She looked at him then. The first time their gazes had met since she’d arrived. He felt the same frisson that always flared between them.
Every time he looked at her, he felt a rogue tug at the corner of his mouth. But, of course, it wouldn’t do to smile like a fool whenever she was near. He did allow himself this grin though, even if only to disprove her claim.
“How about now?” He kept his gaze on hers as he leaned in front of her to take his own glass of lemonade from a servant’s tray. Her sharp inhale felt like a victory. “Do I still look miserable, Miss Ashby?”
“You look . . .” She assessed him in a slow perusal. He watched her eyes shift from his nose, his mouth, down to his chest, and then up again to meet his gaze. “Less miserable.”
“To progress.” He lifted his glass.
She raised hers hesitantly and clinked her glass gently against his. “What do you think?” she whispered. “Of Sophie.”
“I’ve barely spoken to her. Too soon to know.” In truth, he had formed a few opinions about the lady. She seemed pleasant and eager to be so. Almost to an irritating degree. She was lovely and jolly, but perhaps too much for a man who considered attending lectures on electrical devices an enjoyable pastime.
“What more do you wish to know?” Miss Ashby turned on him, a hand perched on her hip. “I did provide you with a helpful list.”
“I never trust lists. They’re too simple and rarely detailed enough. I need to know a great deal about any prospective bride.”
“Did you know a good deal about the Lady Alice Ponsonby before you pursued her at the opera?” she asked archly.
“Scandal sheets don’t seem your style, Miss Ashby, and yet you’re quite stuck on that tale.” He pressed his lips together to hold back another grin. “I assure you the story was entirely overblown. You mustn’t believe everything you read.”
Taking two steps, Miss Ashby turned to face him, her brow scrunched as she glowered at him. “I do not make a habit of reading drivel, Mr. Iverson, I assure you. And unlike you, my name has never appeared among such pages.”
She sipped her lemonade, and Aidan noted a quiver at the edge of her mouth. She lifted a hand to pat at her coiffure, and he could think of nothing but how the glossy, artful waves would look if he could give in to his urge to remove every pin and take them down.
Steady, man.
Diana Ashby was not why he was here. He scanned the room for Lady Sophronia, but she’d slipped away. There was no one to distract him from the tall, irritated, rose-scented beauty in front of him.
He reached for another glass from the nearest servant’s tray and gulped down a mouthful of lemony sweetness. “What else have you read about me?”
“There isn’t much.” She seemed annoyed by that fact. “Details are scarce. Almost as if you’re hiding something, Mr. Iverson.”
The lady was coming far too close to the mark. Aidan deposited his empty glass on an obliging table and crossed his arms.
“We all hide something.” Over the years, he’d learned a dozen techniques for assessing others. Physical tics, little oddities of movement, the way the black of an eye contracts and expands. He’d needed those skills to survive on London’s streets. They’d been useful when he’d entered the world of commerce too. It was good to know who could be trusted and who planned to take him for a fool.
In eight and twenty years, he’d never met a single man who wasn’t hiding something.
He desperately wanted to know Miss Ashby’s secrets.
“I don’t hide anything,” she retorted a bit too quickly.
“Truly?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Not a single fear or wish or memory that you keep tucked away deep inside?”
She touched her hair again, patting at one perfectly pinned coil, and said quietly, “Nothing that would interest you, Mr. Iverson.”
“I doubt that very much, Miss Ashby. I’d like to know your secrets.”
“Why?”
“I’m a curious man.” And because she fascinated him as much now as when she’d been a stranger who had kissed him in the dark. More.
Without any parting words, she headed toward the settee where Lady Sophronia had taken up a spot after returning to the cluttered drawing room.
As if she somehow sensed his wayward thoughts, Miss Ashby offered him one questioning glance over her shoulder before Lady Caldwell called to her, urging her to answer a question from Lord Abernethy.
A sigh escaped before Aidan squared his shoulders and made his way over to the lady who’d invited him to her home. Lady Sophie veritably bounced with anticipation as he approached, and she tittered like an overexcited bird when he reached her side.
“Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Iverson.” Gesturing to the expanse of blue damask settee beside her, she asked, “Would you like to have a seat?”
“Of course.” But rather than claim the space beside her, Aidan dropped into a nearby chair. He didn’t wish to seem too eager or too familiar. “Thank you for the invitation, my lady.”
“Please do call me Sophie, and tell me about the next grand project you’ll invest in, Mr. Iverson.” Lady Sophie leaned so far forward that he feared she’d topple onto the carpet. No one could accuse the lady of appearing disinterested.
“Some projects are quite secret.” He lifted a finger to his lips and drew the expected giggle from the noblewoman. “But I’ll leave it to Miss Ashby to tell you of her device. I’ve agreed to offer my support.”
“Oh no.” Her heart-shaped face collapsed into a moue of disappointment before she glanced in Miss Ashby’s direction and whispered, “We’re all hoping Diana agrees to join us this Season. She has never had one, you see. We all wish for her to be settled.”
Aidan tugged at his ear and worked to stifle a flash of irritation. “You don’t approve of Miss Ashby’s engineering pursuits, I take it.”
