Anything But a Duke Page 7

  “Completely.” The only lure he had to offer was wealth, and he wished to maintain that advantage.

  Some aristocrats would sneer at how he’d earned his money, but others were feeling the wane of the railroad boom. Those men who’d invested unwisely, whose familial estates were bleeding tenants and losing money season after season, would be willing to bind their daughters to any man able to refill their coffers.

  “Any preferences, sir?”

  “Haste and discretion.” Scrubbing a hand across his jaw, Aidan admitted, “My own efforts have not borne success.”

  The memory of his ham-fisted matchmaking attempts made his stomach twist. So many parties. Ear-splitting visits to the bloody opera. Smiling until his cheeks ached. He’d been a fool to think finding a bride would be easy. Ladies found him charming enough and his money drew them, if nothing else. But he was an exacting man. He wanted what he’d been born without. A name that made others take notice. Connections that would cause a nobleman to raise a glass in recognition rather than tip a haughty nose in disdain.

  He wanted a legacy.

  “Discretion is my byword, Mr. Iverson.” Across from him, the matchmaker narrowed her gaze and hovered a pencil over her papers, as if waiting to note crucial details. “But what are your preferences in regard to a prospective bride? Do you favor fair-haired ladies or—”

  Dark hair. Curves. Except for her chin, which narrowed to a little notched square.

  A vision of Miss Diana Ashby filled his mind as if she’d just come strutting through his office door with all the confidence she’d exuded in the Duke’s Den. He’d tried not to notice her beauty, tried not to let his gaze wander below the neckline of her frilly gown, and utterly failed. Several times.

  But Miss Ashby had come to them for funding. Nothing more.

  Business was business. And pleasure was a separate endeavor altogether. One that, regrettably, he rarely found time for. But when he did, he maintained an impenetrable wall between the two. Structure, management, and control made his businesses run smoothly. He had no reason to run his private life any other way.

  And when he married? The wall between his public and private life would matter more than ever. He wished his home to be a haven from the cutthroat world of commerce.

  “Fair-haired will do,” he heard himself say. He’d always preferred ladies with gold tresses. So he had no bloody idea why his mind continued to catalog Miss Diana Ashby’s charms. Blue eyes. A divot in the center of her chin.

  “What of accomplishments?” Mrs. Trellaway’s silver brows slid up her forehead. “Music?”

  “Not necessary.” Aidan winced at the memory of musicales he’d attended and how often he’d attempted to inconspicuously press a hand over his ear at the opera.

  “Painting?”

  “Might be useful.” His Mayfair town house had been decorated in pale cream and dove gray before he took up residence. He quite liked the notion of someone bringing a bit of color to the walls.

  “Any particular tongue you wish the young lady to be proficient in?”

  “I do prefer an educated bride.” He suspected most noblewomen possessed some education. A clever lady sounded appealing. “Languages, history, literature—whatever takes her fancy.”

  “Noted. Now, answer me this, Mr. Iverson. What one essential quality do you require in a young lady you’d consider marrying?”

  Bluntly, he wanted a woman with unassailable connections. He didn’t truly care whether his lady bride spoke ten languages as long as she could trace her family back for ten generations.

  “Entry into polite society is what I’m after, Mrs. Trellaway. I require a wellborn bride.”

  The older woman narrowed dark eyes behind her gold-rimmed spectacles. “How high do you aim, sir?”

  “A duke’s daughter will do.”

  “There aren’t many of those, Mr. Iverson.”

  “I only require one, Mrs. Trellaway.” For a moment, Aidan thought she might refuse him or bolt from his office. The matchmaker shifted as if to rise. But instead of departing, she slipped a rectangle of newsprint from her folio and slid it onto his desk.

  A woman’s crosshatched image stared back at him. Pinched brow, cold eyes, a thin, unsmiling mouth.

  “Lady Elnora is the Duke of Redmond’s only unmarried daughter. She speaks French and German, paints, plays the pianoforte—”

  “She’s not what I had in mind.”

