Anything But a Duke Read online

  Then the attack had begun, and she refused to watch a man being bludgeoned and do nothing.

  “Stop!” she shouted as she marched toward the thin man.

  He held an object aloft as if he intended to batter a gentleman who’d fallen to his knees in the rain-soaked alleyway.

  The attacker turned to face her, and she caught a glint of white as he sneered. “What sorta tart are you then?”

  “Leave ’er,” a bulky man behind him said. “Don’t need no harpy mucking up this job.”

  Rage built in her so quickly, it burned all of Diana’s fear away. Something about the one man’s sneer and the other’s dismissive tone set her blood on fire.

  Lifting the shaft of her umbrella, she aimed the pointy end at the thinner man and rushed toward him. A cry welled up from deep inside and she screamed as she closed the distance between them.

  He lowered his club and shoved it into his coat. Then he glanced once at his victim and tapped the shoulder of his partner before breaking into a shambling run down the far end of the mews. The larger of the two cast her a menacing glare before following his accomplice.

  The beaten man struggled to get to his feet. He was large and far too heavy for her to lift on her own, but she wrapped her hands around his arm to give him some stability as he stood. But instead of rising, he reached for her, wrapping one large, ungloved hand around the edge of her waist.

  “Dizzy,” he murmured.

  “Then perhaps you should move more slowly.”

  “Can’t. You need my help.”

  Diana assessed the man. In the moonlight, she could see a stream of blood trailing down his face. The rain had slowed to a slight drizzle, but the air had turned colder and puffs of white escaped his lips.

  “I’m saving you,” she told him. “Not the other way around.”

  She wasn’t sure whether she imagined the flash of a grin.

  “We should get you inside.” She glanced toward the end of the lane where the men had disappeared. “I don’t know if they’ll return. Or if there are others.”

  “I don’t think they will, and I’d wager there aren’t others.” His voice was deep and his accent not nearly as clipped as she’d expect from a man of Belgravia. Yet his fashionable clothing and polished shoes seemed those of a man of substance, just the sort who might have a home in the square.

  A groan escaped as he pushed off his bent knee and got to his feet. He leaned heavily against her, gripping her hip with one hand and letting her take some of his weight.

  When they stood face-to-face, the injured man towered over her. For a long moment, he stilled as if gathering his strength. It allowed her a moment to study him. He was handsome, despite the stony set of his square jaw and the grimace twisting his full lips.

  He lifted his head to gaze at her in the dim light, and a strange shudder rippled down her body. As she flexed her fingers against his arm, she realized she was still holding on to him and let go.

  The stranger didn’t follow suit. Instead, he drew her an inch closer.

  “Can you walk?” she whispered.

  “The blow was to my head.” His expression softened and he shot her a crooked grin. “The rest of my body is quite intact.”

  Suddenly his body was the only thing she noticed. He was broad shouldered, with a chest to match. Rain had soaked his shirtfront, and the starched white fabric plastered itself to his skin. The scent of sandalwood soap wafted off him.

  He was still holding her, his hand an oddly comforting point of heat at her hip.

  A lump formed in her throat and she swallowed it down. “I was planning to attend a lecture at Sir Beckett Woodson’s home. It’s just there.”

  “Go to your lecture.” He let out a hiss when he turned his head. “I need to find a cab.”

  “You don’t reside in the square?” Diana’s curiosity was piqued. If he wasn’t a resident who’d sought the back garden of his home, then what was he doing in the mews in the dark of night?

  Perhaps he wasn’t a gentleman at all and had some connection to the rogues who’d set upon him.

  “I had business here.” He gestured too vaguely for her to determine which town house he indicated. With two fingers, he touched the side of his head and winced. “It will have to wait for another day.”

  “Let’s find you a cab.” When Diana made to move away and start toward the square, he circled a hand around her arm to stop her.

  “No. You’ve done quite enough.”

