Page 51 of Anything But a Duke
“I have information for you too.” From her reticule, she extracted a folded sheet of paper describing her dearest friend from Bexley.
This introduction would fulfill her promise to Iverson but also give Grace Grinstead what she jokingly requested, an opportunity to meet one of the wealthiest men in London.
“As you see, Miss Grinstead is quite accomplished.”
“She has many interests.”
“Isn’t that what gentlemen want in a wife? Accomplishments?”
He looked up at her, a little furrow knitting his brow. “I’m not quite a gentleman though. Am I, Miss Ashby?”
Rather than answer and give in to the urge to question him about just what sort of a man he was, she pointed to the list in his hands.
“Not only is Grace fond of animals and quite well read in zoology, she has a natural talent for drawing and painting.” He would soon see for himself that her creative sensibilities carried over into her personal appearance too. She was the most fashionable young woman Diana had ever known.
“She is the daughter of a nobleman, just like your opera lady.”
“One more mention of the opera lady and I’ll insist you accompany me to the longest, loudest opera in the history of London theater.”
“I’ve never been before.” Diana couldn’t quite keep the wistfulness from her tone. Her mother had once been fond of the theater, and she remembered evenings in her childhood when her parents would attend the opera or a play.
“Do you wish to go?” Iverson turned a surprised glance her way.
“Perhaps, but not as punishment.”
“I promise you. Itispunishment.”
Diana laughed. “Maybe you have no ear for music.”
“That is where you’re wrong, Miss Ashby.” He cast her a mischievous look and held her gaze before flipping the page to read the last of her notes. After a moment, he added absently, “I play music rather proficiently.”
She got lost in studying his profile, watching his eyes scan the words she’d written. He lifted a finger and ran it along the edge of his lower lip. His fingers were long, elegantly shaped, and she could easily imagine them skidding across piano keys or pressing the strings of a violin.
Those thoughts turned quickly to memories of his fingers on her skin, tracing the line of her cheek, dancing a delicious trail of heat up her arm.
She wanted him to touch her again.
Instead, she asked, “Can you prove that, Mr. Iverson? In science, nothing is true until it’s proven with evidence.”
“What shall be our exchange?”
Diana bit her lip and considered. “I can... juggle, depending on the objects, or flip a coin between each of my fingers.”
After holding her challenging look without blinking, Iverson stood and approached a polished wooden cabinet in the corner of the room. Glass doors revealed an intriguing collection of statuary and rocks and delicate figures carved in marble. But when he opened the doors and reached in deep, he retrieved a violin from a drawer underneath.
He lifted it carefully, positioning the bottom edge against his neck, just under his chin. “Any requests?”
“You choose, but I do have a fondness for Mozart.” Somehow her love for the composer persisted despite a fearsome piano tutor who’d rapped her knuckles when she made a mistake.
“Mozart, it is.” He positioned his fingers along the strings, drew back the bow, and began to play. The notes were delicate and resonant, then they climbed to a lively tempo that made her want to move.
He paused too soon and glanced at her, as if waiting for her verdict. Or for her to urge him to play more.
“Well, carry on,” she told him.
He smiled and continued to play the sweet, spritely parts of Mozart’s Second Violin Concerto. The music made her wish to rise from her chair and take a turn around a ballroom. Ridiculous. She was a terrible dancer and she loathed balls.
Her fingers tapped along, knowing the song, recalling where it would rise and fall. Soon her foot was tapping too.
