Lady Claire Is All That Page 4

  He ought to cool his hot head and proceed with caution until he got to the bottom of this. But being a man who lived and breathed competition, Fox’s Male Pride took the bait and, inevitably, he rose to the taunt.

  “Of course I know I can win,” Fox said with a feigned ease. “I just thought you’d want something like money, or my vintage whiskey collection, or one of my un-entailed properties. Not my dog.”

  Stella also happened to be his prize hunting dog—an intelligent and lively pointer who was the perfect companion on any hunt. She was the envy among the peers who took hunting seriously and there was already a long line waiting for her pups.

  But to Fox, she wasn’t just a winning animal, she was his dog. Man’s best friend, et cetera, et cetera. She wagged her tail when he walked into the room. Slept beside his bed. Joined him on hunts and long rides through the park.

  And Mowbray wanted her?

  It was unconscionable.

  But his Male Pride had risen to the occasion and was making all sorts of promises: You’ll win. Of course you’ll win. You’re a DeVere and you were raised to be the best. You always win, when it comes to sport and women. Odd as she may be, Lady Claire Cavendish is still just a woman. Take the challenge. Rise to the occasion. Go. Win.

  His heart was pounding when he said, “All right, then. But when I win, I want Zephyr. She’ll be a nice addition to my stables, don’t you think?”

  “Fine,” Mowbray agreed through gritted teeth.

  The two friends stood face-to-face, practically choking on the tension in the air between them, all over a stupid, offhanded wager about a strange girl. There was an undercurrent of something pulsing beneath the conversation, and if Fox were the sort of man who thought deeply about this sort of thing, he might have done so. But he wasn’t.

  Fox clapped him on the back. “Glad that’s settled,” he said with a good cheer he didn’t feel. “If you’ll excuse me, I have prettier faces to talk to this evening.”

  Once he walked away, his grin faltered. Fuck. What had he done? Over Lady Claire? Fox had agreed to some supremely ill-advised wagers and gambits before but this—this one was already doing strange things to his heart and confounding his brain when he needed it most. For the first time, he wasn’t sure he could win and something he couldn’t stand to lose was on the line.

  He had just stepped into the ballroom when his sister, Francesca, immediately accosted him. Her two simpering friends trailed a few steps behind, giggling about something, as usual.

  “What is this I hear about you causing a scene in the card room with Lady Claire? Everyone is talking about it.”

  “Then do you need me to?”

  Francesca ignored the sharpness in his voice.

  “As your beloved sister, I would like know how to reply when people ask if my brother is courting one of the American girls. And, I might add, the sister to my nemesis.”

  Francesca had this idea that one of the American Cavendishes was after Lord Darcy, one of Fox’s friends, whom she’d been expecting a proposal from for years now. She’d been pestering him to find out about Darcy’s intentions—as if gents just sat around and drank sherry and talked about their feelings. Of course they did no such thing. If something was bothering them, they didn’t discuss it, they hit something.

  The next day, Horse and Dolphin pub

  Most gentlemen of the ton attended Gentleman Jack’s to let their fists fly and call it boxing. Fox had started there, but found his peers too concerned about black eyes and broken noses to give him a proper fight. With his skill and tolerance for pain, he swiftly moved on to regularly receive the honor of sparring with Gentleman Jack himself.

  When that became too easy and too predictable, Fox ventured to the Horse and Dolphin pub near Leicester Square. The boxing academy there was set up by Bill Richardson, a former slave from America and champion fighter. His method relied on careful footwork and quick hands, and involved his wits as much as his fists. Fox loved it.

  For a man like Richardson, boxing was a way of supporting himself. For most peers it appealed to their vanity. For Fox, sport was his sanity. Whether it was fighting, fencing, riding, or rowing; moving until his muscles screamed from exertion made him feel right. It made him feel alive.

