Anything But a Duke

by Christy Carlyle

  Sophie’s smile faltered. “Are you truly available for supper, Mr. Ashby? I was given to understand your evening schedule is quite . . . rigorous.”

  Aidan turned to offer Diana a questioning look.

  “My brother is forgetting what night it is, I believe. He agreed to attend . . . a play with our mother.” Diana had to stop her brother from ruining everything. He was a confirmed bachelor. An inveterate rogue. He wasn’t prepared to offer for Sophie, but he was just ornery enough to throw a wrench in her plans.

  “Did I?” he asked with a quizzical frown.

  “You did, Dominick,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Ah yes,” he said, examining his fingernails as if the exchange barely registered his interest. “The Taming of the Shrew, I believe. My favorite play.” He looked up and his gaze shot straight for Sophie.

  She let out a little huff of frustration.

  Iverson took a step to position himself closer to Sophie. With his bulk, he effectively blocked her view of Dominick. “I would be pleased to join your family for dinner, Lady Sophronia. Though I can’t speak for Miss Ashby.”

  He offered Diana an inscrutable look, and she couldn’t determine whether he wished for her to beg off or attend.

  Impulsively, she said, “I’d love to come.”

  Iverson blinked, as if her reply was unexpected, but a flicker of mischief lit his gaze.

  Apparently, he wasn’t entirely disappointed.

  When Dominick strode toward Sophie and inquired about what she’d been sketching, Iverson approached Diana.

  “I almost forgot to give you this.” He lifted his hand toward hers and offered her a folded piece of paper. “My investment.”

  Diana clutched the check against her palm. This was real. She could build a dozen pneumatic devices and afford to purchase the best materials.

  Rather than rejoin the others, Iverson lingered, watching her. For a man who’d just received an invitation to the home of a noblewoman eager to be wooed, he looked strangely ill at ease. A frown etched lines in his brow.

  “We should prepare a strategy for tomorrow evening,” he whispered to Diana.

  “Now you wish for my help?”

  “You’re familiar with Lady Sophie’s family. I’d like to know more.”

  Diana considered where they might speak. If he visited Cadogan Square again, her mother would ask too many questions. As a woman, she wasn’t welcome at Lyon’s Gentlemen’s Club.

  “I have a meeting in Knightsbridge tomorrow.” He withdrew a calling card from his waistcoat pocket along with a stub of pencil. After scribbling a moment, he handed her the card. “Meet me at this address at two?”

  She nodded her agreement and he turned back to Sophie, joining Dominick to assess her drawings.

  Diana let out the breath she realized she’d been holding.

  This matchmaking business was going well. Better than she could have imagined. Iverson already had an invitation.

  So why did she feel as ill at ease as Mr. Iverson looked?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Aidan finished his meeting at Darlington’s early, and restlessness made it impossible to await Diana’s arrival in the upstairs administrative offices. He took to pacing the display floors and what he saw pleased him—colorful shelves, busy employees, and a plethora of shoppers.

  The business he’d purchased the previous year was thriving.

  Old man Darlington had been ambitious, attempting to combine a draper, haberdashery, and stationer into a single shop. Aidan had expanded the space physically, buying up a nearby building, and increased the variety of its offerings. The shopping emporium had soon become one of the most successful in Knightsbridge.

  As he strode through the section of ladies’ clothing, Diana and her corset unlacer came to mind. The tickle of a smile drew the edge of his mouth up. Then he frowned.

  “That display doesn’t look quite right,” he told the shop’s manager, who’d been an uninvited shadow while he wandered the aisles.

  Mr. Wickett, tall, elderly, and efficient, dipped his head and stared over his pince-nez at Aidan. “Not quite right, Mr. Iverson?”

  Aidan suspected the man’s haughty tone worked well on the shop’s other employees. “It’s too crowded. Space the gloves out a bit. Let people see them clearly.”

  “Shall we ensure that every finger is visible, sir?” He held up his wrinkled hand, all fingers splayed, and arched one graying brow.

