by Maya Rodale
Dedication
For Tony, who became an American after I went through all the bother of marrying an Englishman, as befitting a Regency romance novelist.
To Emily Levine, for showing us an And-And Universe.
And for the Lady Miss Penny, whom I would never wager.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Caroline Linden and Josh Schwartz for help with “math stuff” and to Jody Allen for help with research. Any remaining mistakes, errors, misunderstandings are my own.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Author’s Note
An Excerpt from It’s Hard Out Here for a Duke
Prologue
About the Author
By Maya Rodale
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
In which our hero and heroine meet and sparks do not fly
London, 1824
Lady Tunbridge’s Ball
There was only one man in England whom Lady Claire Cavendish wished to meet. Only one man whom she thought it worth crossing an ocean for, sight unseen. Only one man who possessed a brain like hers, with a gift for numbers, and presumably the only man who would find a brain and talent like hers attractive rather than frightening.
When her brother, James, had shockingly inherited a dukedom, Claire had encouraged him to fully accept the role, which necessitated the Cavendish clan of Claire, James, Bridget, and Amelia traveling to England. It was the right thing to do, and opportunities to be a duke did not come along every day, et cetera, et cetera.
She might have had an ulterior motive.
Because dukes lived in England.
The particular duke she wished to meet lived in London. She had studied the Duke of Ashbrooke’s mathematical papers and read accounts of the Royal Society, of which he was an influential member. Claire longed to discuss his difference engine and further possibilities for an analytical machine with him. She knew this made her somewhat of an oddity, but that didn’t bother her.
But Claire had lived on a horse farm in Maryland with her brother and two sisters, literally an ocean away, and with no hope of ever traveling to London to make the acquaintance of like-minded mathematicians or to attend meetings of the Royal Society.
And yet, the stars had aligned, fate intervened, or more to the point, the appropriate people had expired, making James the seventh Duke of Durham.
And so here she was.
In London.
In a ballroom, which was likely stuffed to the chandeliers with dukes and earls, marquesses, viscounts, barons, and all their heirs and all that. Already Claire felt she’d been introduced to every peer in England.
Everyone except the duke.
“Looking for someone in particular, Lady Claire?” The Duchess of Durham fixed her steely blue eyes on the eldest Cavendish sister.
“Why do you ask?”
“I have my reasons,” the duchess replied.
Claire had quickly learned that Josephine Maria Cavendish, the Duchess of Durham, and her aunt, was hell-bent on seeing the family—James, Claire, and her sisters Bridget and Amelia—settled in England. That meant ensuring the three sisters wed so James would stay and fully accept his new role. Cavendish men, like James and his father before him, seemed to be the only ones in the world reluctant to be dukes, preferring instead a quiet life in America. But James was too loyal to his sisters to leave them.
But that meant a debut—tonight, at Lady Tunbridge’s ball—and an endless stream of introductions to the very best of society, particularly the ones deemed suitable potential matches.
“Well, do stop craning your neck as if you are on the prowl for someone,” the duchess continued.
“But we are on the prowl for someone. Or someones, plural,” Amelia cut in glumly.
“You made that list of potential gentlemen to introduce us to,” Bridget added. “It’s a rather long list.”
“Well, a lady does not seek out a gentleman and she certainly is more subtle about it if she does.”
“Of course,” Claire murmured, gaze still scanning the room, searching for the duke, not that she knew what he looked like. Beside her, Bridget appeared to be committing the duchess’s words to memory. Her middle sister was trying very hard to be a perfect lady. Her baby sister, Amelia, was . . . not.
“Come, there are some more gentlemen I’d like to introduce you to.” The duchess snapped her fan open and the three Cavendish girls issued weary sighs and trailed after her in their newly acquired fine gowns and delicate slippers. In spite of all their finery, these American girls were oddities in this elegant English ballroom.
Claire hoped at least one of the gentlemen would be her duke. She calculated the odds of meeting him. Tonight.
One hour later
Thus far, Lady Claire had been introduced to four marquesses, five earls, a bunch of marchionesses and countesses, and half a dozen assorted viscounts and barons and their brides. There were misters and misses and what the duchess called “fine prospects” because of what they owned, or what they stood in line to inherit, or their connections. And then Lady Claire was introduced to even more English people.
Not one of whom was the man she sought.
She bit back a sigh as yet another Lord Something—she thought she caught the name Fox—was bowing before her. This one, at least, wasn’t some soft and paunchy fellow who had clearly spent more time in dissipation than engaged in activities outdoors, unlike most of the men she’d met tonight.
This one had an air of vitality about him. Clear skin. Dark hair. Bright green eyes.
Also, broad shoulders, a wide expanse of chest, and a flat abdomen that tapered to a narrow waist and muscular thighs. The man radiated strength and power.
