Page 37 of Anything But a Duke
“Like you?” The interest in his question shot a strange glow of pleasure through her. She wasn’t imagining the hunger in his gaze, and she couldn’t deny how much he intrigued her. But she was no noblewoman.
“Some may be like me, but—”
“I doubt that very much, Miss Ashby.” He ran a hand roughly through his neatly cropped red-gold waves and let his palm settle at the back of his neck. He squeezed as if to ease tension that settled there. “And in exchange for these introductions, you would expect me to fund your machine.”
There was no question in his tone. He understood, and she was grateful for that much.
“If I don’t wish to marry any of your aristocratic acquaintances?” He busied himself with arranging the points of his shirt cuffs, as if her answer was of little consequence.
“Then I suppose...” That possibility hadn’t been in her mind. She hadn’t thought that far.
He pointed to her calendar on the wall. “You have a deadline, Miss Ashby. From whom? Your mother?”
She must have given something away because he nodded in understanding.
“What did you agree to do if you found no investor?”
“I’ve already told you. I promised my mother I would give up my research and designs.” A sharp pain shot through her every time she faced the prospect of abandoning her inventions.
“For what? To be idle?”
“A kind of idleness, yes.” Diana huffed out a long sigh. “To fetch a husband. To take my place on the marriage mart.”
Iverson’s gaze sharpened. His shoulders squared and he crossed his arms in front of him. He looked commanding. Confident. As if he knew that in this gamble she’d attempted, he held all the cards.
“I must be sure I’ll get a return on this investment, Miss Ashby.”
“But you’re a man who likes to take risks. You’re known for it.”
“Calculated risks. I never risk blindly, and often I require a guarantee.”
“A guarantee? Then there’s no risk at all.” She braced a hand on her hip and tried to think how best to make her half-formed plan irresistible. “What kind of guarantee do you require, Mr. Iverson?”
He started to speak, then snapped his mouth closed again. After scrubbing at the light dusting of stubble along his jaw, he began pacing, walking deeper into parts of the conservatory she rarely used and then returning.
Finally, Iverson slowed his perambulations, coming to stand close to where she’d rested her hip against her workbench.
“You,” he said, infusing the word with unequivocal power.
“Me?” She wasn’t at all sure what he was insisting upon.
“If none of your noble ladies suit and we have not found a buyer or have no promise of profits for your device by the month’s end...” He hesitated, drew in a lungful of air, and asked, “Will you agree to be my bride, Miss Ashby?”
The look he gave her wasn’t triumphant. Not a hint of arrogance lit his green eyes. What she saw in his gaze was something else. Need. Uncertainty.
Marry him? A man she’d met twice and whose history was as murky as London fog?
“The Ashbys claim only a baronetcy that passed to my uncle. I’m not at all a good prospect if you wish for a noble bride.”
He frowned, contemplating her argument. But she knew before he spoke again that he wouldn’t give way. “If we find a buyer for your device and I have some indication of a return on my investment, I shall release you from the guarantee. You do believe in your device, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
He said no more. Words weren’t needed. She knew the options before her.
“Will you provide assistance once my devices are ready to sell?”
“Help finding buyers?” He offered one firm nod. “Of course. I will assist however I’m able. As an investor, your success will be mine.”