“Di is quite clever.” Lady Sophie’s mouth curved in a sad smile. “And she’s one of my dearest friends, so how can I not approve of whatever takes her fancy? But none of us believes she’s truly happy.” The noblewoman leaned an inch closer and said conspiratorially, “The responsibility she feels should not be hers to bear.”
“What responsibility?”
Lady Sophie retreated, scooting back on the settee and refusing to meet his gaze.
Before he could press her more, the dinner gong sounded and everyone sprang into motion. Lady Sophie seemed particularly relieved to escape the necessity of answering his question. He expected to escort her in, but her cousin, Lord Abernethy, approached to do the honors instead.
Aidan glanced around the room and noticed Miss Ashby lingering near the threshold. As soon as she caught his eye, she gestured in a jerking motion, indicating that he should follow her.
In the hallway, all the dinner guests filed one way, but Miss Ashby had ducked off into a room two doors down from the drawing room. After making sure no one noticed his departure from the throng, Aidan stepped inside.
The billiard room smelled of cigar smoke and spilled liquor. The interior was so dark, he wondered for a moment if he’d entered the correct room.
“I overheard you speaking to Sophie.”
Her voice sent an odd shiver spiking down his spine. “You mean you were eavesdropping.”
“There aren’t many guests. Your voices carried.” She stepped closer.
As his eyes adjusted, he could just make out the shape of her face and the curves of her body in the pale cream gown she’d worn. In the darkness, he noticed everything, the shift of the fabric, the click of beads embroidered along the hem, and the heat of her nearness.
“She is concerned about your happiness,” he told her.
“You should be more concerned with hers if you plan to marry her.”
“Don’t rush me, Miss Ashby. You agreed to introduce me to several debutantes. I intend to meet them all.”
She huffed out a long-suffering sigh. “You should strive to talk less about me and ask Sophie ab
out herself.”
“Are you giving me lessons in wooing again?”
“Perhaps someone should. Speaking of one lady when you’re in the company of another is considered bad form,” she said, and then started past him toward the threshold.
He knew they should return to the others. He knew they would soon be missed. But he wanted the moment alone with her to stretch on just a little longer.
“I propose an exchange, Miss Ashby.”
She stopped beside him. They stood shoulder to shoulder, her bare arm brushing the sleeve of his suit.
Aidan turned and dipped his head so that his mouth wasn’t far from her ear. “One of your secrets for one of mine.”
“I told you, Mr. Iverson,” she said breathily. “I don’t have secrets.”
“Pity. That leaves you nothing with which to negotiate.”
She tilted her head, and in the light through the half-open door, he saw a flash of interest in her blue gaze. “You first.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she lifted a finger between them.
“I’m only agreeing to this so that I can know which of my friends might suit you best.”
“Of course.”
“Go on, then.”
“That night, a year ago. I think on it often.” His own heart began hammering in his chest. Every word was true, but the admission felt too raw, too revealing. The next breath stalled in his throat as he waited for her to respond.
He heard only her breath quickening.
“That’s my confession. That’s my secret. Now it’s your turn, Miss Ashby,” he prompted.
She was silent so long, he thought she might balk. But finally, she whispered, “I think on that night too. Far too much.”
Aidan reached for her, not desperately as he had that night, but slowly, letting his fingers skate across her skin before clasping her arm. He swept his thumb against her skin. She was so warm, so soft.
She tipped her head back, knowing exactly what he intended. That only made him want her more.
Aidan took her mouth in a hungry kiss and she opened to him instantly. He swept his tongue inside, tasting the tart sweetness of lemonade. Then he lifted his head to look at her.
“We should get back,” she whispered.
Without waiting for his reply, she pulled out of his grasp and slipped out of the room. A moment after she’d left, he followed.
As he made his way back to the drawing room, he sucked in a deep lungful of air. Then another. Diana’s scent was all he could smell, and his body responded as if she was still close enough to touch.
Control yourself, man.
He reminded himself why he was there. He wanted Diana Ashby. That was no longer possible to deny.
But he wanted more. Power. Success. Belonging.
He forced his mind to the industrial exhibition, to the prospect of gaining entry to an exclusive club like the Parthenon and then finding no door in London’s social, political, or financial world closed to him.
Straightening his tie and tugging at the lapels of his coat, he drew in one last calming breath.
He needed his wits about him tonight. He had an earl’s daughter to woo.
Chapter Fifteen
Diana looked down and checked the address she’d scribbled on a scrap of paper before exiting the hack. Once she’d determined it was Iverson’s office building, she stopped on the pavement and worked to steady her nerves.
She hadn’t seen the man since Sophie’s dinner party three days ago. He might have made a decision to propose to her friend, for all she knew.
What she did know, what had played in her mind for days, was that she’d kissed him. Again. That had to stop.
Between her and Aidan Iverson, there was nothing but a business arrangement.
She’d been telling herself that for three days and still wasn’t quite convinced.
He’d invited her to his office to discuss prospective buyers for her device. Just as he’d promised he’d do. The man was scrupulously maintaining his side of their bargain. And, practically speaking, she was too.
