Anything But a Duke

by Christy Carlyle

  She pointed toward the cordoned off area she’d exited and they both stepped forward at the same time, their bodies colliding much as they had at Lyon’s. She reached out and gripped his arm for balance. Aidan laid his hand over hers.

  For a moment neither of them moved. Aidan was intensely aware of the warmth of her skin, the rush of her breath, and the way his own pulse sped.

  His gaze traced the shape of her lips, and an inappropriate question bloomed in his mind. Had she kissed anyone since the night they’d met?

  Suddenly he wanted to know. Needed to know. But of course he had no right to know.

  She removed her hand from his arm, and the slide of her skin against his did nothing to stem his wayward thoughts.

  “Just this way,” she said quietly, and moved past him.

  Inside the partitioned room, Aidan discovered that she had far more than a scale model. She had a full-sized device assembled on a long table.

  “There’s a pumping mechanism that has to be primed to create pneumatic pressure.” She began adjusting the metal tubes of her machine and pointed to the end of the table. “Would you do the honors, Mr. Iverson?” She swiped a hand through the air. “You may wish to remove your coat. This can be dirty work.”

  Aidan held her gaze as he slid his suit coat from his shoulders, laid it aside, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “I’m at your service, Miss Ashby.”

  She inhaled sharply and he watched her throat work as she swallowed hard. “Take that lever on top and pump. Vigorously.”

  He did as she bid him and felt resistance as the mechanism primed.

  Miss Ashby shocked him by taking a jar from the table and emptying what appeared to be dirt onto the tiled floor between them. His shock seemed to please her. She grinned and reached for the cylinder of her device, extending the tube and bending the interlocked metal tube so that it reached the ground.

  A strand of hair slipped free of her braid and dangled across her forehead. She blew it aside rather than take her hands off the device.

  “Flip that switch,” she commanded.

  Aidan did and watched as the tube she held began to pull up dust from the floor. The speed and effectiveness were impressive, and by the time he heard the pressure wane, the black and white tiles of the conservatory were spotless.

  Miss Ashby grinned in triumph, and her smile caused warmth to swell in his chest.

  “Well done,” he told her, because her sense of victory was contagious. He found himself reveling in her success, and her smile.

  Unfortunately, he still wasn’t sure he could sell enough of her cleaning machines to make a profit. Some might be taken in by the novelty of the design, but he couldn’t imagine most London housekeepers forgoing a simple brush and pan to pay for a device that required priming and pumping and disposal of whatever was collected.

  “Are you impressed?” she asked as she turned off the pressure valve on the device and placed the long metal cylinder back on the table.

  With her? Mightily. “The mechanism works just as you described.”

  She dusted off her hands and came to stand in front of him. Close enough for him to see the darker lapis flecks in the bright blue of her eyes. Hopefulness radiated off her like an enticing warmth.

  “Then you’ll fund my device, Mr. Iverson?” She leaned closer, vibrating with anticipation. “I promise you it will sell. People will take to this convenience and I foresee its usefulness in many situations—”

  “Wait.” He caught her midsentence and then lost his train of thought when she stopped and watched him breathlessly, lips parted, eyes wide. “I didn’t say I would fund your invention, Miss Ashby.”

  “But you must.” The rawness in her tone echoed inside him.

  He understood desperation.

  She tipped her gaze down and drew in a deep breath as if working to temper her emotions. When she looked up again, he noticed her gaze land on a calendar she’d affixed to the conservatory wall. The final day of the month had been circled viciously with rounds and rounds of grease pen marks that nearly obscured the square.

  “What happens at the end of the month?” he asked her quietly.

  “I need to secure funding by then.” For the first time since he’d met her, a bit of doubt crept into her voice.

  “Or else?”

  “I have agreed to give up my work.” She offered him a terrible caricature of a smile. “One can’t dream forever, Mr. Iverson. There comes a time to be practical.”

