by Maya Rodale
He needed to hold her closer.
Fox placed his big hand on the small of her back, exerting the slightest pressure. She took one, two little steps until he could hold her close, and she pressed herself up against him, leaned into him, let him support her.
She didn’t despise him after all.
Around and around the world spun; he kissed her or she kissed him, his heart pounding in an ever increasing strength and rhythm.
He feared it might explode.
Because Lady Claire kissed like Lady Claire talked about numbers—passionately, with her whole being. With a similar result, too: she twisted him in knots and confused him, made him lose his mind, made him excited and desperate to hang on and to stay with her. The taste of her, the scent of her, the feel of her commanded all his senses, and all his attention. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he was content to be swept along by it.
Fox leaned back against the wall, tugging Claire closer. She straddled his leg. There was a tangle of skirts and limbs and mouths and it was hard to tell where he ended and she began.
Closer, closer, but still not close enough.
He slid his hands through her soft hair, mussing it up before skimming his hands lower to explore the swells of her breasts and then the delicious curve of her backside. One curve after another, each one dangerously tempting.
He was hard now, with wanting.
Her hands stretched across the broad expanse of his chest, exploring the ridges and planes of his muscles—or what she could feel with his stupid shirt in the way. Women always did that; coo and caress his muscles and giggle over them. This time he was especially glad of them.
He heard a soft little sigh from her wicked little mouth.
She writhed up closer to him and pressed herself against the hot, hard length of him. He groaned. She moaned. He entertained visions of them, like this, with more privacy and fewer clothes and no reasons to slow down or stop.
More. He wanted more with her.
This was supposed to be just a kiss to awaken her passion and to show her that Williams wasn’t everything and that Fox had talents of his own. Just a kiss to help win a wager and as a reward for enduring two math lectures. There was a whole list of reasons for kissing her, but only one mattered and only one drove him now.
Because he wanted to.
It was a long, lovely, intensely pleasurable moment before it dawned on Claire that they could be discovered. And if they should be discovered like this—in the throes of some mad, wonderful passion—it would mean wedding bells as sure as eiπ + 1 = 0.
Her brain finally resumed functioning and reminded her of this fact.
Her brain rarely took a little holiday, but when Fox kissed her, Claire’s brain packed its bags, closed the house, and left town. Her feelings took over: he was handsome and hard and hot and she was drawn to him like a magnet; that is to say, as if it were an inviolable natural law and who was she to break such rules? He may not know the things she prided herself on, but he damn well knew how to kiss a woman.
Before Lady Claire even knew what happened he was leaning against the wall, mussing up her hair, and she was draping herself all over him like a wanton, simpering slattern.
And loving every blessed second of it.
But they might be caught. And every lovely second of this would come to an end, with consequences.
Her brain, returning to duty, performed some calculations. It was most likely that, if they were to be caught, it would only be by Ashbrooke or his wife and they seemed more likely to be amused than appalled; they would make no mention of this.
Passions of her body trumped the considerations of her brain.
Claire wrapped her arms around him, shimmying up closer, feeling her breasts against his chest, reveling in the strength of his that held her up. She felt her heart pounding, blood pulsing through her veins, and her skin had suddenly become more sensitive. Her every nerve was quivering with anticipation of more. All these physical feelings were new to her and she wanted to revel in them.
Logic intruded again: Miss Green would find them momentarily, surely. But Claire highly doubted she would say something to the duchess; and as long as the duchess didn’t know, there would be no consequences.
Claire could indulge in one more moment of this man.
Then Fox deepened the kiss.
She breathed him in.
There was something about his scent that drove her wild—it wasn’t any fragrance or whatnot that she could identify, but breathing him in felt like a drug. It reduced the whirring machinery of her brain to producing simple, elemental thoughts: yes to this man, yes to this kiss.
There was something about the way he touched her that was just . . . everything. Men didn’t usually touch her, of course, because it was hardly the sort of behavior one engaged in with polite company. She didn’t get the sense that any of them hungered to, which was fine, because the feeling was usually mutual.
Fox cupped her bottom with his big, strong hands and she groaned and writhed up closer against him, feeling the hard length of him pressing urgently against the vee of her thighs. Hardly ladylike behavior but it felt right.
When he kissed her, when he touched her, Fox unlocked a part of her that was new to her. Passion, desire, feeling, lust . . . she experienced them all for the first time with Fox. And how powerful these feelings were—even her brilliant, ever-working brain couldn’t rein them in.
In the end it was Mr. Benedict Williams who reminded her of who she was, where she was, what she was doing, and with whom. She heard his voice in the hall, just on the other side of the door. “So absentminded of me, I forgot my folio . . .”
Claire pulled away from Fox.
Williams’s folio . . . notes for the paper she was to write with him . . . her opportunity to share her thoughts and insights with the world . . . everything she had ever dreamt of . . .
Fox pressed one finger to her lips as if to shush her and prevent her from drawing attention to them. And then she playfully nipped at his finger, which made him grin.
“The butler will show you back to the foyer,” they heard a maid say.