  Some men—most men he knew—were content to live life trapped behind a desk, to while away the hours at the House of Lords, to sit around in White’s. His muscles ached with boredom if he did that for more than an hour or two. Then he needed to take his stallion out for a gallop, to feel the slick sheen of sweat from exerting himself in a fencing match, or to feel his knuckles aching and raw from a fight.

  After last night, he felt the urge to hit something.

  So here he was, in the ring.

  Fox did not recognize his opponent, a bulky man in his mid-twenties with a bald head and, by the looks of it, a survivor of a rough encounter or two in his recent past. There were cuts. Bruises. He looked mean. Spoiling for a fight.

  Yes.

  Make it hurt. Make it burn. Make him sweat. Make him focus.

  But there was none of that.

  Fox could see the punches coming from a mile away. A left hook, a jab from the right. It was easy enough to spot and evade them. He didn’t even need to move quickly.

  When he did land a blow on his opponent, the man staggered back and took a moment to absorb the pain and catch his breath. Fox stood there, not sweating. His heart, not pounding.

  The fight was slow.

  It was too easy.

  It was too predictable.

  It was, he realized, not unlike how Lady Claire must have felt when watching the card game. Hell, playing the card game. Hell, conversing with him about the card game—the memory of which made him cringe now. As a clearly intelligent woman, she must have been immensely frustrated at the slow pace, the slower wits, and numbskulls like himself commenting on her beginner’s luck when it was really a sharp mind pitted against lousy competition.

  She must want a challenge. Something that made her heart pound and her brain whir to life. Something she had to burn and sweat for.

  It was in this moment of brilliant insight—admittedly, a rarity for him—that his opponent landed a solid blow on his right eye, one which took him down.

  “That was a good fight until you got distracted,” Richardson said. He’d been leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest, watching. “All it takes is a second of distraction and BOOM.” Richardson slammed his fist against the wall with a fierce thump that echoed loudly. “Someone has punched you in the face.”

  Richardson was wrong. It had been a boring and mediocre fight until he’d been distracted with that flash of insight and spark of understanding. He understood that strange American girl a little more now and with that might come the key to winning his wager. That was certainly worth taking a fist to the face for.

  Chapter 4

  Lord Fox’s residence

  Fox returned home with a new sense of purpose. When Stella bounded up, tail wagging happily—much to the dismay of the butler, Smethport, who eschewed any display of emotion on creatures human or otherwise—Fox bent over to greet her, rubbing behind her ears the way she liked, and whispering promises that he would never, ever let anyone take her, especially the likes of Mowbray.

  “I’ll let your valet know you have returned,” the butler said flatly, with only a hint of disapproval. “And that he should bring a remedy for your eye.”

  A bruise was already forming.

  “Thank you, Smethport.” Fox started up the stairs to his bedchamber and Stella followed.

  During today’s fight, he’d had a flash of understanding about Lady Claire but he had no idea how to apply this knowledge to his presently disastrous situation.

  For that, he would have to call in reinforcements. An expert. A brilliant strategist with a ruthless sense of competition. Someone with a keen insight into the female mind and the collective brain of the haute ton.

  Fortunately, he lived with just th
e person.

  “And, Smethport, please inform Lady Francesca that I should like to see her in my study in an hour.”

  At the appointed hour, his sister, Francesca, strolled into the study. Stella, who now had made herself comfortable in a patch of sunlight on the plush carpet of his study, opened her eyes, saw it was a family member who did not reward her with food from the table, and went back to sleeping. Fox wondered idly if Mowbray had patches of sunlight at his place and would he allow Stella to sleep there?

  Then he shook such thoughts from his head. He had to focus.

  “Franny, if you were an American lady in London, which social event would you attend? I am asking for a friend.”

  “You know I hate when you call me Franny. It sounds so . . . provincial.” She shuddered.

  “It is my right as an older brother to annoy you in whichever way I see fit. Now tell me what I should do.”

  He looked down at the mound of invitations on his desk and up at the bemused glance of his sister.