  Aidan narrowed an eye at the old man, but for some reason the manager’s dry sarcasm didn’t bother him today. “Don’t forget the thumb, Wickett.”

  Now that he looked, the lace was displayed haphazardly too. He pointed toward where a dozen styles were stacked in upright bolts. “Shouldn’t they be arranged by color?”

  Wickett stared at him a moment, let out a sigh, and then made a notation in the small notebook he always carried. “I will see it done, Mr. Iverson. Is there more we should fix?”

  “I’ll let you know if I see anything.” The moment the words were out, what Aidan saw caused his breath to tangle in his throat.

  He was expecting her, of course. But somehow the sight of Diana Ashby always managed to take him by surprise.

  She stepped through the shop’s front doors and stopped, eyes widening as she took in the display floors. Her lips parted, as if she was awestruck.

  Aidan felt a surge of pride unlike he’d experienced for any of his investment endeavors in a long while. He almost felt guilty for disturbing her perusal when he strode forward to greet her.

  “You’re right on time, Miss Ashby.” He had the urge to take her hand, but she had her hands folded around a folio she kept tucked against her chest.

  “I expected the address to lead me to an office.” She spared him only a glance before continuing to take in the items on display.

  “There are several upstairs, but I thought we could discuss strategy at the tea shop across the street.”

  She nodded but then stepped past him. “You own all of this?”

  “I do.”

  “Will you show me the rest?”

  Aidan smiled at her eagerness. Not even Wickett’s arched brows as they passed could diminish the pleasure of being able to show Miss Ashby something that he’d built. Not in the way she did, of course, starting from an idea to create a working machine. Aidan’s talent was for seeing potential, improving what was faltering, or championing inventions that others saw as newfangled nonsense.

  As they explored the shop, he enjoyed hearing her sounds of interest or surprise. At the section containing ladies’ accoutrements, she stopped and tapped a finger against her lip. A shopgirl stood on a ladder returning a bolt of fabric to a shelf high on the wall.

  “A simple pulley system would save her the trouble of climbing.”

  Aidan frowned as he considered her idea.

  “And those workers carrying items up and down the stairs. Do they do that all day?”

  “Stock is carried from the delivery dock to the departments upstairs.”

  She twisted her lips into a thoughtful moue. “A pulley system might be useful there too, though I’ve been working on a lift device that uses the same pneumatic pressure as my cleaning system.”

  Aidan chuckled as he watched her. He could almost hear the calculations clicking in her mind. He might see things that needed tidying, but she saw ways to improve how the world worked.

  “Are you always like this?” The question emerged bluntly, honestly, before he had a chance to soften it.

  She offered him a wary look. “How do you mean?”

  “You see that things could be better and come up with solutions.”

  “I suppose I do.” A bit of the wariness faded, but her tone remained cool. “The ideas come unbidden at times.”

  “It’s admirable.” He meant the compliment. “And I understand the impulse.”

  The curve of her cheek flushed pink, then she tipped her head dubiously. “Do you?”

  “I don�
��t have a scientific mind like yours.” He hated the prospect of her discovering how woeful his formal education had been. “But I do admire innovation. Progress is always a consideration when I invest.”

  She assessed him and then leaned close enough for him to catch her floral scent on the air. “Corset unlacers and cleaning devices aren’t progress enough for you, Mr. Iverson?”

  “I believe you are in possession of two hundred of my pounds to fund your device, Miss Ashby.”

  “Yes. I haven’t forgotten our deal.” There was a strange note in her tone. A thread of uncertainty.

  Aidan almost reached for her. He lifted his arm; the impulse to soothe whatever concerned her was so strong. He’d touched her too often already, and yet it wasn’t enough. He wanted to every time he was near her.

  She swallowed hard. He’d given too much away. Something must have been there in his gaze or in the quickening of his breath. But she didn’t step back.

  There was a boldness in the way she held his gaze that made his pulse quicken.

