Page 31 of Anything But a Duke
He hated the mere fact that hewasdebating.
Decisiveness. Taking action. That’s what he was known for. He’d never been a man to dither.
Dragging in a deep breath, he narrowed his gaze and stared at the rose red entrance of the Ashbys’ whitewashed town house. The hue reminded him of Diana Ashby’s mouth, a darker shade than the pink frock she’d worn to the Den, a shadow of the flush that had rushed up the curve of her cheeks.
The lady behind that door sparked a mix of attraction and interest that hadn’t waned since the night she’d rushed toward him across slick cobblestones, determined to save him from men who were twice her size.
He’d known then that she was trouble. Brave, impulsive, and troublesome because he’d been utterly unable to forget her.
“Why the hell am I here?” he grumbled under his breath.
Her summons was like many he received from inventors eager for someone to make their ideas take flight. Despite her insistence, he didn’t owe Miss Ashby this visit. Clumsiness did not equate to indebtedness.
But there was the other debt. How did one repay a young woman for recklessly saving one’s life?
And there was more.
The desire to see her again had gone past intrigue and become something of a craving since the previous week when she’d torn his coat and stared at him with a disturbing mix of curiosity and interest at the club.
Heshouldgo inside and do exactly as she requested. Give her a chance to display her invention, apologize again for their unfortunate collision, thank her once more for saving his life, and go on his merry way.
Behaving like a proper gentleman hadn’t been bred into his bones, but he knew enough of propriety to spend twenty minutes with an unwed gentlewoman and not cause a scandal.
He approached the door, knocked once, and glanced at his pocket watch to remind himself to keep this short.
“Good afternoon, sir.” A bespectacled older gentleman greeted him and took his measure in one discerning glance.
“Is Miss Ashby at home?”
The question seemed to surprise the servant. His mouth dropped open before he answered. “Why, yes, sir. And who may I say has come to call?”
“Iverson.” He offered the man a calling card. “She invited me.”
The old man quirked a brow and tipped his head as if he doubted every word. But he took Aidan’s card, coat, and hat, and led him to a drawing room. For a London town house in a good neighborhood, the space was snug but warm and inviting. A wash of morning sunlight streamed through the curtains, enhancing the yellow shade of the walls. It was a room he could easily imagine Miss Ashby inhabiting.
“If you’ll wait here, sir.”
Aidan explored the space while he waited, noting every sign that told the tale of the Ashby family. Watercolor miniatures of Diana and her brother. Porcelain figurines of two identical children, a boy and a girl. A pile of books that included everything from Dickens to Copernicus. A few unpolished but framed technical drawings made him wonder if Miss Ashby’s interest in engineering had been encouraged from her youth.
“Those were my father’s.”
Aidan inhaled sharply and caught her rosewater scent on the air. He told himself not to act like a fool before turning to face her.
“He inspired you to become an inventor?” The words came out too rough, because the sight of her was as unsettling as he anticipated.
A rush of pleasure came first and then the same jolt of attraction as when he’d looked into her eyes at Lyon’s.
“I suppose he did, in some ways.” Her voice was breathy too and he found himself hoping he had even a fraction of the effect on her that she did on him. “Though our designs are quite different.” She approached and lifted the framed image of a technical drawing that he’d been examining.
Her nearness sped his pulse. But of course they’d stood this close before. Closer, on the night she’d let him hold on to her in the moonlight.
Having her close seemed more awkward and intimate today. He was in her home, and she looked far different than she had when he’d last seen her.
At Lyon’s, she’d worn a fashionable, ruffled traveling gown, her glossy brown hair trapped in pins. Today she was downright unkempt. Her chocolate waves had been captured in a messy braid that lay over one shoulder and her plain peach gown fell naturally over her curves.
“There was no consistency to my father’s fancies. He could imagine a whole city engineered to his specifications or design something like this.” She held up her father’s drawing. “It’s a ventilating top hat.”
“A ventilating...?”