  “Interested in a pretty face, I take it.” Mrs. Trellaway’s smile told Aidan his preference was not unexpected.

  She shifted more documents and then selected two to lay out before him. One was a small watercolor, its bright hues a marked contrast to the daguerreotype beside it. The photograph bore the image of a curvaceous woman of middle age with dark eyes and fair hair. The other lady was waifish and so pale that her eyes, hair, and brows all seemed the same snowy shade.

  “Lady Bridget is the daughter of the Duke of Ainswyck,” she said of the shapely woman. “And Lady Sarah is the only child of the Marquess of Cleland, who will soon inherit his father’s dukedom.”

  “Tell me about Lady Bridget.”

  The older woman grinned proudly. “Thought you’d like the looks of her. Word is she’s a bit of a challenge.”

  “I’m not daunted by a challenge.”

  “She’s a broken-hearted lass. Apparently, some Frenchman was set to marry her and broke the engagement.”

  “When?”

  Mrs. Trellaway shrugged. “Quite recently. Dukes’ daughters don’t remain on the marriage mart long.”

  “Then time is of the essence. How do we arrange an introduction?”

  “In most circumstances, it’s advantageous if we use your own connections to initiate an introduction.” She glanced down again at her notes. “You count the Duke of Tremayne and the Marquess of Huntley as friends?”

  “I do.” The two men were the only true friends he had. Keeping secrets meant keeping personal ties to a minimum.

  The matchmaker stared at him, gaze narrowed. Aidan realized Mrs. Trellaway was assessing him and he wasn’t coming up to snuff.

  “Any other titled acquaintances, Mr. Iverson?”

  “Are a duke and a marquess not sufficient?”

  She reached up to adjust the brooch at the neck of her gown and swallowed hard. “May I speak frankly?”

  “I prefer that you do.”

  “Any sort of acquaintance with a nobleman will, in the normal course, lead to familiarity with other noblemen. Invitations come your way, I’m sure.”

  “They do indeed.” Huntley was forever entertaining, and Nick and his wife, Mina, had begun to host dinners in their new Belgrave Square home in an attempt to establish their place in London society.

  “There’s something that matters more in aristocratic circles than a man’s wealth or title or bloodline.” Her brow folded in a worried frown, as if she was about to convey news he would not wish to hear. “Reputation, Mr. Iverson, is the most precious commodity.”

  “I’ve engaged in no scandals, Mrs. Trellaway.” He’d spent years avoiding bad business deals and building trust with other men of commerce in London.

  “You have not, but I’m afraid the Duke of Tremayne is considered a newcomer to the ton and the marquess is . . . perhaps too well-known.”

  “I do have other aristocratic acquaintances. Members of Lyon’s and a few gentlemen at the Royal Society.” He knew them well enough to exchange a civil greeting, but no better, and he suspected Mrs. Trellaway sensed he was grasping for unlikely possibilities.

  “We may need to call on them, Mr. Iverson, but let me first determine when Lady Bridget will be in town. Her family resides mostly on an estate in Ireland and only comes to London for the Season.”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  “I shall make inquiries and report back to you by the end of the week.”

  “Very good.” He could almost taste the end of small talk with marriage-eager debutantes, only to discover that their father
s were as noble as he was. When the matchmaker scooted forward in her chair, Aidan scooted back in his chair, eager to see her out.

  She gathered her notes carefully and then let out an unexpected ah. “There is one last bit of information I require, Mr. Iverson.”

  “Which is?”

  “Your people. The Duke of Ainswyck is as scrupulous about lineage as you are, sir.”

  “I came to you because I have no noble pedigree to boast.”

  The lady matchmaker bristled and sat up straighter in her chair. “Most of my clients do boast such a pedigree, sir.” She flicked the papers at the edge of her folio and stared at the top of his desk as if pondering what to say. “Ainswyck’s estate is nearly bankrupted. That much is true. But I fear even that inducement would not allow him to bind his daughter to a man whose history remains shrouded in mystery.”

