Page 13 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)

Thirteen

L ogan forcefully shut the study door and leaned against the solid wood, his head falling back and his eyes closing. He tugged at the knot of his already loose cravat, yanking the linen free as if it were choking him.

His heart hammered against his ribs, feeling too large for his chest. May. Why must she do this to me?

The thought of her was like a splinter under his skin, incessant and irritating. He could still see her from that morning, a vision in pale green lace as she walked down the aisle. He’d had no choice but to bury every feeling within him under steel.

Then there was tonight. She’d been humming, for God’s sake! Humming some nonsensical tune to that squalling infant, rocking him until the wretched noise ceased, and the child had stared up at her with a devotion he hadn’t earned.

It was that image that refused to leave him now—the curve of her neck as she looked down, the quiet concentration on her face, the sheer, unassuming competence of her. It was… affecting. Deeply.

He pushed off from the door with a muttered curse. This was absurd. He had married her for a purpose. A transaction. She was to be a shield against gossip and a temporary custodian for the child until its true situation could be resolved.

That was the entirety of the arrangement. It meant nothing. It should mean nothing.

So why did the mere sight of her make him feel as though he’d been punched?

He strode to the liquor cabinet and poured a measure of brandy. He didn’t sip it but tossed it back, the liquor burning a welcome path down his throat. He poured another finger, his hand steadying.

You will never deserve my love or kindness. A voice as sharp as an ice shard cut through the haze in his mind.

His father. Always his father.

Logan shut his eyes, his teeth clenching so hard his jaw ached. He could almost smell the old man’s cheroot, see the contempt in his eyes. He banished the memory back into the dark box where it belonged. Logan was not that boy anymore. He was a duke. He controlled this. All of it.

He had maintained his distance throughout the wedding ceremony. It was the right course, and one he needed to maintain. The performances were over.

They were married. And that, for both their sakes, was all they would ever be. He drank the second brandy, his decision settling over him like a cold armor.

Lady May Vestiere, now Duchess of Irondale, is at last a married woman.

Yet, dear readers, all is not as it seems in this sparkling union.

The happy couple has not—repeat, has not—departed for their country seat, as is the time-honored tradition for newlyweds seeking a private bliss.

Are the hallways of Irondale House so chilly as to keep a bride and groom encamped within city limits?

Or is there, perhaps, a still more intriguing cause behind their lingering in Hanover Square?

The ton wishes them happiness, but we must ask—is the Iron Duke already tired of his conquest?

May tossed the sheet onto the bed, then flung herself after it, landing face-first into the coverlet. “Idiots,” she growled into the linen. “Every last one of them.”

“It’s only gossip, Your Grace,” Miss Abbot said from behind the dressing screen. “Everyone knows the columns write nonsense.”

“It does not sound like it,” May mumbled into her arms.

Abbot’s voice was gentler now. “The Marquess and Marchioness of Worth did not leave for the country until nearly a fortnight after their wedding. Perhaps this is the new fashion.”

May rolled onto her back and regarded the ceiling as if it might offer her a plausible escape. “It’s not the same,” she said.

Abbot emerged, hands neatly folded, her expression set to Professional Sympathy. “Shall I set out your breakfast here, or will you be going down?”

May propped herself up. “Down. If I eat another meal alone, I may expire from lack of stimulation.”

Abbot nodded and turned away, but May called out, “Did you hear the baby last night?”

The maid paused, brow knitting. “I heard some fuss, Your Grace, but the nursery is so far up…”

“It’s not,” May interrupted. “It was moved. The baby was in the room beside my chambers,” she said this with a sort of horror, as though it were a contagious disease. “The nurse left him there, and no one told me.”

Miss Abbot blinked. “Perhaps the servants thought it would be—comforting?”

May didn’t answer. She reached for her spectacles on the nightstand, slipped them on, and the entire world jerked into sharper relief.

The glare of the morning sun, the golden spines of books on the shelf, the exquisite blue on her nightdress, suddenly seemed to accuse her of being in bed well past eight o’clock.

“You may ready my blue day-dress,” May said. “And I wish to speak with the wet nurse as soon as she’s available.”

Abbot curtsied. “Very good, Your Grace.”