  “We should discuss a plan for this evening,” she said quietly.

  “Yes.” He knew he should be more interested in the dinner at Lady Sophie’s. “Shall we head across the street?”

  As they made their way toward the front door of the shop, a broad-shouldered gentleman barreled past, and Aidan reached out to keep the man from bumping into Diana. But he took care not to touch her.

  She’d reminded him of the deal they’d made, and she was right to. He’d never had trouble achieving his goals. Something had changed that disturbed his peace of mind, but he needed to focus on his plan.

  And he would start tonight.

  Diana tried to concentrate on arranging the notes she’d brought on the table in front of her, but she kept glancing at Mr. Iverson. Something had changed since they’d exited his shopping emporium. He shifted in his chair, rearranged the cutlery on the table, and refused to meet her gaze.

  She looked out the window at Darlington’s. She was impressed with the scale of the business and its variety of offerings and wondered how much of that had been Iverson’s doing.

  “Why is it called Darlington’s?”

  He quirked a brow questioningly.

  “Shouldn’t it be called Iverson’s?”

  “I don’t require my name on everything I own.” He finally looked at her and settled back in his chair. “The shop is known as Darlington’s and has built a reputation on that name. I’ve built enough of a reputation with my own name not to need it on a storefront.”

  His claim was clearly true, but it only raised more questions in her mind. “Reputation is important to you. That’s why you wish to marry a noblewoman?”

  “That’s not why.” He shuttered again, sweeping a hand through his hair before scooping up his teacup. Finally, he said, “As a commoner, some doors will always be shut to me.”

  “Why must you open them?” Diana understood his meaning. Her commoner family had never received invitations to the best society events, and some young ladies at Bexley had treated her differently. But as a lady inventor, she expected many doors to be shut to her, whatever her family’s lineage. “Is it more money that you want?”

  His eyes widened slightly as if she’d caught him off guard. Then he worked his jaw, as if considering how to reply. “There are changes I could make, influence I could offer if I made it through those doors.”

  “So it’s not just about wealth?”

  He took another sip of tea and cast her a smile over the rim. “That too.”

  “When will you know you have enough?” She was asking herself the question too. The drive inside her never waned. She feared stopping, resting, letting any moment go to waste. But someday she wanted to.

  “There’s no limit to ambition.” The words came with a tinge of defiance. Then more quietly, he added, “When you’ve gone without a meal, you become very determined never to go hungry again.”

  “You’ve been hungry?” She knew his words weren’t intended as a metaphor, but the pain in his eyes told her that he was speaking of his own history.

  “Not for many years, and never again,” he said too brightly.

  Diana imagined him as a boy and the thought of him going without something as basic as a meal twisted a knot in her stomach.

  “And what of your ambition, Miss Ashby? Where does your hunger come from?”

  Diana flicked at the edge of her sheaf of notes with her finger. She much preferred when she was asking the questions. When she didn’t answer, he leaned forward, an elbow on the table to get closer.

  “Is it your father?”

  “No.” The word emerged louder, more vehement, than she’d intended. A few ladies at a nearby table watched for a moment before turning back to their tea. Diana let out a sigh and admitted, “In part because of my father. His love for invention and science colored my childhood. His books were the first I learned to read. But my ambition is for me too.”

  Iverson was resting both hands on the table and looked more at ease than he had since they’d sat down. His expression was open. He was listening and seemed to want to hear more.

  “My head is full of ideas. I want them to be useful, at least some of them. I need to prove to myself and everyone else, I suppose, that one of my designs can succeed.” Diana felt heat creep into her cheeks. She had said too much, admitted too much.

  All her unnatural, unladylike ambition was on full display.

  “Then we must find buyers for your cleaning device,” Iverson said decisively.

  Diana knew he didn’t trust that her machine would succeed, but she had no doubt of his determination. She needed to be as resolute about her half of their bargain.

  “Shall we discuss Sophie’s parents?”