  Aidan looked around her workshop, at the dozens of sketches lining the walls, the metallic contraptions crowding the space, all the implements and bits and pieces she’d gathered around her. He’d known Diana Ashby for a handful of days, but he knew instinctively that she’d prefer any other fate to giving up on her inventions.

  “Perhaps I could speak to some fellow investors on your behalf.”

  He hated the wariness in her gaze. She didn’t trust him even to do that much to assist her.

  “I am impressed with your design, but—”

  “Not big enough for you, is it?” There was an angry bite to her words that she made no effort to hide.

  “Size isn’t the issue.”

  “No?” She approached a table that held an assembly of ledgers and papers, rifled through a few pages, and held one up for him to see. “You’ve never funded any invention that wasn’t on the grandest scale. Mr. Brunel’s steamship. A suspension bridge. The Thames Tunnel.”

  “Factories. Railroad lines. You forgot those.” It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her he could be benevolent too. That he’d funded hospitals and orphanages without attaching his name to them or expecting any glory to come his way.

  “What of the everyday Londoner?”

  “I think you’ll find that everyday Londoners use bridges too, Miss Ashby.”

  “What of London’s ladies? They’re expected to adorn their homes, to create a haven for their husbands. Why not make that task easier for them?

  “Tell me. Don’t mince words. Why won’t you fund my invention? Is it my sex?” Miss Ashby planted her hands on her hips and fixed him with an electric blue stare. “Can you not forget for a moment that I am a woman?”

  “No,” he bit out.

  He was completely aware that Diana Ashby was a woman. Perhaps the most appealing one he’d ever met in his life. “As you’ve pointed out, Miss Ashby, I’ve never funded a device such as yours. I invest where I believe I can earn a profit.”

  God, he was a wretch. There was more, of course.

  He couldn’t imagine entering into a business arrangement with Diana, spending time together, and not wanting her. The attraction he felt for the woman grew with every moment he spent in her company.

  He’d never struggled to draw a line between business and desire. Until now.

  But he could find her another investor. He knew dozens of men, some of whom might be interested in a device such as hers.

  “Let me speak to some others who might see the merit in your invention.”

  She closed her eyes, and he fully expected her to thank him for his willingness to go the extra mile on her behalf. But the moment her lashes fluttered up, she cast another desperate look at her calendar.

  “That won’t do, Mr. Iverson. I don’t want another investor.” She turned her head, and her gaze came at him sharp as an arrow’s point and lodged in the center of his chest. “I want you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Diana couldn’t let him leave without agreeing.

  She sensed that Iverson’s promise to speak to other investors was a means of pacifying her. But when would he do it? Next week? In a fortnight? She didn’t have a moment to spare.

  Urgency built inside her. A determination to make Aidan Iverson see the potential in her work. If she couldn’t convince him, why would anyone else be interested?

  It was this man, this moment here and now, that would determine her fate. She didn’t know any of the other investors he might speak to. Unlike the men of the De
n, she hadn’t studied their preferences and history.

  But she knew him, and she trusted him instinctively. Now it was simply a matter of finding a way to convince him.

  He stood stock-still for a long moment and crossed his arms.

  Diana took the opportunity to sidestep toward her workbench and glance at the notes she’d collected about him. Of all the men of the Den, details about Iverson had proved the most elusive. There was very little to plumb about his history. Not even an indication of where he’d been born and raised, though his accent indicated London.

  “You donated money to a hospital.” Diana hadn’t noticed that bit before.

  One auburn brow winged up. “What else do you have there?” He reached out. “Show me your notes.”

  Diana stepped away from him. “Surely you know what you’ve done and what I might have found.”

  A flash of unease crossed his face so quickly she wondered whether she’d imagined it.

  “I’m not an adventurer, Miss Ashby. Not even much of a rogue.” Shoulders tensing, he flicked his fingers in her direction. “The only risks I take are with my bank account.”

