Page 13 of Anything But a Duke
She’d never forget the man, and yet today he looked strikingly different.
That night a year ago, he’d been cast in cloud-shrouded moon glow, a palette of grays and dark shadows.
But here, in morning light, he was all color. So many colors.
Auburn hair. Piercing green eyes. Flushed lips. A waistcoat the shade of butterscotch under a suit of sapphire blue.
In her memory he was tall, but now he seemed almost hulking compared to the men around them. And just as she’d remembered, his size was distributed well, proportioned in equal measure—broad chest, enormous shoulders, muscled thighs. Thighs that from her position in front of him, kneeling on the floor, she found herself staring at as her cheeks flared to an inferno.
She fought the urge to still, as she sometimes did when emotions churned too wildly, and glanced up at him again.
“You,” he said wonderingly.
He watched for what felt like too long. Long enough for her to note that his gaze was markedly different from those of the other men she’d encountered that morning. He didn’t look at her as if she was an oddity to be assessed and dismissed. His gaze was seeking, as if he was pondering a question and wondered if she might be the answer.
During a lengthy perusal, his gaze skimmed each feature of her face. Then he reached out a hand.
Just like the night they’d met, Diana wasn’t wearing gloves. Neither was he. His palm was shockingly cool against her overheated fingers. Far cooler than the look in his eyes.
She gave him her weight so that she could rise with some small measure of gracefulness despite the protest of her corset, and then she bent and carefully gathered her model in her arms. Subtle scents wafted off him, mint and coffee and fresh, clean linen.
“We’ll be meeting again soon,” he told her. “In the Den. I’m Aidan Iverson.”
Diana was used to her mind working quickly, sifting facts and sorting out problems every moment of the day, but suddenly details felt like mismatched puzzle pieces. Her stranger, the man she’d found injured in a Belgravia mews, was one of the men who would soon decide her fate. She knew she should speak, offering him a civil greeting. Even a warm one. His goodwill could change the entire course of her life.
Instead, she stood mute and clung foolishly to his hand.
“Good luck, Miss Ashby,” he said, his voice deep and as cool as the touch of his palm. Then he turned and strode away.
Of course he knew her name. He might have had a part in selecting her to appear before the Den. She was the only woman who’d been selected this round.
Perhaps that would help her somehow.
He’d wished her luck. It’s what her brother believed in. It’s what their father had relied upon. But Diana didn’t believe in luck, only in herself and her ideas.
Now she just needed to convince a duke, a marquess, and a man with searching green eyes whom she’d once kissed impulsively in the rain.
Good grief, perhaps that would doom her altogether.
“Miss?” The porter who’d spoken to her earlier approached. “I believe this is what you were looking for. Young gent says he picked them up by accident but has been reunited with his own papers.”
“Thank you, sir.” She took the folio and offered the old man a smile, then quickly made her way back to the reception rooms. Her brother was awake but bleary-eyed.
“You found your papers?”
“I did. And you found a restorative.” She gestured to the cup of steaming tea sitting on the table beside him.
“Would you like some?”
“No, thank you.” Diana assessed him as she settled nearby. He looked more alert, but the pallor of his skin indicated that his need for tea was far greater than her own.
She lifted her notes and slid a single sheet out for him to review. “Those are the words I wish to say. Let’s hope I remember to recite them all and in the right order without getting stuck somewhere in the middle.”
While Dom squinted at her handwriting, Diana flipped through the other documents she’d brought with her. Beyond notes on her device, she’d collected details about the investors. She’d studied each man as if he were a design problem to be solved, scouring newspapers, gossip rags, and public documents to discover as much as she could about their interests and investment habits. Only one, Tremayne, was actually a duke. The other, the Marquess of Huntley, would someday inherit a dukedom.
The third man was something else entirely.
She curled her fingers against her palm, recalling the slide of his skin against hers.