Lady Claire may have devoted much of her mental activity toward advanced mathematics, but she wasn’t blind. Or dead. She recognized a prime specimen of male when it bowed to her in a crowded ballroom.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said, for what felt like the six thousandth time that evening.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he replied, following the unwritten script that everyone seemed to know. “How are you enjoying London? You must find it much grander than what you are used to in America.”
Claire pursed her lips in annoyance. He was just like everyone else, reciting the same lines. But so was she.
“It is a grand city,” she agreed. That was her polite response. Then, because she was fatigued and bored, she deviated from the script. There was something about this man that made her curious as to how he’d play along.
“I am keen to visit the Royal Society,” she told him.
“I can’t imagine anything more tedious.”
“I can,” she murmured. She was living it.
He gazed at her with bright eyes, but his smile faded as he realized she was an unusual young woman, and one who wasn’t likely to throw herself at him.
“Right, then.” He straightened and looked around for an escape. Men always did that when she
intimated that she might possess more than half of a functioning brain. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” he said, lying.
“Indeed,” she agreed, lying.
And that was the last she ever expected to see of Lord Whatever-his-name-was.
Chapter 1
This author has it on good authority that Miss Arabella Vaughn has done something utterly scandalous and completely unthinkable.
—Fashionable Intelligence, The London Weekly
London, 1824
Lord and Lady Chesham’s ballroom
One week later
It was a truth universally acknowledged that Maximilian Frederick DeVere, Lord Fox, was God’s gift to the ladies of London. He was taller and brawnier than his peers and in possession of the sort of chiseled good looks—above and below the neck—that were more often found in works of classical art. By all accounts he was charming and universally liked by men and women alike, though for different reasons, of course. He won at two things, always: women and sport.
Fox strolled through the Cheshams’ ballroom as if he owned the place. He nodded at friends and acquaintances—Carlyle, with whom he occasionally fenced, Fitzwalter, whom he had soundly thrashed at boxing last week, and Willoughby, who was always game for a curricle race.
Fox flashed his famous grin as he heard the ladies’ usual comments when he strolled past.
“I think he just smiled at me.”
“I think I’m going to swoon.”
“God, Arabella Vaughn is one lucky woman.”
“Was,” someone corrected. “Didn’t you see the report in The London Weekly this morning?”
Fox’s grin faltered.
That was when Mr. Rupert Wright and Lord Mowbray found him. Their friendship stretched all the way back to their early days at Eton.
“We heard the news, Fox,” Rupert said grimly, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
“I daresay everyone has heard the news,” Fox replied dryly.
It didn’t escape his notice that the guests nearby had fallen silent. It was the first time he’d appeared in public since the news broke in the paper this morning, though Arabella had so kindly left him a note the day prior. Everyone was watching him to see how he would react, what he would say, if he would cry.
“Who would have thought we’d see this day?” Mowbray mused. “Miss Arabella Vaughn, darling of the haute ton, running off with an actor.”
“That alone would be scandalous,” Rupert said, adding, “Never mind that she has ditched Fox. Who is, apparently, considered a catch. What with his lofty title, wealth, and not hideous face.”
Fox’s Male Pride bristled. It’d been bristling and seething and enraged ever since the news broke that his beautiful, popular betrothed had left him to elope with some plebian actor.
Not just any actor, either, but Lucien Kemble. Yes, he was the current sensation among the haute ton, lighting up the stage each night in his role as Romeo in Romeo and Juliet. Covent Garden Theater was sold out for the rest of the season. The gossip columns loved him, given his flair for dramatics both onstage and off—everything from tantrums to torrid love affairs to fits over his artistry. Women adored him; they may have sighed and swooned over Lucien Kemble as much as Fox. One, apparently, swooned more.
To lose a woman to any other man was insupportable—and, until recently, not something that had ever happened to him—but to lose her to someone who made his living prancing around onstage in tights? It was intolerable.
“Just who does she think she is?” Fox wondered aloud.
“She’s Arabella Vaughn. Beautiful. Popular. Enviable. Every young lady here aspires to be her. Every man here would like a shot with her,” Mowbray answered.
“She’s you, but in petticoats,” Rupert said, laughing.
It was true. He and Arabella were perfect together.
Like most men, he’d fallen for her at first sight after catching a glimpse of her across a crowded ballroom. She was beautiful in every possible way: a tall, lithe figure with full breasts; a mouth made for kissing and other things that gentlemen didn’t mention in polite company; blue eyes fringed in dark lashes; honey gold hair that fell in waves; a complexion that begged comparisons to cream and milk and moonlight.
Fox had taken one look at her and thought: mine.
