Page 8 of Anything But a Duke
“Men never turn down money.” Huntley rose from the settee and retrieved the crumpled letter. “You’re not one to make enemies lightly. What have you done to Lock—”
“I take it you’ve found the answer.” Aidan swigged a bit more liquid fire and refilled his glass. Lockwood had mentioned his lack of connections to members of the Royal Society, while methodically listing the titles of each man who would sit on the board of the upcoming exhibition. “Commoner blood runs rampant through my veins. Apparently, that taints everything else.”
“Rubbish. My father is friends with Lockwood. They’re members of the same club. Befriend the men Lockwood knows and he’ll be eating out of your commoner palm.”
“Which clubs?”
“White’s, of course. But it’s the Parthenon you’ll want into. Very exclusive.”
“They won’t take me as a member.” Aidan tightened his grip on the crystal glass in his hand until his knuckles ached.
Huntley puffed out his chest. “I’ll vouch for you. Tremayne will too.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.” Aidan had pulled himself up from the gutter on his own. Every penny and pound he possessed, he’d earned. On his own. He’d never taken a loan. He didn’t incur debts. He had business partners, but he never curried favor.
Fair transactions. An equal give and take. That’s how he lived his life.
A memory filled his mind. Pale, luminous skin. Eyes as dark blue as the night sky. A fierce young woman emerging from the darkness, ready to take on his attackers. The warmth of her touch, the too brief taste of her lips.
Therewasone person he owed, and he didn’t even know her name.
“I understand you’re a proud man.” Huntley spoke with less humor than his usual bluster. His voice dipped lower with an edge of sincerity. “But we all need help now and then.”
“I’m not interested in charity.”
Huntley let out a breathy chuckle. “Ah, yes, stubborn too. You’re proud and bullheaded and—”
“Determined to achieve success on my own terms.” Aidan tipped back another swig of whiskey and drew in a deep breath. Not enough to bring calm, but enough to allow him to speak without growling. He glanced again at the letter from Lockwood, discarded on the settee next to Huntley. “I sometimes forget how much I don’t belong among men like Lockwood.”
“Utter bollocks.” Huntley spat the words and ran a hand through his overlong blond hair. “Acceptance in fashionable society isn’t all that difficult to achieve.”
Aidan scoffed and couldn’t keep the bitterness from his tone. “You were born into fashionable society,my lord.”
“Use my honorific once more and I may never speak to you again. Or give you advice.”
“Are you advising me now?” There was irony in Huntley—Aidan’s aristocratic friend with the worst reputation—teaching him how to gain acceptance among other noblemen. The humor of it sparked a rusty chuckle.
“There are ways in, Iverson. Money. Fashion. The queen’s favor.”
“I have money. Doesn’t always do the trick.”
“Noblemen cling to their pomposity.” Huntley crossed one long leg over the other, laced his hands over his waistcoat, and let out a long sigh. “But there is one foolproof means of thrusting yourself into the bosom of good society forever.”
Aidan arched a brow. “Which is?”
“Marriage, my friend.” Huntley spoke with all the enthusiasm of a man mentioning his own death sentence.
“Good God, have you finally decided to give up your profligate ways?” Nick, Duke of Tremayne and Lyon’s chief proprietor, bounded up the stairs and then stopped to assess them. “Our factotum told me I’d find both of you up here, but I had no idea the news would be so momentous.”
“Humorous, Tremayne,” Huntley said, as if he didn’t find the duke’s quips the least bit amusing. “I’d claim bachelorhood forever if I could. My recommendation was meant for Iverson alone.”
“Iverson leg-shackled, I can more easily imagine.” Tremayne approached the liquor and laid down the sheaf of papers he carried under his arm. After lifting the decanter and inspecting its meager contents, he stared at each of them accusingly.
“Look at him.” Huntley flicked his fingers toward Tremayne. “Even when irked, the man’s rarely without a ridiculous smile on his face.”
Tremayne was, in fact, smiling. Not an outright grin, just the tip of his mouth. An expression that had become carved on his face in the past months, even in repose. Contentedness wafted off him. The change was so different from the angry, bitter man he’d once been, Iverson couldn’t help but wonder at the transformative power of marital bliss.
He and Nick had met in the direst of circumstances: cold, hungry, and penniless waifs, eking out a living in the middle of a London winter. Aidan had been making his way far longer and taught Nick what he knew of cheap doss houses, day work, and which games of chance might result in dividends.
