by Maya Rodale
“You shouldn’t. You ought to have a care with your reputation.”
“Of course. Which is why I wanted to say that perhaps it is for the best if we took care not to be seen together so much.”
There, she had said it.
Even though looking at him now she wasn’t quite so sure.
“Why is that?”
“The consequences of a rumored liaison . . . would be . . . dire.”
“Dire?”
“Life-altering, surely.”
“And you sought me out in private to tell me that?”
“You do agree that we ought to take care not to be seen together, then.”
“Well, we certainly shouldn’t be caught together in private.”
Oh. Well, then. That was that. They were agreed. They should not be seen together because of reputations, et cetera, et cetera. This one last risk should end quickly before it turned into a life-altering encounter. She could turn and go and carry on with her life.
Why, Mr. Williams had called on her; what a lovely visit they’d had. Perhaps he was The One for her.
“Then I ought to go,” she said, “before anyone recalls I am missing and discovers me here.”
But she didn’t move. Couldn’t bring herself to leave, really. Claire was a smart girl but she could not understand why she just wanted to be near the man. He was wrong for her, she told herself. She was too smart for him, she told herself. A man like Mr. Williams was right for her, she insisted to herself.
I want to kiss Fox.
That was her brain and her heart’s only response.
“I am glad for the interruption though,” he said, gazing down at her. His slight smile caused slight crinkles around the corners of his eyes and she thought it adorable. “I’d much rather see you than attend to all this correspondence.”
Without taking his eyes off her, he gestured to a mountain of paperwork on his desk.
“I am touched, truly. You do know how to compliment a girl. I should go.”
She waited one more beat just in case he, oh, wanted to pull her into his arms and ravish her on this very plush, but hideously patterned, carpet.
No, Claire, be reasonable!
“It was good to see you,” Fox said. Then he nodded. She was dismissed, which was for the best. So she turned to go.
Heaven forbid that she do so elegantly. Her slipper caught on the leg of a chair, causing her to lurch forward, limbs flailing, glasses jerked off her face and flying across the room.
Claire was caught before she hit the ground—one strong arm snaked around her waist and hauled her against a rock-hard chest.
“Oof,” she said. Oof?
Once again, Fox’s lightning-quick reflexes and strength served a purpose: Lady Claire tripped and nearly went sprawling and he saved her, of course, because he was the kind of man who saved women from such situations. The reflexes. The strength.
Then there was the small matter of the woman he held pressed against him. For safety. Yes, that was it, safety. It had nothing to do with actually wanting her. His palm splayed across her belly. Her head rested against his chest. He felt a wanting so profound it went beyond mere lust.
He held her close because he didn’t want her to go—not now, and not forever, as she’d been trying to suggest. If he really thought about it, it was his heart rebelling at the thought and not the part of his brain reserved for that wager.
So Fox held on to her longer than necessary, to preserve the moment as he tried to make sense of it. He tried addition, as she might do: Lady Claire + him + intimate moment in study = little cracks in his heart and soul being filled up. Fox wasn’t the sort to be bothered by those little cracks and bruises—that was just life and a result of playing the game and nothing to get all frothy and emotional about. But damn if everything didn’t suddenly seem right and better.
“Are you all right?” He asked this gruffly.
“Yes.” She turned to face him.
And all the air rushed out of his lungs.
Her glasses had gone flying and now Fox gazed at Lady Claire as he’d never seen her before.
She looked . . . softer. Without them, and with tendrils of her hair escaping her coiffure, she looked more girlish. Lady Claire without her glasses was altogether a different creature, one who was less imposing, more fragile.
If only Mowbray could see her like this.
He never wanted Mowbray to see her like this.
The wager would be won if he could just get the ton to see her thusly. Francesca had been right—Franny was always right.
“I can’t see much at the moment—just enough to discern that you are agog at my appearance without my spectacles.”
“Yes. Essentially.”
“Might you instead look around for my glasses? I should like to regain my vision.”
“Can you see without your glasses?”
“Of course not.” She gave one of those peevish lady expressions that was oddly adorable. “That’s why I wear them.”
“Because you are . . . you look . . . without them you look . . .”
“I know. I look less like an intellectual bluestocking destined to become a spinster and more like some delicate girl.”
The mouth, still the same. Her brain, still sharp. Fox smiled, not that she could see it.
“I was going to say beautiful,” he said. “But that, too.”
“Spare me.” She rolled her eyes but he could have sworn that, first, there was the merest, briefest flash of a smile. “Just help me find them.”
“Very well. Stand there and don’t move.”
She obeyed and he located her glasses a few feet away. They’d landed on the carpet and thus did not sustain cracks in the lens or other damage. Fox was ashamed that he thought of damaging them before the ball, so she might appear in public without them, and everyone would see what he saw and the wager would be won, the world would return to rights, and then what? Lady Claire would stumble around blind, probably doing herself an injury just so she could be popular?
