Page 1 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)

One

“ T hat is it! I have had quite enough!”

Lady May Vestiere shoved her spectacles into her reticule with such force that the delicate wire bent. She did not care. That confounding thing was costing her an entire Season, and she would not have it!

Her brother, August, who was standing beside her with a glass of champagne and an expression far too amused, arched a brow. “Have the spectacles finally offended you beyond repair, or are you merely in a mood for theatrics this evening?”

“Neither,” May muttered, glaring at the floor or where she thought the floor was. Without her lenses, the marble seemed to ripple, and skirts and tailcoats were indistinct. “Well, the former,” she corrected.

They stood near the edge of the ballroom, away from most of the revelry. She squinted in the direction of the dancers, but to her dismay, she was unable to make out their shapes, much less their features.

Of course, it would be tonight of all nights. It was April’s ball; their family’s first celebration since her marriage to Theodore, the Duke of Stone, a little more than a month past. Their mother had pulled every string she possessed to ensure the evening was flawless. And it was.

Except for May. Now she folded her arms. “No one stares at April or June. Only me. And I know precisely why.”

August grinned. “Because you are far too clever, and it terrifies them.”

“Because of the spectacles!”

“Ah. Yes. Well. That too.”

She glared at him. “You are not helping.”

“I never claimed I would.”

“May!” Their mother’s voice rang out like a bell as she approached. The Duchess of Wildmoore’s eyes went straight to May’s now-bare face. “Did you truly just put your spectacles away? The physician was quite clear—you are to wear them at all times.”

“Except when I am asleep,” May replied, rolling her eyes for emphasis.

“Do you not remember when you mistook that poor vicar for a coat rack and hung your shawl on him?”

“Mama,” May groaned. “The vicar did stand like a coat rack.”

“Or the time you called a majordomo ‘Your Grace’ because you thought it was the Duke of Featherstone?”

“No one remembers that,” she mumbled, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I remember it vividly,” her sister, June, laughed. “You were wearing that green muslin dress.”

May sighed. “It was an honest mistake.”

“You fell into a pond the same day, May,” August quipped.

She shot him a look and said through clenched teeth, “No one drowned.”

“The ducks fled in terror,” her mother added. “And your skirts weighed enough to sink a carriage.”

“Oh, I remember that! It was in February in the country,” June accepted a glass of lemonade from a passing footman. “And freezing.”

“You’re meant to be my ally, June.”

“I am. Which is why I must inform you that, spectacles or no spectacles, you are entirely beautiful.”

May scoffed. “You only say that because you’re my sister.”

“No,” June said. “I say it because it is true. Though your hair is a battlefield.”

“Thank you. That was nearly a compliment.”

“It was exactly a compliment.” June patted her shoulder. “You might even enjoy yourself if you let someone look at you properly.”

“That is exactly what I am trying to prevent. They stare, then they laugh.”

April joined them then, resplendent in ivory and silver, her smile bright enough to make the candlelight jealous. Her hand was tucked into Theo’s arm, and though May could not read her expression well, she thought she saw her brows furrow.

“You’ve taken them off?” April asked.

“She’s taken up arms,” August announced. “Declared war on her spectacles.”

“Oh, May,” April murmured. “Are you certain you’ll be all right without them?”

May lifted her chin. “I shall have a fine and splendid evening without them. Just watch.”

She didn’t feel fine or splendid. She felt as though she was walking blind through a field of polished glass.

The ballroom was dazzling, and everything shimmered a touch too brightly.

Faces shifted into one another like oil on water, and there was that tight knot in her stomach that was low and twisting.

June nudged her side. “There. Just over your right shoulder. A young lord is headed this way. Perhaps he means to ask you to dance.”

May squinted. The man was tall and light-haired. But the rest? Indistinct. He stopped in front of her, and only then did his features sharpen enough for her to make out a polite expression.

“Viscount Mortcombe,” he said. “I made your acquaintance last week.”

Did I truly meet him? What did I say? May curtsied, careful with her movements, and plastered a smile on her face. “Of course. It is a pleasure to see you again, My Lord.”

