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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.”
Can your popularity make someone else popular? That is what Lord Fox has bet he can do with Claire. Unfortunately for him, he is not Claire's idea of what her husband should be like. Fox is not the sharpest pencil in the box, but what he lacks in brain power, he more than makes up for with his physical endeavors. Claire is brainy and doesn't think that he could ever be a match for her, but never underestimate the power of chemistry! They both learned a lot about each other as well as themselves as Fox attempts to win the bet. I've loved this series so far and how all the events in the books take place at roughly the same time. They don't have to be read in order, but I would recommend them all - can't wait for her brother's book!
I voluntarily reviewed an advanced reader copy of this book. I was not compensated for this review, all conclusions are my own.
How did you come up with the concept and the
characters for the story?
All the novels in my KeepingUp With The Cavendishes series are inspired by my favorite romantic
comedies. LadyClaire 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.
Name one thing you won’t leave home without.
Besides the obvious phone,
wallet, keys, etc, I never leave home without my lipgloss. I’m addicted! My
husband hates it.
Name three things on your desk right now.
Three things always on my desk: laptop, phone,
caffeinated beverage.
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!
What do you like best about being a
writer? What is the most challenging part?
The
best part of being a writer is not having to wear pants or interact with
humans. The hardest part is when I have to put on pants and interact with
humans J
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.