He handed her the glasses, taking one long last look at this secret version of her. Their hands touched.
He could not unsee what he had seen.
Suddenly Fox felt possessive. He wanted no one else in the world to see her like this. Just him, alone.
Lady Claire slipped the spectacles back on.
He still wanted to kiss her.
“You are beautiful,” he blurted out. As if he had just realized this. As if he wasn’t an expert charmer of women. As if she hadn’t just told him they weren’t to see each other anymore.
“You’re not terrible to look at, either. But I suppose you already knew that.”
He couldn’t help a little smile because of course he did. “Shh. Just smile. And say thank you.”
She smiled and thanked him.
“I should go,” Lady Claire replied. “My family is waiting. I am missing a visit with your sister and aunt.”
“Yes, you absolutely must go,” he said, not meaning a word of it. “One would not want to miss the opportunity to socialize with my female relations.”
He stepped closer to her.
“I shall go right this minute.”
“This very second,” he murmured, standing very close now. He noticed she didn’t move away. He noticed, because his heart was starting to pound because of her nearness.
“I should never have come to seek you out,” she whispered softly.
I could say the same, he thought quickly. Then he wouldn’t be in this mess of a wager. But right now, alone in his study with Claire, the air between them thick with lust, he was actually glad of it all.
“You fancied a little bit of trouble,” Fox murmured. “But a little trouble never hurt anyone, right?”
No, a little trouble never hurt anyone. One stolen kiss was a great pleasure in life, not to be missed, and it needn’t be a harbinger of doom, or marriage, or whatever.
Fox kissed her. His mouth finding hers, claiming hers. She
was so sweet and passionate all at once and he was overcome with wanting. He scooped her up in his arms and held her, taking one or two steps until she was up against the bookshelves.
Support was necessary. She made his knees weak.
This wasn’t a gentle kiss, but one that was fraught with tension and loaded with passion.
Stopping now was simply not possible. Not when he needed to drink her in completely. Every kiss with her felt like it might be the last, which meant it felt like he needed to make it everything. It wasn’t a hard thing to do. He gave and she gave and together they tangled so perfectly, like they were made for this.
Their families were just down the hall.
That sobering fact should have diminished his passion but it only fanned the flames. The risk of discovery heightened his pleasure in the moment.
What would someone see?
Their mouths, connected. Their bodies, touching. Discovering how her full breasts and round hips fit perfectly in his big hands.
What would they hear?
Soft sighs of pleasure, a low groan of wanting more, the steady thump of pounding hearts.
In the far recesses of his mind, he had to wonder: What if he wanted to be caught with her? What if he secretly, deep down in the unexamined corners of his head and heart, wanted the consequences of discovery in a compromising position?
For a second his heart stopped beating.
Then Claire writhed against him and his cock hardened even more, if such a thing were possible. All other thoughts ceased.
There was just him and her and a passion that was so easily sparked.
There was nothing to prove with this kiss—it wouldn’t help him win the wager or help her solve a math problem—nothing other than that they could not keep their hands and mouths off each other.
Fox did not care to consider what it signified that their every interaction resulted in a mad kiss, frantic with passion. The sound of her breaths, his groan, and his cock strained at his breeches, her little hands roaming all over, feeling him, learning him, knowing him.
Fox pressed his arousal against the vee of her thighs and her moan of pleasure nearly undid him. He sank his fingers into the mass of her hair, holding her so he could kiss her deeply.
Don’t go away, came a whisper from some hidden depths of his heart.
Then, daringly, he softly traced his fingertip from her lips, down the curve of her neck, then lower, toying at the edge of her bodice. She peered at him through those eyes; the spectacles only made the truth clearer. She was not saying no. She was saying yes. YES.
First, he pressed kisses along the edge, where the lace caressed her pale skin. Then he tugged the fabric out of the way and pressed kisses there, upon her breasts.
Lady Claire gave no doubt as to whether this pleased her. She clasped his head, holding him close. He took a dusky pink center in his mouth, teasing her.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, arching her back and exposing herself to him.
He lavished attention on the other perfect, plump breast until her breaths were quick and shallow. And then even he was lost in a frenzy of kisses wherever he could find bare skin—her neck, her breasts, her mouth—and a frenzy of touch, as he wanted to know her.
So he explored, and she did the same. So many women had adoringly run their hands over his muscles, cooing over all that strength. But this was the first time he felt a shudder, a shiver. Like he cared, especially, that it was Lady Claire doing the adoring.
Her small hands slipped underneath his shirt, caressing the ripples of his abdomen and the planes of his chest. She teased his nipples, causing him to suck in his breath.
“I wish I could see you,” she whispered, and he wanted to reveal himself to her. He wanted to see her, too. Wanted like he’d never wanted anyone or anything.
“I can’t get enough of you,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
She arched into him and he dared to slip his hands under her skirts, skimming higher and higher, tracing his fingers lightly along the soft, sensitive flesh of her inner thighs until she shuddered.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered as he dared to reach higher, closer to the sensitive folds between her legs.