  His brow dipped, as if he was disappointed by the change in subject. Then he sat back in his chair and assessed the several sheets of paper she’d laid out on the table. “You know quite a lot about Lord and Lady Caldwell, I take it.”

  “Only a bit, but I thought I’d assemble information about the other young ladies I plan to introduce you to.” Diana lifted the notes she’d prepared on the earl and countess and slid them toward Iverson. “Unless you’ve decided to marry Lady Sophie.”

  He let out a chuckle and the green of his eyes brightened. “You must think me quite the mercenary. I spoke to the lady for a quarter of an hour in a public park. I’m not prepared to decide just yet.”

  “Perhaps after tonight you’ll know.” His wealth would appeal to the earl and countess, and she couldn’t imagine why Sophie’s gregarious charm wouldn’t appeal to him.

  “Don’t rush me, Miss Ashby,” he said with the hint of a smile. “I mean to choose wisely.”

  “And I mean to help you.” Diana looked down at the meticulous notes she’d assembled, but she sensed Iverson’s gaze on her.

  “You already have.” When she looked up, he was smiling. The expression softened the hard edge of his jaw, drew little creases near his eyes. A warmth kindled in Diana’s chest that felt wonderful but worried her all the same.

  She couldn’t lose herself in how much she enjoyed talking to him and spending time with him. Matchmaking. That’s why they were here together, sharing afternoon tea.

  Diana couldn’t give in to the charm of Aidan Iverson’s smiles.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The minute Aidan stepped into the Earl and Countess of Caldwell’s St. James Square drawing room, he understood why they struggled to maintain their modest country house and had drained their noble coffers dry.

  If their furnishings were any indication, the couple reveled in excess. Not to mention shockingly bad taste.

  He took in the monstrosity of a drawing room and wished he could shield his eyes. He was no connoisseur of fine decor, but he admired beauty and order. The Caldwell home displayed neither.

  Massive pieces of modern art clogged the walls, elegant examples of Chinese and Japanese pottery sat crowded on doily-covered tables next to figur
ines of milkmaids and dogs. The entire fireplace surround was gilded and not an inch of mantel was visible beneath an assembly of clocks and crystal candlesticks and assorted bric-a-brac.

  Despite his own penchant for collecting, Aidan felt uncomfortable among the clutter.

  Among the collection of guests too. He’d been to dinners peopled by aristocrats before, but there was an air of tension in the Caldwell drawing room. He’d been greeted warmly, but sensed eyes on him, questioning whether he truly belonged.

  There was no pretense about his purpose. Lady Caldwell had addressed him civilly but with a narrowed, assessing gaze. She was quite like every matchmaking mama he’d ever met, so he’d endured her inspection as well as he could, made polite conversation with Lady Sophronia, and then retreated to a corner where he could watch the young lady and consider what sort of wife she might be.

  Unfortunately, his gaze kept straying to another young woman.

  Miss Ashby caught him looking and strode over, weaving between guests and massive potted ferns.

  “May I offer a bit of advice?” She took up the empty patch of carpet next to him and spoke quietly out of the side of her mouth, as if practicing her ventriloquist skills.

  “You may offer. But just know that I don’t agree to take your advice.”

  She glared at him. He sensed the heat of it against the side of his face and smiled, but he wouldn’t look at her. The lady was a mighty distraction.

  Even from across the room, he’d caught her rose scent and enjoyed watching her speak to other guests. A Lady Digby and a Lord Abernethy, a friend and cousin of the countess, had occupied her in a lively discussion about books and a new lending library in town. When she finally stepped away from them, he wasn’t disappointed that she immediately turned her attention on him and approached his corner.

  “Try not to look quite so miserable,” she told him as she took a glass of lemonade from a passing servant’s tray.

  “Do I? I’m not.” He wasn’t. Not when she was standing so close. He gave in and glanced at her, finding her profile—long dark lashes, plump cheeks, and upturned nose—far too appealing. “I’m merely assessing.”