They were a perfect match in beauty, wealth, social standing, all that. They both enjoyed taking the ton by storm. He remembered the pride he felt as they strolled through a ballroom arm in arm and the feeling of everyone’s eyes on them as they waltzed so elegantly.
They were great together.
They belonged together.
Fox also remembered the more private moments—so many stolen kisses, the intimacy of gently pushing aside a wayward strand of her golden hair, promises for their future as man and wife. They would have perfect children, and entertain the best of society, and generally live a life of wealth and pleasure and perfection, together.
Fox remembered his heart racing—nerves!—when he proposed because this beautiful girl he adored was going to be his.
And then she had eloped. With an actor.
It burned, that. Ever since he’d heard the news, Fox had stormed around in high dudgeon. He was not accustomed to losing.
“Take away her flattering gowns and face paint and she’s just like any other woman here,” Fox said, wanting it to be true so he wouldn’t feel the loss so keenly. “Look at her, for example.”
Rupert and Mowbray both glanced at the woman he pointed out—a short, frumpy young lady nervously sipping lemonade. She spilled some down the front of her bodice when she caught three men staring at her.
“If one were to offer her guidance on supportive undergarments and current fashions and get a maid to properly style her coiffure, why, she could be the reigning queen of the haute ton,” Fox pointed out.
Both men stared at him, slack jawed.
“You’ve never been known for being the sharpest tool in the shed, Fox, but now I think you’re really cracked,” Mowbray said. “You cannot just give a girl a new dress and make her popular.”
“Well, Mowbray, maybe you couldn’t. But I could.”
“Gentlemen . . .” Rupert cut in. “I don’t care for the direction of this conversation.”
“You honestly think you can do it,” Mowbray said, awed.
He turned to face Mowbray and drew himself up to his full height, something he did when he wanted to be imposing. His Male Pride had been wounded and his competitive spirit—always used to winning—was spoiling for an opportunity to triumph.
“I know I can,” Fox said with the confidence of a man who won pretty much everything he put his mind to—as long as it involved sport, or women. Arabella had been his first, his only, loss. A fluke, surely.
“Well, that calls for a wager,” Mowbray said.
The two gentlemen stood eye to eye, the tension thick. Rupert groaned.
“Name your terms,” Fox said.
“I pick the girl.”
“Fine.”
“This is a terrible idea,” Rupert said. He was probably right, but he was definitely ignored.
“Let me see . . . who shall I pick?” Mowbray made a dramatic show of looking around the ballroom at all the ladies nearby. There were at least a dozen of varying degrees of pretty and pretty hopeless.
Then Mowbray’s attentions fixed on one particular woman. Fox followed his gaze, and when he saw who his friend had in mind, his stomach dropped.
“No.”
“Yes,” Mowbray said, a cocky grin stretching across his features.
“Unfortunately dressed I can handle. Shy, stuttering English miss who at least knows the rules of society? Sure. But one of the Americans?”
Fox let the question hang there. The Cavendish family had A Reputation the minute the news broke that the new Duke of Durham was none other than a lowly horse trainer from the former colonies. He and his sisters were scandalous before they even set foot in London. Since their debut in society, they ha
dn’t exactly managed to win over the haute ton, either, to put it politely.
“Now, they’re not all bad,” Rupert said. “I quite like Lady Bridget . . .”
But Fox was still in shock and Mowbray was enjoying it too much to pay any mind to Rupert’s defense of the Americans.
“The bluestocking?”
That was the thing: Mowbray hadn’t picked just any American, but the one who already had a reputation for being insufferably intelligent, without style or charm to make herself more appealing to the gentlemen of the ton. She was known to bore a gentleman to tears by discussing not the weather, or hair ribbons, or gossip of mutual acquaintances, but math.
Lady Claire Cavendish seemed destined to be a hopeless spinster and social pariah.
Even the legendary Duchess of Durham, aunt to the new duke and his sisters, hadn’t yet been able to successfully launch them into society and she’d already had weeks to prepare them! It seemed insane that Fox should succeed where the duchess failed.
But Fox and his Male Pride had never, not once, backed away from a challenge, especially not when the stakes had never been higher. He knew two truths about himself: he won at women and he won at sport.
He was a winner.
And he was not in the mood for soul searching or crafting a new identity when the old one suited him quite well. Given this nonsense with Arabella, he had to redeem himself in the eyes of the ton, not to mention his own. It was an impossible task, but one that Fox would simply have to win.
“Her family is hosting a ball in a fortnight,” Mowbray said. “I expect you to be there—with Lady Claire on your arm as the most desirable and popular woman in London.”
Nearby in the ballroom
Lady Claire Cavendish was involved in a very animated discussion with a gentleman of her recent acquaintance. To be clear: she was animated, whilst he looked like he was considering sticking a hot poker in his eye, just so he might have an excuse to quit this conversation.