“I should,” she murmured.
“But you won’t.”
She just kissed him. Drank him in. Arched up to him. Fox took that as a yes and it was confirmed when she gasped, “I can’t. I want . . . I need . . .”
Claire meant to say, I can’t stop. I want more. I need you. But the words were lost between her lips and her head or her heart or that delicate, sensitive place he was stroking, gently and relentlessly. She let her head fall back and he pressed kisses along her neck. It was all so much, almost too much. But she wanted it all: the feel of his fingers on her most sensitive place, the feel of his lips on her skin, the feel of his body against hers, radiating heat . . .
All of it. She wanted all of it.
So much for the conversation she’d come here to have. Something about no more of this.
More of this. She wanted more of this. It wasn’t a thought—her brilliant brain had laughed and run away. Her body was in control now, taking over, giving in to the desire and encouraging Fox to fan the flames.
Claire loved it.
She tried to tell him all this, the only way she knew how: with a kiss. A frantic, imperfect kiss. She felt it everywhere. Or perhaps that hot, shimmery feeling was from the way Fox teased and touched the sensitive bud of her sex.
The pressure—the intensely pleasurable pressure—was building. He expertly stoked that fire within. She knew what would come next. More pleasure than she thought she could take. So much that she would shatter. Time would stop. Pleasure would overwhelm her.
This is exactly what happened. But it was more, so much more, than it had ever been before.
Fox knew she was close, so he kept up his steady rhythm, kept up the kisses, kept up everything she seemed to like until he’d brought her to the brink and then beyond.
She cried out and he caught the sound with a kiss.
Fox held her as she drifted back to earth. He listened to her breathing return to normal. His pounding heartbeat started to slow. His cock was still straining for her, more than ever, but that would have to wait until . . .
. . . until, possibly, never. The thought of never making love to her suddenly struck him as impossibly sad, and not because of a sense of sport, or competition or that damned wager. Sad because he yearned for that connection with her. He wanted to be the one to give her pleasure and to bring her to climax again and again. He wanted her to do the same for him.
This sudden rush of feelings suggested that perhaps it was something he ought to give considerable thought to, later, when his brain was fully functioning again.
But for now, he held her and breathed her in and just wanted her.
“That was . . .”
“I know,” he murmured his agreement.
Any other further conversation was interrupted by the sound of voices in the hall. Familiar voices. Plural.
“I must go,” she whispered. Did she sound forlorn? Or did he want her to sound thusly?
He pressed one last kiss on her lips. What if it was the last one?
“How is my hair?” she asked.
“A disaster,” he said frankly, and she laughed.
“I do love an honest man,” she murmured.
She did her best to set it to rights, but pins had been lost, she hadn’t a mirror, and, he suspected, she didn’t have much practice or interest in styling hair in any circumstances. He had a hunch that if it were up to them both, she’d leave it undone, tumbling around her shoulders, her breasts . . .
“You have to go,” he said. Because he really, really wanted her to stay. He wanted to remove that green dress and lay her down on the carpet and bury himself inside her. He wanted to bring her to orgasm again and again and listen to her crying out, not smothering the sound with his kiss. He wanted to find his own release with her and show Clai
re just how much she affected him. Lord knew he didn’t have the words to explain it.
But there was no time for that now.
She gave a quick nod, a slight smile, and then she was gone, hurrying down the corridor to catch up with her family.
He paused outside the door, leaving it open just a crack so he could listen.
“There you are, Claire, we’re ready to leave,” he heard Lady Bridget say. She sounded very ready to leave. He knew his sister could be a trial; what had Francesca done now?
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling well. I was light-headed. I had to lie down.”
“Your cheeks are flushed.” He recognized the duchess’s voice.
“I might be feverish.” And he heard a little catch in her voice.
Feverish indeed.
Fox sagged against the door, willing his heart to stop pounding and his cock to relax. Was it only days ago, weeks ago, that he thought her a social pariah and a future spinster, best avoided and an easily won wager?
The woman did something to him.
Fox wondered if his feelings for Lady Claire went beyond winning or losing. He had a sneaking suspicion that when he wasn’t paying attention, the rules of the game had changed.
Chapter 13
Wednesday evening, Durham House
Claire’s bedchamber door burst open to reveal Bridget, all dressed up in a pink gown for that night’s event—a soiree, or Almack’s, or some other thing with hordes of people in a ballroom. It was all the same to Claire—hair to be done, delicate frocks to don, manners to be minded, gentlemen to be avoided.
Fox included. Fox especially. After what happened in his study, it was clear that she could not trust herself near him.
“Well, good evening to you,” Claire said to her sister.
Bridget looked her up and down. “Claire, you’re not wearing pink.”
“Obviously not.” Bridget looked concerned. “Does it matter?”
“You know that Lady Francesca says we are to wear pink on Wednesdays, to Almack’s.”
“Is it Wednesday, then?”