  “I would fire your secretary and get another before I worried about that. I hope my dowry isn’t somewhere in that mess. Or rather, I hope it is.”

  “Darcy doesn’t need your money.”

  “About that—” Francesca began.

  Fox started to whistle as he sifted through the invitations. He sensed that she wished to pester him about what Darcy—the most reserved, inscrutable man on earth—might have said regarding his innermost feelings for her, to him, Francesca’s brother, who wasn’t the least interested in hearing said feelings.

  After a moment of staring at him, she gave up.

  “I can’t believe you think I would know the whereabouts of those ridiculous Americans on any given night.”

  Like most of the ton, she held a low opinion of them. They were ill-mannered outsiders, upstart usurpers of a prestigious English title, and prone to embarrassing scenes and laughable lapses in etiquette. He remembered Francesca laughing for days over Lady Bridget falling in the ballroom during her debut ball.

  But, like most of the ton, she also had a morbid fascination with the American family that occasionally trumped her low opinion of them. They couldn’t be completely ignored for there was a dukedom involved after all. Besides, haute ton hostesses found that inviting them to parties, setting them up for causing scenes, and conversing with them provided endless fodder for gossip.

  “You’re friends with one of them, aren’t you?” he asked. “You and Lady Wych Cross are always paying calls to them. And I see you out with Lady Bridget at balls.”

  Lady Wych Cross was their aunt and Francesca’s chaperone. Fox avoided her as much as possible.

  “Yes, but not because we are friends with them,” she explained, which made zero sense to him.

  “Franny, it’s urgent. Desperate. Important.” And when that failed to move her, he said, “I have to win a wager.”

  “Well, in that case . . .” she retorted. But then her expression grew serious. “What is it?”

  Their family was not in the habit of losing—the previous Lord Fox ensured it and thus they were a fiercely competitive bunch. Croquet, cards, and other games as children often turned violent, resulted in simmering feuds and ruthless attempts to win. While Fox used his brawn, Francesca used her brain. Most of their games had resulted in young Fox and Francesca being sent to separate corners of the nursery until they calmed down.

  But now, that fighting spirit and her devious mind were on his side. For the first time since making the bet, Fox felt like he had a chance.

  “It’s just a little bet with Mowbray that I can turn Lady Claire Cavendish into the darling of the ton. I wagered Stella.”

  Francesca looked from him, to the dog, and back again. Then she burst out laughing. He set his mouth in a grim line and waited for her to finish cackling. “Dear brother, you are an idiot. A monumental idiot.”

  “I know,” he said wryly.

  “Is this how you choose to deal with Arabella breaking your heart?”

  Fox scowled as he always did at the mention of her name. “Never mind that. Franny, I cannot lose.”

  “Of course not. And not just because you foolishly wagered your precious dog. We are DeVeres.” She placed her palms on his desk and stared at him fiercely. “We do not lose. We’ll speak about your poor choices later, but for now you should know that everyone is planning to attend Lady Waterford’s musicale tonight.”

  Later that evening, Durham House

  It was that hour of the day when everyone retired to their chambers to be primped and preened for the evening ahead. Claire often took advantage of everyone’s distraction to steal some quiet time for herself. Some days she worked on equations and sometimes she slept, exhausted from the endless social whirl.

  This evening Claire was reading when her maid, Pippa, slipped into the room. She wasn’t reading a mathematical paper, though one of those was lying on the bed. Today Claire read the gossip columns.

  “Are you ready, Lady Claire?”

  “Yes, thank you, Pippa.”

  She moved to the chair near the mirror. Pippa started heating up the irons to curl her hair, which was always a pointless endeavor. She had only the patience to have a few strands done, and preferred to have her hair pulled back sharply and kept entirely out of her face.

  Tonight she had even less patience. She returned her attentions to the gossip columns and scanned the pages until she found the name she sought: Ashbrooke.