Practical matters were, after all, where she excelled.
But she couldn’t resist peeking at herself in the reflection of the spotless window glass. After lifting a hand to pinch some color into her cheeks, she tucked a few wayward curls back into her simple coiffure.
She growled at her own reflection in frustration. Nervous energy boiled inside her and she wished that human beings could release steam as easily as water set on a hot burner.
Rather than go inside and face him, she paced, traversing the same stretch of pavement back and forth until the muscles of her legs warmed and her nerves settled.
She turned back toward the steps leading up to Iverson’s office. Half a dozen steps. Easily scaled. Harder to overcome were the odd impulses that seemed to rear up whenever he was near.
Once inside, she knocked at a frosted-glass door, and a youthful, slick-haired man answered with a pleasant smile.
“You must be Miss Ashby. Mr. Iverson is expecting you.” He led her to a small, tidy room with a massive desk and chairs tucked against wainscoting on the opposite wall. Nothing luxurious. Just sensible and practical furnishings. She liked the space immediately.
The clerk rapped once quietly on what Diana guessed was Iverson’s door, but there was no response from the other side.
“Mr. Iverson will be with you soon.” The young man rounded a large desk and stood anxiously behind his chair. “My name is Mr. Coggins. May I offer you a cup of tea while you wait?”
“No, thank you.”
He seated himself and began working a device on his desk that cut paper. A simple bladed wooden lever sliced through a pile of foolscap he’d placed underneath when he pressed down. But the device was giving him trouble. He stood and wiggled the machine, adjusting the wooden platform where the paper was neatly arranged.
When he pressed again, the metal fittings screeched under the weight of his push.
Diana was intrigued. “May I assist you, Mr. Coggins?”
“Oh, I don’t think you can, Miss Ashby. It’s simply stuck. Always works eventually.”
Diana stood and approached, leaning over the desk to get a closer look.
Mr. Coggins blushed furiously and his eyes widened when she joined him behind his desk.
“I think it’s actually the fulcrum that’s damaged.” Diana pointed to the spot where the lever pivoted on a large metal screw. “A bit of oil might help, but it seems that the center pin itself may be at fault. See how it’s a bit crooked?”
Coggins stared at her dumbfounded and finally said, “I shall see what I can do to repair it. Thank you, Miss Ashby.”
“Well, that was quick.” Mr. Iverson emerged from his office and tipped his head as he assessed the two of them with a bemused expression. “Has she already replaced you, Coggins?”
The low timbre of his voice with that teasing lilt caused exactly the reaction Diana had vowed not to allow. Her pulse jumped at the base of her throat and she willed herself to let nothing show on her face when she looked at him.
“I very much hope not, sir,” Mr. Coggins said. “Though she has provided helpful advice on the paper trimmer.”
Diana turned to face the man she’d come to see. She swallowed hard before managing a polite, “Good afternoon, Mr. Iverson.”
Unlike her, he looked completely at ease. He’d settled against the frame of his door, his arms crossed over his chest. “Shall we begin, Miss Ashby? Or would you like to continue assessing the cutting machine before you join me in my office?”
“I think my work here is done.” Diana offered Mr. Coggins a friendly nod, then approached Iverson. She kept her gaze fixed forward and moved past him across the threshold without sparing him a glance.
“Whichever chair you like,” he told her.
As he closed his office door, Diana chose the leather upholstered chair in front of his desk.
She’d brought a notebook and pencil in an oversiz
ed reticule and she dug them out and waited, expecting him to take a seat in his desk chair. But as ever, Aidan Iverson didn’t behave as she expected. He claimed the chair next to hers and reached for a stack of papers on his desk.
He wore no suit coat and had rolled his shirtsleeves up. Diana couldn’t help but notice the way his waistcoat strained across the muscles of his back as he leaned forward. She also noted the dusting of auburn hair on his forearms and a mark just inside his left wrist that she thought might be a tattoo.
When he turned back, she was too slow in averting her eyes for him to miss her intense perusal. He didn’t seem to mind at all that she caught his flash of a smile in response.
“These are brief descriptions of each buyer to whom I would like to present your device. The first owns a modest shopping emporium that caters to housemaids and domestic servants. The second is a man who’s funded a few other promising inventions for domestic use. The third is an American who takes the best of what we create here in Britain back to his shopping enterprise in New York.”
Diana scanned each page with interest. Mr. Coggins, no doubt, had written out a detailed summary about each man, but someone else had scribbled notes in the margin. That hand was bold and strong, with an abundance of capital letters and words underlined for emphasis. Personal details were included. “Has a daughter named Emily.” “Enjoys summers in Brighton.” “Frequents a bawdy theater near Vauxhall.”
“You’ve met all of them?”
“Mmm. I know two of them quite well and can arrange a meeting with the third.”
“Perhaps we should start with these two.” Diana handed him the sheets describing the shop owner and the American entrepreneur.
“You think they’ll be the most promising prospects?”
“The shop owner will understand the purpose of the machine if his products are aimed at domestic servants. That’s half the battle. And the American sounds like a man who’d be intrigued by an innovative device.”
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