“I daresay, has Lady Claire departed yet?”
Fox tugged her close again and kissed her deeply once more. She closed her eyes and leaned into the wicked, wonderful sensations of this strong man giving her pleasure and this desire pulsing inside her.
“I’m not quite certain,” the maid answered.
“I do see that her chaperone, Miss Green, is waiting in the foyer. Thus Lady Claire must still be here.”
“Good day, sir,” the maid said firmly. Claire sent up a prayer of thanks to her, whoever she was, for protecting her reputation and, just as much, not ruining this moment of pleasure.
But was it enough pleasure to risk the consequences?
“This must remain a secret,” she told Fox in a whisper. “No one can know about this or else . . .”
The consequences were obvious and need not be spoken aloud.
Marriage.
She was quite fine with kisses and touches and stolen moments, but it couldn’t be more than that. Because she needed more than kisses, touches, and stolen moments from her future husband. She needed a meeting of minds as well as bodies and she was afraid Fox wasn’t the man for that, or the man for her.
For a second, Claire thought he looked wounded. But why, and since when did men like Fox care about anything more than stealing a kiss and a quick feel of a woman’s bottom? She dismissed the thought and started to put her appearance to rights as best she could without a mirror.
“Your hair looks pretty all mussed up like that. You usually have it all pulled back, but those tendrils soften you.”
“Since when are you an expert in women’s coiffures?”
“I have two interests. Sports and women,” Fox said with a grin. “I’m an expert at both.”
“Never mind that, you’ll get me in trouble. Everyone will know what we’ve been doing,” she repl
ied as she still tried to fix her hair. She hated the feeling of these wispy tendrils in her face. They were distracting, which is why she usually preferred her hair sharply pulled back.
“Everyone will know that I can’t keep my hands off you.” He grinned.
“Oh, who would even think that of you and me,” she said with a laugh as much at herself as at him. Because honestly, he was the stud of the ton and she was known as an odd young lady best avoided at parties.
“I must go before we are discovered or—”
“Before we get into any more trouble?”
“Particularly the kind of trouble that lasts a lifetime.” She stared up at him fiercely. “Truly, Fox, no one must know about this. Or us. Promise me.”
His gaze darkened, his lips pressed into a firm line, and he didn’t say anything for the longest time. Finally, in a low voice, almost reluctantly, he said, “I promise.”
Later that afternoon, Durham House
Claire and Miss Meredith Green returned to Durham House to find that her sisters and the duchess were still out, paying calls and visiting the modiste. It was decided that they would take tea in one of the smaller parlors.
“You seemed to have enjoyed yourself this afternoon,” Meredith said as she handed Claire a cup.
“Yes, tremendously. But I hope it wasn’t a terrible bore for you. I do appreciate that you are my chaperone, though it hardly seems appropriate since we are both unmarried and the same age.”
“Yes. Well.” Meredith paused and sipped her tea rather than say the truth of the situation that they were both aware of and that Claire now felt uneasy about alluding to: Claire was sister to a duke and Meredith was companion to a duchess. They were of different ranks, and there were different expectations. Claire was to marry well, and it wasn’t expected that Meredith would marry at all, or any time soon.
“’Tis fortunate for you that it is I, rather than, say, the duchess,” Meredith said, lightening the moment.
“You must have worked a miracle to secure permission from her for me to visit with Ashbrooke and the Royal Society. You have my eternal gratitude.”
“You are too smart not to attend those meetings and to continue your studies,” Meredith said. “For what it’s worth, I may have intimated to the duchess that your attendance at such meetings keeps you happy in England, which means you might encourage your siblings to stay.”
“There is definitely truth in that. You are quite clever.”
“I also said you might find a suitor there.”
“You mean Mr. Williams,” Claire said, smiling coyly. She had never imagined her Mr. Right, but if she had, he would be someone like Mr. Williams—a brilliant mind and boyishly handsome. She smiled more, thinking of his lean but muscular frame, his big brown eyes behind spectacles like hers, and all the intelligent things he had said.
“Actually, I meant Lord Fox.”
Claire choked on her tea.
“Oh, he’s not courting me,” she replied. “He’s just . . . well . . . I have no explanation for why he pays attention to me, but courting is certainly preposterous.”
“For a smart, logical girl, Claire . . .”
“Very well. Perhaps he is courting me, for what else could it be? But you must admit it’s a strange pairing. He’s so brawny and I’m so . . . brainy.”
“They do say opposites attract.”
“They do say that,” Claire murmured, feeling a surge of heat course through her and a telltale warming of her cheeks thinking of their stolen moment this afternoon. The attraction between them was so potent it took only a second alone before they were throwing themselves at each other.
“Is there something you care to tell me?” Meredith teased. Then, seriously, “In the strictest confidence, of course.”
“Do I need to?” Claire lifted one brow. Surely, Meredith must have a clue.
“Your secret is safe with me. I understand the appeal of some private time in the portrait gallery,” Meredith said with a glimmer in her eyes.