“May I have the honor of this dance?” he held out a hand.

She swallowed the knot and gave another smile. “I would be delighted, thank you.”

They moved toward the floor, and she tried not to squint lest he realize she was supposed to have her spectacles on. The orchestra launched into a brisk quadrille dance, and she joined the set with her heart in her throat.

May focused on her feet. One, two, cross, turn. She had never been a good dancer, but she pled with the Heavens tonight to bless her eyes and her feet.

“Are you enjoying the ball?” Mortcombe asked.

“Very much,” she said, eyes fixed on the marble floor and her shod feet.

“Your sister’s taste is impeccable. The arrangements are elegant.”

She dared a glance at his face. He was smiling. Or she thought he was. The light caught in her eyes, and everything sparkled unnaturally.

“The art in the antechamber caught my eye,” he continued. “The Duke and Duchess appreciate Dutch masters. I daresay that is a Rembrandt.”

Rembrandt? Why were they talking about Rembrandt? Was she supposed to know something clever about Rembrandt? May looked up, lost her place, and stepped directly on his foot.

“I beg your pardon,” she gasped.

He chuckled. “Think nothing of it.”

She tried again to concentrate. He said something else—about shadow, maybe. Or light. She missed it entirely. The shimmering candelabras cast slashes of brightness across the dance floor, and the movement became a blur.

Then her foot slid. Her arm knocked into someone’s back. There was a gasp, and a tray clattered to the ground, glasses shattering.

The dance stopped, conversation ceased, and May stood frozen, unable to see the mayhem she was responsible for. She was certain that all eyes were upon her, and what she felt at that instant was far more than mortification.

“F-forgive me…” she curtsied too quickly and turned to flee.

Before her was a sea of faces, and she kept her eyes low as she moved through the crush of guests, heading toward what she hoped was the ballroom exit. Someone caught her arm, and she stopped. Blinking, she saw June.

“May, what?—”

“Tell April I’m sorry,” May said quickly. “And tell August I’ll wait for him outside to take me home. I cannot stay. Just tell them.”

It would be most unfair to cut her mother and sister’s evening short, and June had appeared to be having a splendid time. Pulling her arm from her sister’s grasp, she hurried toward the large doors. She did not breathe until she was in the hallway, and even then, she picked up the pace.

Her heart was still pounding when she stepped through the front doors. The night air slapped her cheeks as she stepped outside, cool and sharp. She welcomed it. Anything to chase the heat from her skin.

Rows of carriages lined the front of the house, black and glistening under the moonlight, each nearly identical in size and trim.

Why must every family in Mayfair choose the exact same blasted model?

She squinted toward the coach lamps. If she could only see the crest—yes, if she got close enough, she could just make out the Wildmoore emblem.

She nearly stumbled over the hem of her dress as she hurried past the first two carriages. Her reticule swung against her wrist, the drawstrings biting into her fingers. Neither bore her family’s crest.

And then?—

August.

He was standing beside the third carriage, holding the door open, looking in her direction as though he had known she would emerge at any moment. Relief spread through her like warm tea down a frozen throat, washing over her limbs and making her knees nearly buckle.

“Thank you,” she breathed as she reached him, not stopping until she climbed quickly into the open carriage. Her knees hit the cushioned bench, and she all but collapsed into it, dragging the door shut behind her. “You know me so well, and I do need help this evening.”

He entered behind her and took the seat opposite. She kept her gaze low.

“Take me home, please.”

He knocked on the carriage roof, and the vehicle began to roll forward with a lurch. The sway of it calmed her. Just slightly.

“You must have known the evening would end in disaster,” she continued, resting her head on the cushion, “and came out to wait here for me like the noble knight you are.”

“A gentleman must always stand ready to save a troubled damsel.”

She opened one eye and squinted into the shadows. The carriage was too dim for her to see well. Not that she could ever see much in the dark.

She reached into her lap, lifted her reticule, and tossed it in his direction. It landed against his chest with a soft thud. “I am not a troubled damsel and you know it!”

