Page 7 of Anything But a Duke
Diana looked down the mews, hoping to see the handsome stranger one more time.
But he was gone. Not a sight of him anywhere.
A rebel impulse made her wish to go back out into the darkness, find him, and ask all the questions that filled her mind.
But she couldn’t. Even she knew better than to risk that sort of impropriety.
Regret pulsed inside her and her breath hitched in her chest.
She wanted to see him again, discover his name. But it wasn’t logical. She’d recklessly kissed the man.
It was far better they never meet again.
Chapter Three
January 1846
London, Lyon’s Gentlemen’s Club
Aidan dragged in a shallow breath and tried to convince himself not to rip the whole damned upstairs lounge of Lyon’s Gentlemen’s Club to shreds with his bare hands.
Dismantling a chair would suffice. Maybe tearing the stuffing out of a plump settee. Any destruction would do. Anything that would let him expel the rage boiling in his veins.
Gripping the balustrade of the balcony high above the gaming floor of Lyon’s, he closed his eyes and fought for self-control. He focused on the sounds of the club: laughter, shouted bluster, the shuffle of cards. Men placing wagers and exclaiming as their luck rose and fell with the roll of the dice.
The club was thriving. Since he was one-third owner, busy tables should have brought Aidan satisfaction. But the familiar buzz of activity did nothing to stem his frustration.
Everything was stained red behind his eyes, and the loudest sound was the ceaseless thud of blood pounding in his ears.
He’d awaited an answer for months from the men organizing an industrial exhibition, only to be dismissed with a few neatly printed lines of ink. Disappointment had quickly turned to anger. Years of practice had taught him to quell the spark-to-tinder rage of the impetuous young man he’d once been, and he’d become skilled at keeping bitterness at bay.
Until tonight.
He stared down at the baize-covered tables once more, cataloging the pomaded and balding pates of dozens of men. Most were noblemen and from this view, there was little to distinguish them from one another beyond girth and hair color. All were black-suited and white-tied. A veritable army of fashionable consistency.
Aidan looked down at his own suit, a match to theirs. The finest tailored tailcoat and white-tie evening wear Bond Street had to offer. But he was different from the men below. There would always be a disparity. No matter how much money he earned. No matter how many devices he funded. No matter how many London men of business spoke his name with a mix of fear and reverence.
As co-owner of the opulent gentlemen’s club, he could storm downstairs and throw every craven gambler out on his ear if the mood took him. Yet that power didn’t change anything. He couldn’t alter his history. Hell, he barely knew what it was.
Whatever the truth of his family, he was no nobleman. Doors would always be closed to him, and today the one he wished to enter had been slammed in his face.
He slipped a hand into his pocket and crushed the letter of refusal in his palm. Hurling it across the length of the lounge felt satisfying, but the crumpled ball landed with an unimpressive bounce.
So much for tearing the place to shreds.
“Do you prefer solitude or should I be a true friend and ask what ails you?” Rhys Forester, Marquess of Huntley’s far too cheerful voice rang out from the top of the stairs.
Without waiting for an answer, Huntley headed for the cart laden with decanters and poured himself a tumbler of whiskey. He didn’t retreat, but he was smart enough to say no more.
“That ball of foolscap is from Lord Lockwood.”
“Lockwood.” Huntley frowned and tipped his head to the gilded ceiling. “Paunchy. Walks with a cane. Speaks loudly and favors cigars that smell like the devil. Is that the one?”
“He’s director of the exhibition being planned under the auspices of Prince Albert.”
“I thought you were to take part in the planning.” Huntley gestured vaguely. “Overseeing some of the projects or whatnot.”
“I’ve been refused. They don’t want my advice.” Aidan strode to the whiskey decanter and sloshed some in a glass. He tipped it back and relished the burn. “They won’t even take my money.”