  For a moment she thought he was chastising her, but she sensed the intensity of his gaze, even in the darkness. His face was all sharp angles, regal brow, high cheekbones, and a notably full lower lip. But his eyes were what stood out, even in the meager light. Whatever shade they were, they were paler than her own and brightened by the moon glow.

  A trickle of blood fell in a line down his cheek. Diana reached inside the tiny pocket stitched near the hem of her bodice and extracted a folded handkerchief. “You’re bleeding quite severely.”

  “Don’t ruin your—”

  Before he could finish speaking, she’d already lifted the square of linen to his face.

  He winced when she swiped the cloth higher and reached for her wrist. His bare hand against her skin felt shockingly warm.

  “Does it hurt a great deal?”

  “Not as much as the second blow would have.” He released her wrist, and she allowed him to take the handkerchief into his hand. After one indelicate swipe, he stared at the stained linen and frowned. “I owe you thanks and a new handkerchief.”

  “I have many others.” Diana glanced at the Woodson town house. “If you come with me, you can get warm and tidied up.” She moved to step out of his hold.

  He let her go, but made no move to follow.

  “Forget about me. You’ve done your Good Samaritan duty for the evening.” He stepped closer. “You’re a rare sort of lady, whoever you are.”

  Diana bit the inside of her cheek and dipped her head to stare at the pavement. Rare wasn’t the worst thing she’d been called this night. But it felt a bit too much like the other curses Egerton had thrown her way.

  The stranger slid a finger along the edge of her jaw. A shocking, intimate touch, but too brief for her to take offense. She lifted her head and wished she could see him more clearly.

  “I meant that as a compliment.” His voice was low, almost soothing. “Any woman who rushes in to stop a man from battering me to a pulp has my infinite admiration.”

  “Infinite?” Being admired by men wasn’t anything she’d considered until Egerton’s graceless proposal. But suddenly she wished to know this man. His name, his story, and what had brought them to the same rain-soaked mews. “You’re a different sort of gentleman, aren’t you?”

  Nothing about their encounter made sense. And yet standing with him, conversing with an utter stranger, felt oddly right.

  “Some would say I’m not a gentleman at all.”

  “Why?”

  He chuckled at that, a warm, breathy sound that made her wish to hear it again. “I’m not a man you would wish to know.” As soon as the words were out—words she didn’t at all agree with—he took two steps back. “I bid you good night.”

  Distance from the heat of his body left her suddenly cold. Her wet dress let in the evening’s biting chill, and she shivered so fiercely that she couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering.

  The stranger immediately slid off his overcoat and draped it around her shoulders. His scent was all she could smell, and the warmth from his body clinging to the fabric made her let out an involuntarily sigh of relief.

  She closed her eyes a moment and her body swayed toward his. When he reached out to steady her, Diana’s eyes slid open and she sensed his gaze on her. Despite the cold, heat seemed to kindle between them.

  The stranger wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her an inch closer, and she was flooded with sensation. His chest brushing against hers, the gust of his breath on her face, his crisp woodsy scent
.

  Without thought or calculation, she lifted off her heels and pressed her mouth to his.

  His lips were warm, far softer than she expected, and he responded without hesitation. When she began to pull away, he dipped his head to draw out the kiss for another moment.

  He swept a finger across the edge of her cheek down to her jaw, then he released her. Diana tried for some parting words and fell silent. What did one say to a stranger one had just impulsively kissed?

  He saved her the trouble. “You’re soaked,” he said quietly, “and I’ve already made you late to your engagement.” Bowing, he took a step back. “I’ll watch until you’re safely inside.”

  Diana knew she should go. He was right. She wasn’t sure how long they’d been standing in the mews, but she was undoubtedly late for Woodson’s lecture. Shockingly, she didn’t mind. This man sparked her curiosity.

  He smiled at her and nudged his chin forward to urge her to go.

  “Your coat?” Diana didn’t wish to give it up so much as she felt the niggling prick of propriety urging her to be polite.

  “Keep it. I have many others.”

