London, 1824
Lord and Lady Chesham’s ballroom
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 ballroom as if he owned the place. He nodded at friends and
acquaintances—Carlyle, with whom he occasionally fenced, Fitzwalter, who 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.
To lose a
woman to any other man was insupportable—and, until recently, not something
that 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 hadn’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.”
Q&A WITH MAYA RODALE
How did you come up with the concept
and the characters for the story?
All the
novels in my Keeping
Up With The Cavendishes series are inspired by my favorite romantic
comedies. Lady
Claire Is All That is based on the 90’s rom com She’s All That. Basically, I write stories that I want to
read—funny, witty, happy ever afters—and I delight in seeing mash ups of modern
times and pop culture with historical romance.
What gave you the most trouble with
this story?
The heroine
of Lady Claire Is All
That is a math genius and I am...not. At all. There isn’t much math in
the novel (phew!) but what does appear is thanks to one of my dearest romance
writing friends Caroline Linden, who happens to have a math degree from
Harvard.
A la
Twitter style, please describe your book in 140 characters or less.
In Lady Claire Is All That sparks
fly between a brainy heroine and the hot jock of the haute ton in this Regency
remake of the rom com She’s All That!
What
types of scenes are your most favorite to write?
I love writing the funny, teasing, loving banter between the four
siblings in my Keeping
Up With The Cavendishes series. Writing some good flirtation between the
hero and heroine is also a favorite of mine.
How long have you been
writing, and what (or who) inspired you to start?
I’ve
been writing romance novels for about twelve years now (though I’ve been
writing for longer than that). Then, and now, I write the book that I’m in the
mood to read because I’m still a reader first!
About the Author:
Maya Rodale began reading romance
novels in college at her mother’s insistence and it wasn’t long before she was
writing her own. Maya is now the author of multiple Regency historical
romances. She lives in New York City with her darling dog and a rogue of her
own.
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