Page 25 of Anything But a Duke
“I appreciate that you arrived so promptly, Mrs. Trellaway.” He smiled, but the lady didn’t seem to take any notice.
She was a curious sort. He waited as she took in his office, scanning the items on his desk, the bookcase in the corner, a row of ledgers on a high shelf at his back. There wasn’t a great deal to see. He kept the space free of anything that might distract him from work.
He didn’t mind her perusal. It gave him an opportunity to assess her in return.
Aidan quite liked that she was a woman of advanced years. Age could prove an advantage. Years implied experience, and, in this matter, he needed all the help he could get. With no formal education, he often felt himself a step behind, especially when it came to etiquette and the dictates of polite society.
Three months after telling his friends he required no help to catch the notice of some eligible noblewoman at a round of social functions, he’d decided to take Huntley’s advice.
Heaven help him.
Huntley had given him Mrs. Trellaway’s name and insisted she’d engineered matches between the most eligible ladies and gentlemen of theton.
“I have a few questions, if I may,” she finally began. With a single tug, the matchmaker released a fan of papers from her folder.
The muscle under Aidan’s eye began to twitch.
“What is it that you wish to know?” Aidan tugged at the knot of his tie and felt the thrum of his pulse beating against his fingertips.
He had secrets to keep and a past mostly punctuated by mysteries.
“Tell me about your people, Mr. Iverson.”
“My people?” He attempted to swallow the stone that had lodged itself at the back of his throat. “I’d prefer we not tread there.”
“I see.” The lady’s eyes bulged behind her spectacles and she shuffled the papers balanced on her knees. “Well, let’s save that for later. I understand you seek a highborn noblewoman for a bride. A lady of excellent breeding and accomplishments. Dowry unnecessary?”
“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?”