  Aidan scrubbed at his jaw and squeezed his hand around the knot of tension at the back of his neck. “Tell him they were respectable. Tell him they’re dead. Remind the duke of all that I can offer Lady Bridget.” Aidan turned his gaze from the woman and worked to stem a flare of irritation. Anger lay just below the surface, reminding him too much of the impulsive young man he no longer wished to be.

  “I’m not at all certain I can convince the duke, Mr. Iverson.” Her tone was cool, her voice dubious.

  “Cost is irrelevant. Offer Ainswyck whatever he wants as an engagement gift.” Aidan squared his gaze on the woman. “Only to be delivered when the banns are read.” He wasn’t fool enough to make a bad deal, even with a matter of such consequence.

  “Your wealth is not in doubt, Mr. Iverson. But your parentage will be if I can give no answer to the Duke of Ainswyck when he asks. And I promise you he will.”

  “Stall him. Or make something up.” Aidan stood and pushed back his chair. It was either that or tip his entire desk over in one shove.

  He turned to gaze out the window, focusing on the pale ribbon of gold still lighting the dusky sky. But out of the corner of his eye, he could sense Mrs. Trellaway’s unease.

  “I do not think I can assist you.” The matchmaker scooted forward on her seat. “If you can provide no information that I may take to the duke, then I fear any match with Lady Bridget, or any duke’s daughter, will be impossible.”

  When she stood, a crinkling noise sounded in the office before she stepped forward and placed the check he’d given her on his desk.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Iverson.”

  Aidan didn’t look at her or offer any parting words. For the moment, gentlemanly civility escaped him.

  When the matchmaker departed, Aidan settled back on the edge of his desk. Shivers racked his body, though warmth still emanated from the grate in the corner of his office.

  Like poking at an open wound, he couldn’t stop from reaching inside a carved box he kept on his desktop and pulling out the faded scrap of paper inside. Sarah. The name was simply formed, a child’s hand. And the drawing was more primitive still, a few lines meant to represent a smiling face. One tiny stick arm raised in the semblance of a wave.

  He had no photograph of his sister. Just this ragged single memento and a hoard of regrets heavy enough to crush the air from his lungs.

  Pushing off his desk to stand, his hand snagged on a piece of the morning post his clerk had left for him to review.

  His pulse started a wild tattoo when he saw the feminine hand and the sender’s name.

  The Honorable Miss Diana Ashby.

  He ran his finger over letters as elegantly shaped as the lady herself. Then he tore the envelope open and unfolded her note.

  Mr. Iverson,

  I know you regret our collision at the Lyon’s Den and the resulting damage to my model. Rather than bill you for the cost of materials, I will allow you to rectify the matter by visiting my workshop so that I may show you a working model of my design.

  Sincerely,

  D. Ashby

  33 Cadogan Square

  Chapter Nine

  “Is it supposed to look . . . like that?” Grace Grinstead pointed at the various pieces of Diana’s scale model that were laid out on a table in her workshop.

  “No, it most decidedly is not.” Diana handed her friend a smock to cover the delicate lace and fine satin of the striped day dress she wore. “Put one of these on. This space can get rather messy.”

  “Get? I’m afraid messy has been achieved.” Grace smiled, slid her arms into the plain cotton garment, and secured it with a loose knot around her waist. “I recall that you were prone to messiness at Bexley too.”

  “I was not.” Diana pointed at the poor broken parts of her pneumatic device. “For goodness’ sakes, my greatest invention is a machine intended to make cleaning easier.”

  “Shall we start with this conservatory?” Grace lifted a rag from the workbench with two fingers, inspected a few of its stains, and then cast the oily fabric away. “I know you don’t employ many staff, but surely one of the maids could tidy for you.”

  Diana sat on one of the wooden stools she’d placed out for each of them and smiled at her former boarding school roommate. “What’s become of you, Grace? I remember how you used to love to ride horseback in the rain and dig your hands in the dirt during lessons in the garden. Being filthy never bothered you before.”

  Her friend let out a dismissive huff. “We haven’t been at Bexley in years, Diana.” She reached out to pick up one of the broken pieces of the model and spun it nervously in her fingers. “I’ve changed since then. My goals. My activities. My family has high expectations.”