  It was true. His wealth and talent for earning were what most articles touted about him. But there had to be more.

  She thought back on the one single mention she’d found in the scandal rags. At least she’d guessed the bit of gossip referred to him. The on dit mentioned an outrageously wealthy businessman, Mr. I., and his failed attempts at wooing an earl’s daughter with a fondness for stealing off to the opera on her own.

  Diana sifted quickly through her notes and found the details.

  “Lady Alice Ponsonby.”

  Iverson’s lush lower lip dropped a fraction. Both brows shot up, and the sunlight pouring in through the conservatory roof lit his irritated emerald gaze.

  “What of her?”

  “Did you wish to marry her?”

  “Miss Ashby.” The way he said her name, with a little growl at the back of his throat, made her more intrigued, not less.

  “Were you enamored with her?”

  “That has nothing to do with why I came to visit you today.” He grabbed his suit coat off the chair and violently shoved his arms inside the garment.

  “What was it about her that intrigued you?”

  He offered no answer, just a tightening of his jaw and a narrowed gaze.

  “Are you set on marrying a noblewoman?”

  “Stop.” In two long strides, he was toe to toe with her.

  Mercy, he was tall. And broad. She tilted her head and arched back to look into his eyes. “Am I being impertinent?”

  “You know that you are.”

  They stared at each other, and she felt the same odd pulse that had thrummed through her the evening they’d met. Just like that night, all else fell away, and there was just this moment. The two of them and a magnetic charge in the air. Even after her research, she knew almost as little about him now as she had then.

  He was a compelling puzzle she longed to solve, though she feared another question would cause him to bolt. Nothing held him here but politeness and the strange pull between them.

  But she couldn’t stop herself. She couldn’t temper her desire to know more, to take him apart a little and understand what made him tick.

  “Why did she refuse you?” she asked on a whisper.

  “She didn’t.” His gaze fell to her mouth, skidded over her cheeks, traced the line of her nose, took in the messy fall of hair across her forehead.

  “Then you’re engaged to her?” Diana blinked and held her breath.

  Was that a flicker of triumph in his eyes?

  “No. Of course not. Both a refusal and an engagement require a proposal. I have made none. To any woman.”

  Warmth flooded her cheeks, kindled in her chest, spread like heated treacle through her veins. She liked that he wasn’t engaged, that he’d never proposed to the earl’s daughter. Far too much. But why? This man’s matrimonial machinations were none of her concern.

  She’d invited him to come to the conservatory for one purpose. She needed him for one purpose. The tenacious fluttering in her stomach was utter foolishness, as was her inability to stop flicking her gaze to his lips.

  She’d kissed that mouth, knew the taste of him, and she could never ever do that again.

  Backing up, Diana put as much distance between them as she could. Eventually she bumped into the workbench she’d installed along the wall of the conservatory. Her arm brushed a pile of papers and they fell in an unceremonious heap onto the tiles.

  He approached to assist her and she bit her tongue to keep from barking at him to retreat.

  “I can manage. Thank you.” She gathered her papers, including the invitation to her finishing school reunion.

  Iverson stayed hunched next to her, much as he had when she’d dropped her box at Lyon’s, but he didn’t attempt to retrieve any of the pages.

  She glanced up at him and felt a tremor dancing along her skin.

  His gaze fixed on her mouth. Perhaps he was thinking of their kiss too. Had he thought of her in the months since they’d met?

  It didn’t matter.

  This silliness, these impulses, were for Grace and every other young woman of her acquaintance who was on the hunt for a husband. Diana forced her gaze back to the pile of papers and her finger slid over the embossed invitation.

  A plan began to form in her mind.

  Perhaps Aidan Iverson’s marital machinations were a matter of interest after all.

  “You didn’t answer my question. Do you seek a noblewoman to wed?”

  A wash of color infused the lean cut of his cheeks and she knew she’d hit upon the truth.