“Visiting the portrait gallery with Lord Fox certainly has its appeals. In fact, I find it to be a very enjoyable activity. And yet, he is not the sort of man I imagine myself with. So I hesitate to encourage him but . . .” Claire let her voice trail off, not quite ready to admit aloud that she simply wanted to dally with him.
Meredith smiled knowingly. “What will you do?”
“I don’t know. I’m afraid of the risks and consequences that come if I continue to explore this attraction with him. Marriage or ruination are hardly trifling things.”
“I suppose there is a simple solution until you are sure,” Meredith suggested.
“Do tell.”
“See him in secret. It is fine enough, I suppose, to continue to see him at your mathematical events such as you are. But when out in society, take care not to be seen with him. If you are sighted together, it will attract notice, the papers will report on it, people will find it curious and then pay more attention.”
“I did make him promise secrecy.”
“Good. It is one thing for society to read that Fox has been frequently seen with you. It is quite another to see you together. Because there is something about the two of you together.”
“What do you mean?”
“In spite of your differences, or perhaps because of your differences, you complement each other. I wouldn’t write him off just yet, Lady Claire.”
Claire’s heart leapt—leapt!—at the thought of just a little more time with him. And by time, she meant all those stolen moments of pleasure.
“I suppose I could continue to see Lord Fox in secret, just until I have a better sense of things. And we shall see what develops when Mr. Williams and I work on that paper together . . .”
“A perfect plan.”
“Avoid Fox in public, indulge with him in private. I quite like it.”
Chapter 9
The rumor mill is buzzing with the news that Arabella Vaughn—or is it Mrs. Lucien Kemble?—has returned to town.
—Fashionable Intelligence, The London Weekly
The following day
Each day, Fox required some activity that made his muscles burn with use, his heart pound with vigor, and his breath hard and heavy. He needed to sweat. This was the only way he stayed sane.
It was also, he feared, the only thing that Lady Claire liked about him. Or rather, the result of it. His muscles. His strength. The swagger that came from knowing he had the physical and mental strength to overpower and outlast any challenge. The way he could hold her forever and kiss her almost senseless.
That she fancied him for his hard-earned strength shouldn’t have bothered him at all, and yet here he was, fencing with Rupert and trying a little too hard to kill the man.
“You are skittish today,” Rupert pointed out.
“I am not skittish,” Fox said, annoyed. “Men do not get skittish.”
“Touché. Allow me to rephrase. You are irritable and unfocused.”
Rupert was wrong. He wasn’t unfocused, just focused on something that made him irritable. But he didn’t want to get into any of that. Fox just shrugged. “I suppose.”
“Arabella’s rejection must be hard for you. To be jilted, so publicly. I can’t imagine it.” Rupert made a sorrowful face and Fox lunged toward him.
To be jilted was one thing; to have one’s equilibrium disturbed was quite another. Fox didn’t know himself in a world where women didn’t just throw themselves at his feet. First Arabella, now Lady Claire.
“To be honest, I haven’t really thought about it,” Fox said, lying. Then, correcting himself: “Her.”
“Is that so?”
“I’ll admit that my pride was slightly wounded,” Fox said, which was a vast understatement.
“And was it your slightly wounded pride that led you to agree to that wager?”
“That, and being an English gentleman, means that I live to make impossible wagers.”
“Is it so impossible? The papers have li
nked you and Lady Claire together. And people are talking and the ton is paying attention.”
“I’m making progress,” Fox said. That was the truth—at first she wouldn’t even speak to him and now they were stealing kisses. Not missish little kisses, either, but ones that were deep and passionate and that tortured, confused, and confounded him. After the kiss the other day, Fox had been surprised by the intensity of his desire for her, the way lusty thoughts of Lady Claire had begun to intrude on his thoughts, both waking and sleeping. As if he wanted her anyway, regardless of the wager.
This was confusing to him. Because she did have a point; they were a strange pairing.
“But how much progress?” Rupert asked, and it took a moment for Fox to return his attention to their conversation and the sword his friend was wielding. “Will you have the ton raving over her within the week, or is that precious dog of yours going to live with Mowbray?”
“I’m going to win.” Fox surged forward forcefully, trying for a point.
But Rupert easily evaded him, then attacked, and Fox was too distracted to put up a proper fight.
Because he wasn’t sure he was going to win.
He did not have “a way” with her, as he did with just about every other woman he’d met in his three and thirty years. She had hardly been impressed with him, and his God-given good looks that so often charmed the petticoats off most women were ineffectual with her. He’d never worked so hard to woo a woman before, and by such unconventional methods, too.
And yet, he had her aroused and cooing the other day. She had wanted him, he was certain of it. But then she stepped away, straightened, and begged for them to keep everything a secret, lest they find themselves publicly linked or in a long-term entanglement. How could he keep courting her and pursuing his plans to make her popular when she didn’t wish to be seen with him?
And yet, what could he do but agree, even though it thwarted his plans?
His Male Pride had been offended, too.
Or had that been his feelings indicating they were . . . hurt?