by Maya Rodale
Claire felt her hands tremble as she shuffled her papers together. Fox was here! She had seen him arrive with her family and she’d been aware of them sitting quietly in the back, and probably bored to tears, but making a forceful demonstration of their support, which she appreciated tremendously.
And now he had a question.
After everything they had been through together, and the pleasures of the previous evening, she had a good idea what his question would be. It would not have anything to do with the analytical engine’s design or function or math at all. But it was a question she was keen to answer.
He smiled and strolled down the center aisle toward her.
Yes.
He reached for her hand and gazed into her eyes.
Yes.
Then Fox dropped to one knee. In front of the entire Royal Society.
She felt breathless. But Claire rationalized that if there was ever a time to be breathless it was when one was about to wholeheartedly accept a future one never imagined, but one that was just right anyway.
He clasped her hand. Fox kneeling was practically as tall as Claire standing, so she could look straight into his green eyes and see all the love and desire for her shining there.
“Claire. From the moment we met, I knew you were different from all the other women I had known. Mainly because you weren’t the slightest bit interested in me.”
Here, she laughed. There were a few soft chuckles in the crowd as well.
“I was intrigued. And I have never stopped being fascinated and confused by you, overwhelmed and impressed. You challenge me and surprise me. You and your brilliant mind, your kind heart, your wicked kiss.”
Here, she blushed. And a few eyebrows were raised.
“I don’t know anything about what you just spoke about, but I do know I could listen to you talk about it all day. I know that in an odd way, you and I complement each other. I know my own heart, and my own mind, and I know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I hope you’ll make me the happiest man in the world and agree to marry me.”
Here, tears started welling up in her eyes.
“Yes.”
Claire launched herself into his arms and said it again. “Yes.”
The crowd applauded and cheered, reminding them of their presence at what had to be the most romantic thing to ever happen at a math lecture.
“Wait, I’m not done.” Fox reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of spectacles that he pressed into Claire’s hand. “I’ll still get you a ring, of course, but I wanted to give you these. Because I want you, Claire. Not any other woman, and not you trying to be like other women. Just you.”
With that her heart skipped a beat. That was love. That was happiness. And she knew with absolute certainty that Fox was the man for her, because he challenged her to be better and supported her endeavors, because he set her aflame with his touch. He was kind and knew how to kiss a girl. And because there were some things a woman just knew, and she knew they would make each other happy.
“I love you, Fox.”
“I love you, too, Claire. Say ‘yes’ again.”
“Yes! A thousand times, yes.”
“Just a thousand?”
“Multiplied by a thousand . . .” And she started to explain how to get that number to infinity, but found herself momentarily distracted. Her lips found his for a kiss that promised forever.
Epilogue
Norwood Park
Kent, England, 1837
In the drawing room
“I find this equation to be particularly beautiful, as it relates all of the most fundamental constants in math in one line,” Claire explained to the children crowding around her—her two sons and daughter, as well as some children from neighboring estates—for a closer look at Euler’s equation as she had written it on a sheet of paper. “Now who can tell me what they are?”
Little voices piped up, followed by the sound of chalk scratching on slates as they diligently copied what she had written.
Many were aghast that the marchioness herself had taken to teaching the children their math, but as Lord Fox would proudly point out to anyone who would listen, who was better qualified to do it?
Really, there was no one better.
And no one who enjoyed it more.
Just as there was no one better than Fox to teach the children to ride, fence, swim, play cricket, or risk their precious necks in various outdoor adventures.
Claire didn’t entirely mind; it provided her with quiet time to focus on her rewarding work, which included more collaborations with Ashbrooke and other Royal Society members.
Speaking of the other notable, engaging, all-consuming collaboration of her life . . .
Fox strolled into the drawing room just then, all tall and brawny and sweaty from a ride around the estate. Her husband was loath to miss a day’s ride when they were in the country, especially since James had gifted him with a splendid horse from his stables.
For a moment, she paused in the lesson to take in the way his breeches clung to his powerful thighs, or the way his jacket stretched across his broad shoulders. Except for the streaks of gray in his hair and slight crow’s-feet when he smiled, the man had hardly aged at all.
She did quite like seeing him like this: hair tussled from the wind, eyes bright, a slick sheen of sweat on his skin that’d she like to lick off, from head to toe.
Fox caught her eye over the heads of the children. His green eyes sparkled and she crossed her legs, knowing exactly what he was thinking.
It had nothing to do with Euler’s equation.
Which she wasn’t exactly thinking about, either.
“There is cake in the kitchen and kittens in the barn,” he said.
The children fled.
Fox gave her a wolfish grin.
“Hello, my lady wife.”
