Page 46 of Anything But a Duke
“Only a bit, but I thought I’d assemble information about the other young ladies I plan to introduce you to.” Diana lifted the notes she’d prepared on the earl and countess and slid them toward Iverson. “Unless you’ve decided to marry Lady Sophie.”
He let out a chuckle and the green of his eyes brightened. “You must think me quite the mercenary. I spoke to the lady for a quarter of an hour in a public park. I’m not prepared to decide just yet.”
“Perhaps after tonight you’ll know.” His wealth would appeal to the earl and countess, and she couldn’t imagine why Sophie’s gregarious charm wouldn’t appeal to him.
“Don’t rush me, Miss Ashby,” he said with the hint of a smile. “I mean to choose wisely.”
“And I mean to help you.” Diana looked down at the meticulous notes she’d assembled, but she sensed Iverson’s gaze on her.
“You already have.” When she looked up, he was smiling. The expression softened the hard edge of his jaw, drew little creases near his eyes. A warmth kindled in Diana’s chest that felt wonderful but worried her all the same.
She couldn’t lose herself in how much she enjoyed talking to him and spending time with him. Matchmaking. That’s why they were here together, sharing afternoon tea.
Diana couldn’t give in to the charm of Aidan Iverson’s smiles.
Chapter Fourteen
The minute Aidan stepped into the Earl and Countess of Caldwell’s St. James Square drawing room, he understood why they struggled to maintain their modest country house and had drained their noble coffers dry.
If their furnishings were any indication, the couple reveled in excess. Not to mention shockingly bad taste.
He took in the monstrosity of a drawing room and wished he could shield his eyes. He was no connoisseur of fine decor, but he admired beauty and order. The Caldwell home displayed neither.
Massive pieces of modern art clogged the walls, elegant examples of Chinese and Japanese pottery sat crowded on doily-covered tables next to figurines of milkmaids and dogs. The entire fireplace surround was gilded and not an inch of mantel was visible beneath an assembly of clocks and crystal candlesticks and assorted bric-a-brac.
Despite his own penchant for collecting, Aidan felt uncomfortable among the clutter.
Among the collection of guests too. He’d been to dinners peopled by aristocrats before, but there was an air of tension in the Caldwell drawing room. He’d been greeted warmly, but sensed eyes on him, questioning whether he truly belonged.
There was no pretense about his purpose. Lady Caldwell had addressed him civilly but with a narrowed, assessing gaze. She was quite like every matchmaking mama he’d ever met, so he’d endured her inspection as well as he could, made polite conversation with Lady Sophronia, and then retreated to a corner where he could watch the young lady and consider what sort of wife she might be.
Unfortunately, his gaze kept straying to another young woman.
Miss Ashby caught him looking and strode over, weaving between guests and massive potted ferns.
“May I offer a bit of advice?” She took up the empty patch of carpet next to him and spoke quietly out of the side of her mouth, as if practicing her ventriloquist skills.
“You may offer. But just know that I don’t agree to take your advice.”
She glared at him. He sensed the heat of it against the side of his face and smiled, but he wouldn’t look at her. The lady was a mighty distraction.
Even from across the room, he’d caught her rose scent and enjoyed watching her speak to other guests. A Lady Digby and a Lord Abernethy, a friend and cousin of the countess, had occupied her in a lively discussion about books and a new lending library in town. When she finally stepped away from them, he wasn’t disappointed that she immediately turned her attention on him and approached his corner.
“Try not to look quite so miserable,” she told him as she took a glass of lemonade from a passing servant’s tray.
“Do I? I’m not.” He wasn’t. Not when she was standing so close. He gave in and glanced at her, finding her profile—long dark lashes, plump cheeks, and upturned nose—far too appealing. “I’m merely assessing.”
She looked at him then. The first time their gazes had met since she’d arrived. He felt the same frisson that always flared between them.
Every time he looked at her, he felt a rogue tug at the corner of his mouth. But, of course, it wouldn’t do to smile like a fool whenever she was near. He did allow himself this grin though, even if only to disprove her claim.
“How about now?” He kept his gaze on hers as he leaned in front of her to take his own glass of lemonade from a servant’s tray. Her sharp inhale felt like a victory. “Do I still look miserable, Miss Ashby?”
“You look...” She assessed him in a slow perusal. He watched her eyes shift from his nose, his mouth, down to his chest, and then up again to meet his gaze. “Less miserable.”
“To progress.” He lifted his glass.
She raised hers hesitantly and clinked her glass gently against his. “What do you think?” she whispered. “Of Sophie.”