  “Marriage?”

  “Yes, of course.” That she had even asked seemed to surprise Grace. “But not just any match. They wish for a fortuitous one. Mama admonishes us never to speak of finances, but the truth is ours are grim.”

  “I understand.” Diana never spoke of her family’s struggles with money either, but she suspected Grace’s father, Viscount Holcomb, would be horrified to know it had been a topic of conversation.

  “Do you?” Grace took in the cluttered corner of the back-garden conservatory that Diana had transformed into her workshop and smiled. “It seems that you’re well occupied in pursuits beyond husband hunting.”

  “For now, yes.” Diana took two pieces of broken metal cylinder into her hands. “My mother is losing patience.”

  “My father is the same.” Grace moved closer and settled onto the stool beside Diana. “But I’m impatient too. Do you not wish to leave home? To have a household of your own to manage?”

  “I can’t say that I do.” Diana craved independence, but would marriage bring that? “I appreciate having a space of my own.”

  Her mother did allow her more autonomy than she sometimes appreciated. Not all unmarried young ladies would get away with commandeering the family conservatory.

  “What about the rest?” Grace ran her finger around a whorl in the polished wooden tabletop. “There’s more than independence from one’s family to make a young woman wish to marry.”

  “There must be.” Diana glanced to her left and indicated a list that had been distributed to all the young ladies of Bexley, including the name of each student in their graduating class. She’d placed a checkmark next to the name of each friend whose marriage had been announced since they’d departed school four years ago.

  “Goodness, are there truly so few of us who’ve not yet found a match?” Grace sounded bereft. “Now I feel like even more of a spinster.”

  She and Diana exchanged a glance and chuckled.

  “What I meant was love.”

  “Ah.” Diana sighed and reached for a small hammer to alter the shape of her cylinder.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t believe in love.” Grace leaned so far into the table, she shifted a few pieces of Diana’s model.

  “Poets tell of love. Novelists write characters who fall far too readily. But I don’t have time for reading poetry or novels.” Diana smiled, but didn’t meet her friend’s gaze. “I prefer to make decisio
ns based on what’s rational. On what I can see and touch and calculate.”

  “Come, Di. Are you telling me there’s never been a single man who’s made your pulse race? No one who made you wish to ignore all the rules of propriety we were taught at Bexley?”

  Diana’s fingers tensed so fiercely on the cylinder in her hand that she felt the thin metal begin to give way. Her cheeks warmed, and she willed her thoughts to go anyplace but to that night.

  Aidan Iverson made her pulse race, and she’d ignored every bit of etiquette she’d been taught.

  “There is someone,” Grace whispered.

  “No, there’s not,” Diana said, as much to herself as to her friend. “I am a woman of science. Love is about feelings and fanciful notions that have no place in my life.”

  Grace lifted one blond brow when Diana finished. “No place at all?”

  “Not right now.” Diana stood and collected a bottle of adhesive and two brushes from her workbench. “Would you help me glue these chipped pieces back together? They haven’t splintered and we can fit them neatly back into place.”

  They worked in silence for several minutes. Diana was grateful for the reprieve, but she sensed Grace’s gaze on her now and then, watching and assessing.

  “Love will find you one day,” Grace said quietly. “When you least expect it. Your feelings may not make sense or be as rational as one of your scientific formulas, but they will be undeniable.”

  Grace spoke with such solid certainty that Diana stopped and looked at her.

  “Is there someone who’s turned your head, Grace? Someone that you wish to marry?”

  Her friend’s eyes widened, but she collected herself quickly, schooled her expression, and laughed lightly. “Of course. I just haven’t met him yet. I only know he must be rich and willing to accept a meager dowry from my father.”

  “You just spoke to me of love and yet now you leave it off your list.”

  “Oh, love would be nice, but I suppose it’s not essential. Not if every other requirement is met.” Grace winked and then stared down at the table. She glued the last piece in place and glanced up proudly. “There. Now what else can I help you with?”