“Hello, you, Lord Interrupter of Lessons.”
“What were you working on, my princess of parallelograms?”
“Euler’s equation. I was just explaining that this equation contains all the most fundamental constants of math in one line. 1, 0, pi . . .”
“Pie?”
“Not that kind.” She rolled her eyes at the joke he’d been making for years now.
“Speaking of math, fancy calculating the angles of our bedsheets?” Fox asked with a mischievous grin.
“Now tell me how you would do that?” she replied with an arch of her brow and a hint of a smile on her lips. “And I insist that you show your work.”
His reply did not involve numbers.
It involved a kiss on the stairs leading from the foyer to their bedroom. A soft press of his lips to hers as he swept her into a close embrace.
Even the merest brush of her husband’s lips against hers never failed to make her pulse quicken. And, Claire noted with a sly smile, make her husband harden.
His calculations included an interlude up against the wall in the corridor, her back pressed against the wall as Fox’s hands skimmed along her curves, from her hips and waist to her breasts—all now rounder, now fuller, but no less appealing to him.
She felt him hard against her. Tasted the salty sweat on his neck. He was wild and active and passionate, this man of hers. She sighed into his shirt, eager to remove it and feel his warm, bare skin against her own.
“Me plus you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her neck.
“Plus privacy,” she murmured.
Once in their bedroom there was a cascade of clothes, falling from his body to the floor. The jacket went first, then the shirt, then Claire hummed her appreciation. He paused, standing proud, as she indulged in a long, lusty look at him. The afternoon light highlighted the planes and ridges of his muscles, barely hidden beneath a smattering of hair on his chest.
The breeches and everything went next.
“Now you, my lady.”
Claire sauntered across the room to him, enjoying the desire for her plain in his eyes.
“I m
ight need your assistance. Or shall we ring for my maid and wait?”
Fox spun her around so fast she couldn’t help but start laughing. He went to work on the buttons of her gown.
“I miss the dresses you wore when we first met. The fashions then were easier to get you out of.”
“I would think you prefer no dresses.”
“They are best on the floor, aren’t they?” He eased the fabric away from her body and she sighed from the sensation of being unbound, and in anticipation of the pleasures yet to come. Then, in a low voice, he murmured, “And then I get to see you like this. Still so beautiful.”
There was no hiding the appreciation in his voice.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she said coyly, turning to face him, her gaze flitting from his lips, to his chest, to his arousal jutting out, hard and wanting her touch.
“I know.”
“So modest.”
“I can see the appreciation in your eyes.”
“You can see it in every woman’s eyes. Young ladies still swoon when you walk through a ballroom.”
“But I only have eyes for you.”
Claire glanced away from her husband to the bed. “What were you saying about calculating the angles of the bedsheets?”
“Me plus you plus privacy . . .”
“Plus love . . .”
“Plus lust . . .”
“Plus this kiss.”
And there was just kissing after that. Deep, passionate kisses that set her body aflame with wanting. Claire tugged Fox closer and he rolled above her, treating her to that thrilling sensation of his weight atop her. She tasted the salt on his skin as she teased him with her tongue. He lavished attention on her breasts until she was gasping for breath.
After all these years together, he knew exactly how to tease her and please her. Fox expertly stroked her clitoris, intensifying her pleasure. She rolled over and returned the favor, taking him in hand, and then in her mouth, knowing just how he liked it.
“Me plus you,” he whispered, pulling her to straddle him.
Claire felt him hard at her entrance, and then sighed as she felt him push inside her. What followed: sighs and moans of satisfaction. Touch and taste and all the senses working in concert to bring them both to the heights of pleasure. There was a tangle of limbs and a tangle of bedsheets until she wasn’t sure where she ended and he began. They were one in love, in life, in pleasure.
Me plus you.
Such a simple equation that added up to something better than she could have ever imagined.
Author’s Note
The inspiration for Lady Claire Cavendish is the real life Ada, Countess of Lovelace, who is widely considered the first computer programmer due to her work with Charles Babbage on his analytical engine.
After I wrote The Wicked Wallflower, in which the hero, the Duke of Ashbrooke, is inspired by Babbage and his work, quite a few readers wrote to me asking, “Where was Ada?” She didn’t quite fit in that story, and she very much deserved her own. And so, Lady Claire Cavendish was created.
While their personal lives were quite different, I did give Claire the task of Ada’s most significant contribution—translating Babbage’s paper explaining the analytical engine, which grew to include her famous notes where she developed the first algorithm to be carried out by machine.
I have taken some liberties with dates (Ada would have been only nine in 1824, when this story takes place) in order to bring these characters and their work to life in a Regency romance.