  “My matrimonial needs seem to interest you a great deal, Miss Ashby.” He leaned forward and placed his hand on the tile next to hers. “Are you offering yourself as a prospect?”

  No. The answer should have come easily, but instead Diana found herself desperate for air and willing her tongue to work.

  There was a question in the way he looked at her that made her insides quiver.

  “Not myself, no,” she finally said, though her voice emerged husky and tremulous. “But I know many noblewomen. Eligible ladies who are seeking a husband of means.”

  Fumbling with the invitation, she lifted the cream rectangle between them as if the insignificant board of paper pulp could stave off his heat and the way his scent made her mouth water.

  Twisting his head, he read the words that she’d inadvertently displayed upside down. “You are cordially invited to a reunion of the 1842 graduates of Bexley Finishing School for Ladies of Character.”

  “I could introduce you to them.”

  All the warmth radiating off Iverson seemed to chill. He stood and straightened his cuffs. Unlike at Lyon’s, he offered no hand to help her up.

  Diana collected her papers to her chest and rose to stand beside him. “I know which ones are kind and timid, which are clever and full of fire.”

  “Like you?” The interest in his question shot a strange glow of pleasure through her. She wasn’t imagining the hunger in his gaze, and she couldn’t deny how much he intrigued her. But she was no noblewoman.

  “Some may be like me, but—”

  “I doubt that very much, Miss Ashby.” He ran a hand roughly through his neatly cropped red-gold waves and let his palm settle at the back of his neck. He squeezed as if to ease tension that settled there. “And in exchange for these introductions, you would expect me to fund your machine.”

  There was no question in his tone. He understood, and she was grateful for that much.

  “If I don’t wish to marry any of your aristocratic acquaintances?” He busied himself with arranging the points of his shirt cuffs, as if her answer was of little consequence.

  “Then I suppose . . .” That possibility hadn’t been in her mind. She hadn’t thought that far.

  He pointed to her calendar on the wall. “You have a deadline, Miss Ashby. From whom
? Your mother?”

  She must have given something away because he nodded in understanding.

  “What did you agree to do if you found no investor?”

  “I’ve already told you. I promised my mother I would give up my research and designs.” A sharp pain shot through her every time she faced the prospect of abandoning her inventions.

  “For what? To be idle?”

  “A kind of idleness, yes.” Diana huffed out a long sigh. “To fetch a husband. To take my place on the marriage mart.”

  Iverson’s gaze sharpened. His shoulders squared and he crossed his arms in front of him. He looked commanding. Confident. As if he knew that in this gamble she’d attempted, he held all the cards.

  “I must be sure I’ll get a return on this investment, Miss Ashby.”

  “But you’re a man who likes to take risks. You’re known for it.”

  “Calculated risks. I never risk blindly, and often I require a guarantee.”

  “A guarantee? Then there’s no risk at all.” She braced a hand on her hip and tried to think how best to make her half-formed plan irresistible. “What kind of guarantee do you require, Mr. Iverson?”

  He started to speak, then snapped his mouth closed again. After scrubbing at the light dusting of stubble along his jaw, he began pacing, walking deeper into parts of the conservatory she rarely used and then returning.

  Finally, Iverson slowed his perambulations, coming to stand close to where she’d rested her hip against her workbench.

  “You,” he said, infusing the word with unequivocal power.

  “Me?” She wasn’t at all sure what he was insisting upon.

  “If none of your noble ladies suit and we have not found a buyer or have no promise of profits for your device by the month’s end . . .” He hesitated, drew in a lungful of air, and asked, “Will you agree to be my bride, Miss Ashby?”

  The look he gave her wasn’t triumphant. Not a hint of arrogance lit his green eyes. What she saw in his gaze was something else. Need. Uncertainty.

  Marry him? A man she’d met twice and whose history was as murky as London fog?

  “The Ashbys claim only a baronetcy that passed to my uncle. I’m not at all a good prospect if you wish for a noble bride.”