  She smiled at that and continued on to Professor Woodson’s back garden door. All the way, she sensed the stranger’s gaze on her, watching protectively. One knock and a housemaid immediately opened the door to greet her. When Diana hesitated, the girl called her inside.

  “In you come, miss. You’re drenched.”

  Diana looked down the mews, hoping to see the handsome stranger one more time.

  But he was gone. Not a sight of him anywhere.

  A rebel impulse made her wish to go back out into the darkness, find him, and ask all the questions that filled her mind.

  But she couldn’t. Even she knew better than to risk that sort of impropriety.

  Regret pulsed inside her and her breath hitched in her chest.

  She wanted to see him again, discover his name. But it wasn’t logical. She’d recklessly kissed the man.

  It was far better they never meet again.

  Chapter Three

  January 1846

  London, Lyon’s Gentlemen’s Club

  Aidan dragged in a shallow breath and tried to convince himself not to rip the whole damned upstairs lounge of Lyon’s Gentlemen’s Club to shreds with his bare hands.

  Dismantling a chair would suffice. Maybe tearing the stuffing out of a plump settee. Any destruction would do. Anything that would let him expel the rage boiling in his veins.

  Gripping the balustrade of the balcony high above the gaming floor of Lyon’s, he closed his eyes and fought for self-control. He focused on the sounds of the club: laughter, shouted bluster, the shuffle of cards. Men placing wagers and exclaiming as their luck rose and fell with the roll of the dice.

  The club was thriving. Since he was one-third owner, busy tables should have brought Aidan satisfaction. But the familiar buzz of activity did nothing to stem his frustration.

  Everything was stained red behind his eyes, and the loudest sound was the ceaseless thud of blood pounding in his ears.

  He’d awaited an answer for months from the men organizing an industrial exhibition, only to be dismissed with a few neatly printed lines of ink. Disappointment had quickly turned to anger. Years of practice had taught him to quell the spark-to-tinder rage of the impetuous young man he’d once been, and he’d become skilled at keeping bitterness at bay.

  Until tonight.

  He stared down at the baize-covered tables once more, cataloging the pomaded and balding pates of dozens of men. Most were noblemen and from this view, there was little to distinguish them from one another beyond girth and hair color. All were black-suited and white-tied. A veritable army of fashionable consistency.

  Aidan looked down at his own suit, a match to theirs. The finest tailored tailcoat and white-tie evening wear Bond Street had to offer. But he was different from the men below. There would always be a disparity. No matter how much money he earned. No matter how many devices he funded. No matter how many London men of business spoke his name with a mix of fear and reverence.

  As co-owner of the opulent gentlemen’s club, he could storm downstairs and throw every craven gambler out on his ear if the mood took him. Yet that power didn’t change anything. He couldn’t alter his history. Hell, he barely knew what it was.

  Whatever the truth of his family, he was no nobleman. Doors would always be closed to him, and today the one he wished to enter had been slammed in his face.

  He slipped a hand into his pocket and crushed the letter of refusal in his palm. Hurling it across the length of the lounge felt satisfying, but the crumpled ball landed with an unimpressive bounce.

  So much for tearing the place to shreds.

  “Do you prefer solitude or should I be a true friend and ask what ails you?” Rhys Forester, Marquess of Huntley’s far too cheerful voice rang out from the top of the stairs.

  Without waiting for an answer, Huntley headed for the cart laden with decanters and poured himself a tumbler of whiskey. He didn’t retreat, but he was smart enough to say no more.

  “That ball of foolscap is from Lord Lockwood.”

  “Lockwood.” Huntley frowned and tipped his head to the gilded ceiling. “Paunchy. Walks with a cane. Speaks loudly and favors cigars that smell like the devil. Is that the one?”

  “He’s director of the exhibition being planned under the auspices of Prince Albert.”

  “I thought you were to take part in the planning.” Huntley gestured vaguely. “Overseeing some of the projects or whatnot.”

  “I’ve been refused. They don’t want my advice.” Aidan strode to the whiskey decanter and sloshed some in a glass. He tipped it back and relished the burn. “They won’t even take my money.”

  “Men never turn down money.” Huntley rose from the settee and retrieved the crumpled letter. “You’re not one to make enemies lightly. What have you done to Lock—”

  “I take it you’ve found the answer.” Aidan swigged a bit more liquid fire and refilled his glass. Lockwood had mentioned his lack of connections to members of the Royal Society, while methodically listing the titles of each man who would sit on the board of the upcoming exhibition. “Commoner blood runs rampant through my veins. Apparently, that taints everything else.”

  “Rubbish. My father is friends with Lockwood. They’re members of the same club. Befriend the men Lockwood knows and he’ll be eating out of your commoner palm.”

  “Which clubs?”

  “White’s, of course. But it’s the Parthenon you’ll want into. Very exclusive.”

  “They won’t take me as a member.” Aidan tightened his grip on the crystal glass in his hand until his knuckles ached.

  Huntley puffed out his chest. “I’ll vouch for you. Tremayne will too.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to.” Aidan had pulled himself up from the gutter on his own. Every penny and pound he possessed, he’d earned. On his own. He’d never taken a loan. He didn’t incur debts. He had business partners, but he never curried favor.

  Fair transactions. An equal give and take. That’s how he lived his life.

  A memory filled his mind. Pale, luminous skin. Eyes as dark blue as the night sky. A fierce young woman emerging from the darkness, ready to take on his attackers. The warmth of her touch, the too brief taste of her lips.

  There was one person he owed, and he didn’t even know her name.

  “I understand you’re a proud man.” Huntley spoke with less humor than his usual bluster. His voice dipped lower with an edge of sincerity. “But we all need help now and then.”

  “I’m not interested in charity.”

  Huntley let out a breathy chuckle. “Ah, yes, stubborn too. You’re proud and bullheaded and—”

  “Determined to achieve success on my own terms.” Aidan tipped back another swig of whiskey and drew in a deep breath. Not enough to bring calm, but enough to allow him to speak without growling. He glanced again at the letter from Lockwood, discarded o
n the settee next to Huntley. “I sometimes forget how much I don’t belong among men like Lockwood.”

  “Utter bollocks.” Huntley spat the words and ran a hand through his overlong blond hair. “Acceptance in fashionable society isn’t all that difficult to achieve.”

  Aidan scoffed and couldn’t keep the bitterness from his tone. “You were born into fashionable society, my lord.”

  “Use my honorific once more and I may never speak to you again. Or give you advice.”

  “Are you advising me now?” There was irony in Huntley—Aidan’s aristocratic friend with the worst reputation—teaching him how to gain acceptance among other noblemen. The humor of it sparked a rusty chuckle.

  “There are ways in, Iverson. Money. Fashion. The queen’s favor.”

  “I have money. Doesn’t always do the trick.”

  “Noblemen cling to their pomposity.” Huntley crossed one long leg over the other, laced his hands over his waistcoat, and let out a long sigh. “But there is one foolproof means of thrusting yourself into the bosom of good society forever.”

  Aidan arched a brow. “Which is?”

  “Marriage, my friend.” Huntley spoke with all the enthusiasm of a man mentioning his own death sentence.

  “Good God, have you finally decided to give up your profligate ways?” Nick, Duke of Tremayne and Lyon’s chief proprietor, bounded up the stairs and then stopped to assess them. “Our factotum told me I’d find both of you up here, but I had no idea the news would be so momentous.”

  “Humorous, Tremayne,” Huntley said, as if he didn’t find the duke’s quips the least bit amusing. “I’d claim bachelorhood forever if I could. My recommendation was meant for Iverson alone.”

  “Iverson leg-shackled, I can more easily imagine.” Tremayne approached the liquor and laid down the sheaf of papers he carried under his arm. After lifting the decanter and inspecting its meager contents, he stared at each of them accusingly.

  “Look at him.” Huntley flicked his fingers toward Tremayne. “Even when irked, the man’s rarely without a ridiculous smile on his face.”