Page 90 of Anything But a Duke
“But—”
He bent and kissed her before she could get a word out. One quick claiming and then he straightened. “I’m going to kiss you every time you interrupt. Let me say the rest.”
Diana offered him the slightest of nods.
“I love you, Diana Ashby. The only part of our agreement I ever truly wanted was you. I should have never let you offer yourself as guarantee. I don’t want you to accept my proposal because we made a deal. I want you to accept because you know, as I do, that nothing feels as right as when we’re together.”
Diana wanted desperately to believe him, to simply let herself feel and give in to the temptation to say yes. But thoughts rushed in, as they always did. Not only doubts and fears, but memories.
She knew what it was to yearn for belonging and acceptance. She understood the desperation, the willingness to do anything, promise anything, for the chance to succeed in a world where many would say she didn’t belong.
If they married, he would gain none of what he’d wished to achieve. What if she agreed to be his bride and he came to resent her for what their marriage cost him?
“What about the exhibition?” she asked him weakly, desperate for him to think as she was struggling to do, not only with his heart but with his head.
“Diana.” He took her hand in his and swept his thumb along the backs of her fingers. “I feared you’d resist this, but I hope you’d at least hear me. I have changed. The exhibition doesn’t matter to me as much as you do.”
“Because you’re infatuated.” It was a fear she’d wrestled with all day. She remembered their conversation at the Zoological Society. Infatuation, he’d said, was something one couldn’t prepare for. Perhaps that was what he felt for her.
“This is more than infatuation. How shall I convince you?” He slid a hand around her neck and tipped her head toward his. “Will this convince you?”
Diana lifted onto her toes for the kiss. She wanted it as much as he did. He plundered, stroking his tongue into her mouth again and again until her knees began to quiver. She lifted a hand to steady herself, and he smiled against her lips. The rogue knew the effect he had on her, and he loved it.
“Convinced?” he asked on a breathy whisper.
“Aidan.”
He wrapped an arm around her back and lifted her off her toes, settling her bottom onto the worktable at her back. As he kissed her again, he reached down and dragged his fingers along her stockinged legs, rucking her skirt up so he could press in between her spread thighs.
“I want you like this,” he said against her lips. “Shall I take you right here in your workshop, Diana?”
“Yes,” she hissed between kisses.
He raised his head and looked down at her, eyes blazing with need. “Then would you believe me?” He kissed her cheek, her nose, nipped at her lower lip. “Then would you marry me?”
“Aidan, I can’t.”
The three words froze him in place. Even as his body tensed and he seemed to hold his breath, his expression crumbled. All the joy, all the desire of a moment before, were swept away by disappointment.
Stepping back, he reached out and settled her skirts around her legs, then lowered her onto her feet.
“I’m sorry.” Diana’s whispered words brought no relief. Not to her and, from the devastation in Aidan’s gaze, not to him either.
He stunned her by stepping forward and pressing one quick kiss to her forehead.
“I’ll meet with Grace Grinstead,” he told her in an emotionless tone. “I’ll let you keep your promise to your friend. Send me the details once the arrangement has been made.”
Without another word, he started out of the conservatory. Diana pressed her lips together and willed herself not to cry out and call him back. But then his footsteps slowed. She turned to find him watching from the threshold.
“I’m not giving up, Diana. You may be stubborn, but I’m as tenacious as hell.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
If anyone had observed Aidan for the next several days, they would have assumed he was simply a hardworking London man of business who rose early to go to the office and didn’t leave until the wee hours at night.
Closer inspection would have revealed hours of pacing, an excessive consumption of whiskey, and rants shouted at the walls of his office that none heard but his trustworthy secretary.
This morning he was attempting to make sense of investment notes that he’d scribbled during a meeting the day before. Usually he took care with his handwriting, since it was a skill he’d struggled to learn at the workhouse. Yesterday, apparently, he hadn’t given a damn.
