Page 10 of Anything But a Duke
“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.
Despite 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.