He caught it easily. “Of course. You are a perfectly composed and reasonable young lady who only occasionally reduces a ballroom to chaos with one badly timed turn.”

“That lemonade was not my fault,” she said.

He undid the clasp. “What have you got in here besides your spectacles? A brick?”

She sat up straight. “One does not go rifling through a lady’s reticule.”

“I am not rifling. I am investigating what nearly maimed me.”

“Well, do not remark on whatever you find within.”

He pulled out a book and chuckled. “ Tales of Miss Emmerson’s Marriage to the Viscount? What manner of book is this? Some Gothic romance?”

May glared at him. “How typical of you to assume every book you find with me is a Gothic romance.” She sniffed. “I’ll have you know that this book is a Tudor romance.”

“What is the difference?”

“The viscount is kind?”

“Should a man not be kind to his wife?” his voice sounded mocking, and she shook her head and glanced at the blurred lights through the carriage window.

“Some heroes are dark and mysterious.”

“And you seem to prefer those, do you not?” he teased.

“You are an insufferable man!” She grabbed the small cushion beside her and tossed it at him.

He caught it easily. “You certainly are a harpy this evening!”

“Perhaps you deserve it?” she raised her brows as she looked at him… or rather, at his figure.

“This is the thanks I get for rescuing you?”

She groaned, rubbing her temples. “I know what you’re thinking. That I should have worn the spectacles. That if I had only listened to the doctor, I wouldn’t have made an utter joke of myself.”

“That would have helped,” he said. “But mistakes are made. I hope you’ve learned something tonight.”

She narrowed her eyes in the dark. “You are not supposed to agree with me.”

“You need me to be objective. That’s precisely what I’m doing.”

She exhaled sharply and leaned her head against the cushion. “I’m a failure. That’s what I’ve learned. Mama will have a migraine by morning, I am certain. She may faint before breakfast just to get a head start on the drama.”

“I am sure she won’t blame you entirely.”

“But the ton will! Heaven knows what Lord Mortcombe thinks of me after I stepped all over his toes.”

August chuckled. “He will forgive you. We gentlemen know when fair ladies are not to be blamed.”

From across the dark interior came the sound of his rifling through her reticule. Then he produced her spectacles. She only recognized them because the lamps outside made the wire glint.

He held them toward her. “Wear them. Save yourself from future calamities.”

“You are laughing at me,” she complained when she saw his teeth flash.

“Because you’re making it dreadfully easy.”

He turned the spectacles over in his hands, inspecting them. “Good Lord, these have suffered. Are they always like this? Or did they meet with some catastrophe before the dancing began?”

May’s mouth dropped open. “How dare you mock my spectacles when you know what a sore thing they are for me?” she dragged herself upright, snatching another pillow beside her, ready to toss it at him.

He tilted his head. “Mock? Never. Actually, I thought they made you look rather fetching.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. “You… what?”

“Fetching,” he said again. “Beguiling, actually.”

She stared through the murky darkness. Her fingers curled tightly around the cushion. There was something off in his tone. Something wrong. And his voice sounded a touch too deep and too low.

“August? What did you just say?”

“The spectacles may cover your eyes,” he said slowly, “but they draw attention to your lips.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. That is not August’s voice… or words.

“Give me the spectacles,” she said, reaching out with a shaking hand.

He placed them in her palm. “I did advise you to wear them.”

She fumbled with the frame, nearly blinding herself in the process. Her fingers trembled as she adjusted them over her ears and finally—finally—saw clearly.

Her breath caught.

Across from her was… not August.The man was too tall, his shoulders too wide, his posture far too still and commanding. And worse, he was handsome. Unforgivably so.His face was all angles and symmetry, his hair dark and neat, and his eyes?—

She had seen those eyes and heard of them.They were so gray they could be steel.

No. No. No.

He was smiling at her as if this were the most ordinary exchange in the world.

May glanced around frantically. She was in a moving carriage, alone, in the dead of night, with the most infamous, untouchable, and terrifying man in London.

The Duke of Iron.