For more on the research for this book and inspiration for the series, please visit me online at www.mayarodale.com.
An Excerpt from It’s Hard Out Here for a Duke
Keep reading for an exclusive sneak peek at the fourth enchanting tale in USA Today bestselling author Maya Rodale’s Keeping Up with the Cavendishes series
It’s Hard Out Here for a Duke
Prologue
The Queen’s Head tavern
Southampton, England, 1824
Some men were born to be dukes, and some men were James Cavendish, who despite being an undistinguished American, found himself in possession of an aristocratic title in a country he’d never before visited.
Back home in Maryland he was James Cavendish, the horse breeder and trainer of some renown around those parts. He was known as Henry’s son, and the one responsible for three sisters who were endlessly trouble.
But here in England, he was the Duke of Durham.
Whatever that was.
Whatever that meant.
Or he would be, once he and his sisters completed their journey and arrived in London. They had docked in Southampton this morning, would remain here tonight, and continue on to London on the morrow. James had sworn to himself that he would not be Durham until he set foot in London.
Oh, he knew that the title had passed to him the moment his father breathed his last breath, shortly after his mother had passed away. Or rather, he learned it a year later, when the Duchess of Durham’s representatives had tracked him down and informed him of that fact.
But he had resolved that until he stepped foot in London, until he crossed the threshold of Durham House, he would be James, just James. An unremarkable, plain young man of no import or renown, just having a pint in a pub like anyone else.
His sisters—Claire, Bridget, and Amelia, each one more trouble than the last—had been settled in a room upstairs, happily having baths and stretching out on full beds after a long journey at sea.
James wasn’t ready to sleep. Couldn’t, really. More to the point, he wasn’t ready to be alone with his thoughts. A tavern at night was an excellent place to be in that situation.
This particular tavern wasn’t too different from the ones back home and he appreciated the familiarity provided by the same scuffed wood floors, rough-hewn tables and chairs, tallow candles. If he tried hard, he could concentrate only on the hum and roar of voices and tune out the strange accents. He could pretend he was at Faunces Tavern back home, that his friend Marcus would stroll through the door any minute, ready to regale him with some of his latest exploits.
James glanced around. Marcus wasn’t here, wasn’t going to be here, and James knew no one. There wasn’t anyone he particularly wanted to know, either, except—
He noticed a woman. She sat primly at the bar, sipping from a mug, occasionally conversing with the barmaid.
She just happened to glance his way, giving him just a hint of doe eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips.
He caught her eye.
Then she looked away.
She wasn’t looking at him. She wasn’t looking at him. She wasn’t looking at him.
He waited, wanting another glimpse.
Finally, she glanced his way again. The corners of her lips teased up into a hint of a smile and her gaze darted away.
Careful, this one startles easily.
James just leaned back against the wall, nearly empty mug of ale dangling from his fingers. He had all night to play this kind of game. Even if they did nothing but exchange glances across the room for the rest of the evening, he’d be happy. It distracted him from the things he wanted distraction from.
Their gazes connected again.
James just leaned there, drinking in the sight of her. He grinned and felt his heartbeat quicken.
She looked away.
She dared another glance.
He was still waiting for her to invite him over. Perhaps it would have been a smile, a wink, a something.
Eventually, she laughed at their little game. He couldn’t hear her from where he stood and that was intolerable. When she held his gaze for a real moment, he knew he had permission to speak to her.
James crossed the room. Time seemed to slow. And then he was standing in front of her, his breath knocked right out of his lungs. She was beautiful and she was smiling prettily at him, just James.
The night just got better.
About the Author
MAYA RODALE bega
n reading romance novels in college at her mother’s insistence. She is now the bestselling and award-winning author of smart and sassy romances. She lives in New York City with her darling dog and a rogue of her own.
Please visit www.mayarodale.com.
www.avonromance.com
www.facebook.com/avonromance
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
By Maya Rodale
Keeping Up with the Cavendishes
Lady Claire Is All That
Chasing Lady Amelia
Lady Bridget’s Diary
Bad Boys and Wallflowers Series
The Bad Boy Billionaire: What a Girl Wants
What a Wallflower Wants
The Bad Boy Billionaire’s Girl Gone Wild
Wallflower Gone Wild
The Bad Boy Billionaire’s Wicked Arrangement
The Wicked Wallflower
The Writing Girl Romances Series
Seducing Mr. Knightly
The Tattooed Duke
A Tale of Two Lovers
A Groom of One’s Own
Three Schemes and a Scandal
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from It’s Hard Out Here for a Duke copyright © 2017 by Maya Rodale.
lady claire is all that. Copyright © 2017 by Maya Rodale. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers.