Anything But a Duke Page 3

Tremayne was, in fact, smiling. Not an outright grin, just the tip of his mouth. An expression that had become carved on his face in the past months, even in repose. Contentedness wafted off him. The change was so different from the angry, bitter man he’d once been, Iverson couldn’t help but wonder at the transformative power of marital bliss.

  He and Nick had met in the direst of circumstances: cold, hungry, and penniless waifs, eking out a living in the middle of a London winter. Aidan had been making his way far longer and taught Nick what he knew of cheap doss houses, day work, and which games of chance might result in dividends.

  He never imagined the man would one day inherit a dukedom.

  “I do recommend getting yourself a bride,” Tremayne said after his first sip of whiskey. “But there must be more. Huntley wouldn’t advise such a measure lightly.”

  “Lockwood has refused my participation in the exhibition.” The words were bitter on Aidan’s tongue. He had knowledge and experience to contribute. Years more than most of the pale, feckless noblemen who played at being patrons of industry could ever claim.

  “The one based on the Paris Exhibition?”

  “England’s will be different. Better. The prince is determined to make it so.”

  “Industrial devices are your specialty. Why would they refuse you? How many projects have you invested in now?”

  “I’ve lost count.”

  Tremayne scrubbed a hand along the edge of his jaw. “So you must win over Lockwood.”

  “Perhaps Lockwood has a marriageable daughter,” Huntley said as he twisted his tumbler in his hand. “Two birds downed in that single bargain.”

  “No.” Aidan briefly imagined meeting with Lockwood to ask for his daughter’s hand and could only envision his own hand balled into a fist and planted neatly in the center of the man’s face. “If I’m not fit for exhibition planning, then I won’t be good enough for a betrothal.”

  “Might be worth an inquiry.” Tremayne deposited his glass and inspected the club from the balcony’s edge. “If not, there are plenty of noblemen downstairs with daughters on the marriage mart. Finding one who wants a rich husband shouldn’t be hard.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  Huntley arched a brow.

  “I admit I have not acquired your reputation”—a muscle jumped at the edge of Aidan’s jawline—“but I am aware of how to woo a lady. Just not a noble one.”

  Huntley let out a low chuckle. “They aren’t so very different. You’ve befriended Lady Lovelace.”

  “You’re also acquainted with the most beautiful duchess in England,” Tremayne said without a hint of modesty.

  Aidan emptied his glass and cast his aristocratic friend a glower.

  How could he get Nick to understand that a duke marrying his lady steward and making her his duchess was far different from a man raised in a Lambeth workhouse daring to claim an aristocrat’s daughter as his own?

  “There are matchmakers who—”

  “I can arrange my own courtships. Thank you very much.” All this advice and desire to aid him in such a personal matter was beginning to make his skin itch. He wasn’t used to divulging his concerns to anyone.

  Aidan tugged at the tight collar of his shirt.

  Huntley and Tremayne fell silent but exchanged a series of conspiratorial nods and glances.

  “No,” Aidan said firmly. “Whatever you’re concocting, stop now.”

  “What’s the point of owning an infamous gaming club with a marquess and a duke if we can’t help find you a wife?”

  The pounding in Aidan’s head had become a hammer. He realized he was clenching his teeth. “No,” he repeated again, loud enough for his voice to echo off the low ceiling. “If I am to marry, I will find my bride, and I will woo her with no help from either of you.”

  “Not even the help of an invitation?” Tremayne asked. “Mina is hosting a party next week. I’m sure at least one of the young ladies who attends will be unmarried and titled.”

  Aidan contemplated the whiskey decanter. “I would never refuse your wife’s invitation.”

  Tremayne’s ever-present smile widened. “Excellent.”

  “But no interference.” Aidan lifted a finger and pointed at his friend. “If I speak to a titled lady, let it be by chance. If I choose pursuit, it shall be my choice.”

  “Of course.” Tremayne lifted both hands in the air in mock surrender. “I’d never play matchmaker. I barely know how I ended up with a wife myself.”

  “If you intend to wax poetic about love, it’s time I take my leave.” Huntley stood and straightened his waistcoat. “Do let me know, Iverson, if I can help. I’d introduce you to my sisters, but neither is of marriageable age and both are chiefly fond of gothic romance and giggling.”

  When Huntley had gone, Aidan refilled his glass until the decanter trickled out the last drops of amber liquid, and noted the papers Tremayne had deposited on the liquor cart. “Applicants?”

  “Yes. More arrive every day. The reputation of the Duke’s Den has grown more quickly than I expected. Who knew there were so many inventors in search of investors in the city?”

  “I could have told you.” Aidan had never designed a bridge or a steamship or a new type of thresher, but he knew what it was to be hungry to succeed. He understood the ache to be given a chance and the desire for others to recognize your worth.

  “We can begin reviewing them together tomorrow.” Tremayne gathered the pages. “Tonight I’ll go home and ask my wife to add you to her list of invitations.”

  “A noble bride will solve everything, will it?” The prospect of marriage had never terrified Aidan as it did men like Huntley. Wedlock was a supremely logical transaction. He’d provide wealth. A wife would provide a welcoming home and, one day, heirs.

  Tremayne turned contemplative, his brow furrowed, mouth drawn in a firm line. “Whatever lady you win, I suspect her blue blood won’t be the greatest boon.”

  “But that’s the only part I truly need.”

  “Is it?” Tremayne wasn’t a man to speak openly of finer feelings, but the way he swallowed hard and looked Aidan square in the eye made him fear his friend was about to start. “Love can be stealthy, Iverson. Changes a man before he’s aware he’s stumbled and is in danger of falling. In the end, I suspect you’ll be glad it did.”

  “I congratulate you on your wedded bliss.” Aidan raised his half-filled glass toward his friend. “But I want none for myself. Matrimony is a practical solution. I intend to pursue it in that manner and seek a bride who understands the terms.”

  Tremayne’s dark brows lifted. “Why do I have a feeling you’ll head back to your office and draft a contract tonight?”

  “I’ll save it until the morning.” Aidan grinned. For the first time since climbing the balcony stairs, his ire had ebbed. He had a goal. Now he simply needed to devise a strategy. “Good night, Tremayne. Thank the duchess for the invitation.”

  As Aidan made his way toward the stairs, the duke cleared his throat. “Good luck, Iverson.”

  “I don’t need luck.” As gambling club owners and men well versed in games of chance, both of them knew better than to rely on anything as fickle as luck. “I just need to find the right bride.”

  Chapter Four

  March 1846

  London, the Duke’s Den

  The mortification of losing her notes had Diana in a nerve-rattling panic.

  She’d accomplished a great deal in three and twenty years and had this very day been invited to present her invention to a panel of investors at Lyon’s.

  The London gentlemen’s club never admitted women onto the premises. She was the first of her sex ever invited to the Duke’s Den in its short but infamous history, and she wanted to make an unforgettable impression.

  But the speech she’d planned, all the details she needed to recall, were in her notes.

  She had to find them. With one sweeping look, she scanned the reception room again.

  Desp
ite the fact that Lyon’s catered to noblemen who occupied the club at all hours, lunching and chatting by day and gambling all night, they managed to have perfectly polished marbled floors.

  Her boot heels had slipped thrice while she’d searched the room where she and a dozen other inventors had been asked to wait. Her folio was a simple affair, far too like everyone else’s. Except that hers had a purple grosgrain ribbon stuck inside, and she couldn’t see a glimpse of it anywhere.

  While pacing and silently practicing her speech, she’d placed the folio on an obliging table. Someone else must have picked it up. She was less worried about her ideas being filched than about standing in front of the investors and forgetting everything she intended to say.

  Forgetfulness and speechlessness were the twin banes of having a mind always racing with ideas.

  Slow down, her mother often told her, and yet today she couldn’t.

  She raced through the reception room, searching tables and the hands of the men who’d also been invited to present to the Duke’s Den.

  Dozens of masculine eyes narrowed, assessing and saying without words that she was unexpected. Perhaps even unwanted. A drop of perspiration trickled down Diana’s nape, and her heart thrashed in her chest as if trying to escape. But nothing would stop her.

  She’d been planning this moment for months, years. In some ways, she’d been waiting for this opportunity her entire life. A few uncomfortable men wouldn’t put her off.

  She let her perusal linger on a few faces and saw discomfort, disapproval, even a few tiny nods of camaraderie.

  Then, one by one, all the men turned away, as if they’d lost interest in the novelty of finding a lady inventor in their midst. Either that or they decided she was no threat to their own ambitions.

  Diana intended to prove them all wrong.

  Willing away the anxiousness that had her pulse ticking faster than the watch pinned to her bodice, she glanced down to check the time. They’d begun calling inventors a half hour past, and she wasn’t sure where she stood in the queue. Desperation began to gnaw at her nerves.

  “I’ve lost my notes,” she said to the room and got no more than a few quirked brows in response. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’ve lost my notes. Brown folio. Purple ribbon.”

  Shoulders lifted in indifferent shrugs. A few gentlemen gazed around and shook their heads to let her know they’d no more luck than she in finding her missing folio.

  She returned to the spot where she’d left her brother and found him sprawled on a plush settee with his head back and his eyes closed.

  “Dominick, wake up,” she whispered. “We might be called soon.” She pushed the toe of her boot against his when he didn’t respond. “And I might need your help.”

  “It’s far too early for this nonsense,” he mumbled, tugging his coat lapels up around his neck and running a hand through his dark, tangled hair. Finally, the lid of one blue eye slid open. “And what are you on about? You never need my help.”

  “It’s nearly midmorning, and today I do.”

  He lifted both hands to cradle his head, as if all the revelry he’d enjoyed the night before was finally catching up with him. “Tell me in as few words as possible.”

  “I’ve lost my notes.” She swallowed hard and told him, “I may need your assistance when I explain the machine to the duke.”

  “I know nothing about your device. You always wish to keep me miles away from your inventions.” Dom jerked up on the settee and cast her a dubious look. “Besides, you’ve been preparing for months.”

  “Practicing what I wish to say in front of a mirror is easy. But sometimes my thoughts rush faster than my tongue. You know that sometimes I—”

  “Freeze.” Her brother edged forward and reached out to give her hand a reassuring pat. “But that’s only when you’re truly distressed. This is different, Di. You know what you’re about and are prepared for whatever they ask.” The hint of a smile began to curve his mouth. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

  It was a question he’d often repeated when they were children. Sometimes in a playful manner. Sometimes as a taunt. Her twin brother had forever drawn her into his reckless adventures by challenging her bravery. To prove her mettle, she’d always insisted on her fearlessness. But today, the way her knees quivered beneath her skirt belied the claim.

  “I’d be a fool not to be nervous. I can’t squander this chance.”

  He shot her one of his smiles that charmed men and caused feminine conquests to dissolve into fits of giggles.

  Diana smiled too, but she’d never been much for encouraging her twin’s antics.

  Their resemblance—gangly and tall with dark brown hair and blue eyes—was striking enough to draw attention when they strolled London’s streets together. But beyond looks, their differences weren’t hard to find.

  Diana strived to temper her impulses and make decisions based on facts and reason. Dom indulged every passion and trusted far too much to fortune. He swore that one day, at London’s gaming tables, his luck would turn and their family’s financial woes would finally come to an end. Diana hoped income from her inventions might do the same.

  “My inventions are good. Some are excellent. And, most importantly, they’re useful. If they could be funded and produced, they could turn a fine profit.” She fell silent long enough to catch her breath. “But there’s only this single chance.” Her voice softened. “If my thoughts become tangled or something goes wrong, I’ll need to know you’ll take up the slack.”

  He closed his eyes and pinched the skin between his brows. “Tell me what I must do. Just assure me that I needn’t operate that fiendish little machine of yours.”

  Diana smiled down at the box containing a scale model of her vacuum device that she’d asked Dom to watch over while she explored the spacious reception rooms. She’d fashioned every fragile part with care and tested it dozens of times to make sure every element worked flawlessly. “I’ll run the machine. But I do wish we had my notes.”

  Dom settled back on the settee. His eyelids drooped, fluttered, and then closed.

  “How much did you drink last evening?”

  Her brother offered no answer, but the distinct scent of alcohol wafted off his breath. He hadn’t returned home by the time she’d departed, so she doubted he’d had a chance to partake of the dark, smoky coffee that was his usual cure-all.

  “Excuse me, miss.” A bespectacled young man approached hesitantly. “Was it a folio with a dark purple ribbon you were seeking?”

  “Yes.” Diana stood so quickly she nearly knocked her model onto the floor. “Where is it?”

  “Saw a gent heading toward the dining rooms carrying it under his arm.”

  “The dining rooms?”

  “Across the lobby, miss.” The young man pointed toward the entrance of the club.

  “Thank you.”

  When she and her brother had entered an hour ago, she’d steered him determinedly toward the reception rooms. Ladies were not allowed in the club unaccompanied, and her brother had long been a member for Lyon’s other offerings. Namely, its gaming tables. Thankfully, he’d been too exhausted by whatever debauchery he’d gotten up to the night before to show much interest in those rooms today.

  She pushed at her brother’s arm to rouse him. “I need you to escort me to the dining rooms.”

  “Not hungry.” His mumble emerged indignant, even as his body sagged against the settee.

  The prospect of dragging him along as she searched for her folio held no appeal, and she suspected allowing him a moment of sleep might make him a more useful escort when she faced the Duke’s Den.

  “I’ll return shortly,” she told him, giving his arm a gentle shake. “If they call me, hold them off as long as you can.”

  He nodded his assent but didn’t bother opening his eyes.

  Diana considered leaving her scale model next to him, but it was the one part of her presentation she absolutely could no
t risk losing. She scooped up the handmade box and made her way into the club’s main lobby.

  “No ladies allowed on the gaming floors, miss,” a crimson-coated attendant called before she’d made it halfway toward the dining rooms.

  “I’m searching for something, sir. Notes for my presentation marked by a purple ribbon. I think another gentleman may have mistaken them for his and has gone into the dining rooms.”

  The older man assessed her a moment, casting a frowning gaze over her ruffled rose traveling gown before lingering on the polished wood container clutched in her arms. A tiny dip of his chin told Diana he’d made up his mind.

  “If you return to the reception rooms, miss, I’ll search for your notes.”

  “I’d prefer to look myself.” It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the man’s courtesy, but time was of the essence.

  “That’s impossible, miss. Ladies are not allowed in the dining room.” The man nodded solemnly as if the ridiculous rule of not allowing females to walk about freely was a very serious matter.

  Looking around at the club’s male attendees and a scattering of members settled on plush chairs reading the morning papers, Diana wondered if she was the first woman to ever enter the doors of Lyon’s Gentlemen’s Club.

  Every man who caught her gaze looked shocked, if not thoroughly appalled, to find a lady invading their male enclave.

  Another man approached to ask the attendant a question, and Diana took her chance.

  Clutching her box to her chest, she rushed toward the dining rooms, only to tangle with a cluster of tall, bulky men crossing in front of her. One of the three sidestepped to avoid a collision, but another passed behind her at the same moment, bumping her elbow and stealing her balance.

  Diana reached out to steady herself, clutching at the sleeve of one of the three men. She heard the rip of seams as she stumbled backward. The wearer reached out an arm to catch her, but his hand knocked the edge of her box instead.

  “No!” She scrabbled to hold on and lost her grip entirely.

  The box slammed to the marble floor with a sickening crack. Diana dropped to her knees, hands shaking as she examined the container for damage. No apparent splinters. The locking mechanism remained sound, and she prayed her model had too. She’d padded the insides well.