arm. She couldn’t flirt or simper if her life depended on it. She was not Arabella Vaughn.

  She also refused to consider herself deficient because she wasn’t those things.

  “According to you, Lady Logic, we have nothing in common and have no future together. And yet you have not exactly rebuffed my overtures to you. I did not drag you against your will to a mathematics lecture or to a boxing match or behind the hedges at Lady Winterbourne’s garden party. I certainly didn’t drag you into my study and ravish you against your will. In fact, I think you sought me out. I wonder why. Perhaps, since I am not intellectually inclined, you can explain it to me?”

  The heat rose within her with every word he spoke. She felt like she was being chastised—probably because she was. She felt an overwhelming surge of emotions—ones she couldn’t stop to identify because her heart was pounding, the orchestra was playing, he was looming, and he was looking at her like that. Like he cared. And she felt, among a million other things, the same.

  With a vague notion of wanting to figure this all out later, but not wanting to lose him now, Claire did the only thing she could think of. Usually she had more inspired, intellectual thoughts than this. But really, her brain had only one idea. She acted upon it immediately.

  She kissed him.

  Her kiss shocked him, like a left hook he didn’t see coming, but far more
pleasurable on contact. Mostly. This kiss was tortured because he wanted it, but didn’t want to want it.

  Confounding. Woman. She made him feel things. She made the machinery of his brain start whirring and churning. She made the fury rise up within him, even though he was guilty of deception, too. She had lied to him—why? Days ago, he could understand. But now?

  Well, it was because women always went from point A to 107 with barely a stop in between. They had kissed a few times, so she assumed they would marry, and she didn’t wish to marry him, but she kissed him anyway. So much for the logic and rationality she prided herself on.

  Which was fine because that wasn’t the reason for his interest at all.

  The wager.

  He shouldn’t say anything about the wager. Though it would answer all of her questions about what he saw in her—at least, at first. But what had started as a dare had transformed into something else and he didn’t know how to make sense of it, let alone explain it.

  But Fox knew this: a small part of him did not want to win because it meant changing her, and he was falling for her just as she was. When or how or why this happened he could not say, either.

  Also, it was hard to speak when they were kissing.

  This was her answer.

  A kiss.

  Her hot little mouth on his. And this was no mere innocent, awkward, tentative do-you-like-this? kiss. They’d done this a time or two now and she’d already figured out just how to wreck him.

  Her hands slid over his arms, his muscled arms. His chest. His every nerve snapped to attention, ready to feel every sensation and to transit it to his brain. His heart. The locked box in his stomach with all the feelings.

  She pressed herself up against him, her breasts crushed against his chest. He nearly growled in the back of his throat.

  All this, in a bloody darkened alcove. At Almack’s.

  With a woman who said she hadn’t wished to marry him.

  A woman who prided herself on being intelligent and logical.

  But he understood now. He had an effect on her. It was the effect he had on all the women. For all her spectacles and equations and whatnot, she was just a woman.