  It is reported that the Duke and Duchess of Ashbrooke have returned from their honeymoon.

  Ashbrooke: the one man she had crossed an ocean for and had yet to meet.

  Well, he was back in London. That was something. She was dying to see his difference engine and to speak with him about it. They had exhibited it earlier in the season, but the duchess had kept them all so busy there hadn’t been time to see any sights—something Amelia grumbled about daily. Nothing like it existed before and it promised worlds of opportunity to perform more calculations, more reliably, which had implications for so many other areas.

  Not only that, Claire saw the engine as a stepping stone to more intricate machines that could perform ever more complicated problems with an unimaginable speed; that is what she wished to discuss with him and perhaps collaborate on.

  But Ashbrooke was married. That shouldn’t matter. She wasn’t interested in marriage anyway, at least not presently, and not with him necessarily. She cared about math, she told herself. She cared about stimulating intellectual conversations, mechanical innovations, advanced mathematical equations. That was all. These were the things that made her heart sing.

  Or so she told herself.

  But a little twinge of sadness she felt told her everything she needed to know: she had secretly, in her heart of hearts, harbored hopes.

  Hopes that there might be a man with whom she could share her passion. Hope that there was a man who wouldn’t think her strange for her interest in numbers, and who would encourage her to pursue her studies. In other words, a man who would love her for her true self.

  Hopes that were now dashed by reading the words and duchess.

  Because if not Ashbrooke, then who?

  Rather than sit idly and stare at her reflection, Claire kept reading. She knew what she looked like already: the perfectly fine, if unremarkable, features, a nice complexion. Her glasses slid down her nose as she bent her head to read. Halfway down the column she spied her name. She pushed her glasses back up so she could see the words clearly.

  It is a sighting no one expected to see once, let alone twice: Lord Fox and Lady Claire Cavendish. Together. Once might be considered polite, but might twice be considered courtship? Everyone must agree it would be such a strange pairing. Perhaps Arabella Vaughn broke his mind as well as his heart when she eloped with actor Lucien Kemble.

  Claire knew very well what this meant and it wasn’t a shock: it was very, very peculiar that the attentions of Lord Fox should be fixed upon her. Her siblings had commented on it
, and she’d dismissed it as just familial teasing. But if the London gossips were intrigued by it, too . . .

  With that, her curiosity was aroused. There was nothing she loved more than a problem that didn’t readily make sense and that might prove interesting to solve.

  Chapter 5

  That evening, the musicale

  Fox took more than the usual care in dressing for the evening, knowing that he had much to accomplish this evening—woo Lady Claire, make an impression upon the haute ton together, get closer to winning the damned wager. After all, the clock was ticking.

  His valet, Burke, was in raptures and rose to the challenge, paying an inordinate amount of attention to the selection of the right waistcoat (midnight blue satin) and to the tying of his cravat (fashioned into an excessively intricate and stifling knot). As if Lady Claire Cavendish was the sort of woman who noticed or cared about these things.

  “It’s a pity about that bruise,” Burke said, standing back to admire his work.

  “It’s fine,” Fox said. The bruise from his pathetic boxing bout was a reminder of the struggle. To work for it. To sweat for it. To think of how Lady Claire must feel to want something, but to have limited options to express it.

  It was a reminder of that wager. Losing was simply not an option.

  He glanced down at Stella, lying at his feet, gazing up at him adoringly. He bent over to scratch behind her ears and murmured a promise to her as he strolled out, into the night.

  Upon arrival at Lady Waterford’s musicale, he left Francesca hanging off Darcy’s arm while he sought out Lady Claire. He found her sitting upon a settee. Alone. How fortuitous.

  “Good evening, Lady Claire. May I join you?”

  She spared him a brief glance and a small sigh—not the dreamy sort he was accustomed to, but one that sounded a bit peevish. For a brief, fleeting second, his confidence wavered. At least that’s what he thought the strange new feeling might be.