A half hour later, May was dressed and presentable, if not altogether prepared for the day ahead. She made her way down the stairs, her slippers whispering over the marble, and tried not to think about the hundreds of eyes the gossip sheets had conjured into her home.

She found the nursery with its door slightly ajar, a patch of sunlight spreading over the wood. Inside, the wet nurse stood beside the cradle, rocking gently as she crooned a wordless tune to the sleeping infant.

May lingered in the doorway. “Good morning.”

The nurse jumped a little, then smiled, recovering quickly. “Good morning, Your Grace.” She had warm eyes and plump, rosy cheeks—just the sort of woman May’s mother would have trusted with an infant’s immortal soul.

May peered into the crib, more to delay speaking than out of interest. The baby lay sprawled, mouth open, arms flung wide in a pose of heroic abandon.

He looked smaller than he had in the night, when he’d seemed a creature capable of waking the entire city.

“You moved him,” May said, not quite accusing.

The nurse’s smile became uncertain. “Yes, Your Grace. I thought… I thought you might sleep better knowing he was near.”

May’s mind went blank. “Why would you think that?”

The woman flushed, and for the first time, May noticed the way the hands twisted in the folds of her apron. “I thought it might help you feel more at home, Your Grace.”

May could not have spoken if she tried. “Is he sleeping well?” she managed, after an awkward pause.

“Oh, yes,” the nurse replied. “He is a darling, truly. Barely fusses at all, except for last night.”

May nodded, unsure what else to say. “Very well then.”

May left, feeling as though she had blundered a diplomatic interview. She wished Logan had left a note, or at least given her a warning. Instead, she was by herself, and now the entire servants presumed she was overcome with maternal longing.

The thought was so ridiculous it almost made her laugh.

She arrived at breakfast to find the table set for one.

Mr. Bexley awaited her, standing so stiffly at the sideboard that his posture threatened to snap his spine. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

“Good morning, Bexley. Is the Duke at home?”

The butler’s face arranged itself into an impassive mask. “His Grace rode out early this morning, Your Grace. He said he would return before luncheon.”

Of course he did.

May sat and poured herself tea, eyeing the selection of rolls, jam, and fruit with the disinterest of someone who had not truly tasted food in days.

“Will the Duke have guests this afternoon?” she asked.

“I am not certain, Your Grace. I shall inquire if you wish it.”

May shook her head. “No, thank you. That will be all.”

Bexley vanished with the speed of someone who had long ago mastered the art of melting into the background.

May spread butter on a roll, then set it down without taking a bite.

So, the great experiment of marriage had begun. And already, the rules were shifting beneath her feet.

She pictured Logan out riding, his hair wind-blown, his entire person vibrating with freedom. Not a care for the baby, or the household, or the expectations that pressed in from all sides. She envied him, even as she resented it.

She resolved, there and then, that she would not give the ton the satisfaction of a secondhand misery. She would bear it, and she would do it beautifully, and if anyone asked, she would say she adored every minute of her new life.

At least one of them should be happy.

May finished her tea, straightened her shoulders, and made for the library.

If she could not manage happiness, she could at least manage a proper distraction.

Logan bent low over the stallion’s neck, the rush of wind making his eyes water and his coat snap hard against his shoulders.

The fields at the edge of London blurred around him, a stretch of green and gold and the distant haze of the city, but the only thing that mattered was the finish line and the man closing in from his right.

Calenham had always been quick, but today Logan was quicker. He dug in with his knees and urged the beast on, feeling the lather break beneath the saddle. There—up ahead—a split-rail fence, the agreed endpoint, and then beyond it, only the endless horizon.

He could have ridden all day, and he might have, if Calenham hadn’t shouted over the thunder of hooves, “Is the Iron Duke already running from his wife?”

Logan gave no reply. He threw his weight forward, the stallion leaping in a final burst, and the fence shot beneath them in a single, graceful arc. He pulled up hard on the other side, his jaw clenched, while Calenham’s horse cleared the fence a breath later.

“Well, damn,” Calenham said, breathless as he reined in.

“You’ll kill us both one of these days.” He grinned, his face flushed with exertion and something like glee.

“What was that about, old man? There were children in the road last time we raced, and I’m fairly certain you trampled them for sport. ”

Logan wiped the sweat from his brow and looked away. “You could have refused the challenge.”