Page 14 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)

“And lose a chance to see you outride the Devil? Never.” Calenham’s eyes narrowed. “But let’s not pretend you’re here for sport. You’ve been racing death every morning since your wedding.”

Logan kept his eyes on the horizon. “You read too much into everything.”

“Do I?” Calenham nudged his horse closer, voice pitched low. “You, married. The ton is rabid with speculation. Is it true she tricked you at the altar, or is there another child on the way?”

Logan’s hands tightened on the reins. “You know me better than that.”

“Do I?” Calenham repeated. He sounded amused, but beneath it, Logan heard the genuine question. “Because the man I knew swore he’d never take a wife, much less the first shy debutante thrown into his path.”

“She’s not shy,” Logan said. “Not exactly.”

Calenham’s brow shot up. “That almost sounded like praise.” He steered his horse to stand beside Logan’s. “All right. If you’re not here for the sport, or the company, what are you running from?”

Logan considered lying. He’d done it a thousand times, but the words would not come. Instead, he let silence sit between them, the sound of wind and distant church bells filling the space.

At last, he said, “Nothing worth your curiosity.”

Calenham shrugged. “I’ve heard that before. It usually means ‘everything worth my curiosity.’” He squinted at Logan. “Is she so pretty you find yourself at risk of falling to your knees?”

Logan snorted, but said nothing.

Calenham barked a laugh. “I am correct! You are running.”

“I am not,” Logan said, his voice sharper than he intended. “She’s… she is…” He broke off, annoyed that he had no words.

Calenham regarded him with a look bordering on respect. “Careful, man. You almost sound as though you are falling in love.”

Logan scowled. “She is not the point.”

“Isn’t she?” Calenham grinned. “I think she is the point. That’s what’s making you ride like your own father’s ghost is on your heels.”

Logan flinched. The memory of his father—the real one, not the shadow that haunted him—was a thing he had long ago banished to the deepest cellar of his mind. To have Calenham bring it up, even as a jest, felt like a punch.

He reined his horse around, refusing to let his expression betray anything. “I suppose if you don’t like being beaten, you can always decline the next invitation.”

Calenham grinned. “You’ll have to try harder to scare me off.” He fell into pace beside Logan as they started back toward the city. “You know, you could do worse. There are men who spend their whole lives running from women. At least you’re only running from one .”

Logan didn’t answer.

They rode in companionable quiet until they reached the edge of the city, where the narrow lane split off toward Irondale House. Calenham pulled up, a look of mock seriousness on his face. “You should go home, Logan. Give her a day or two of the legendary Blackmore charm.”

Logan shook his head. “She doesn’t need charm. She needs distance.”

Calenham looked as though he might argue, but then only tipped his hat. “Suit yourself. See you at the club tomorrow?”

Logan nodded, and they parted ways, Calenham disappearing into the swirl of London traffic.

Logan slowed his horse as he neared the square, savoring the way the air cooled and the sounds of the city became more human—vendors, the snap of canvas awnings, a distant street musician, even the occasional bark of a dog.

He felt almost at peace until he reached his own street, and saw the tall windows of Irondale House gleaming in the late sun.

He remembered the night before. The way May had held the child, rocking him in the old chair, her hair falling loose in the firelight. The song she’d sung—soft, uncertain, so full of hope it made his chest ache.

He had wanted, in that moment, to do something entirely out of character. He had wanted to kiss her.

Not because he should. Not because she was beautiful, or because the world expected it. But because he needed to. The feeling had come on him like a fever—hot, irrational, and impossible to ignore.

He had never needed anything in his life.

Desire was familiar, but this was something else. He would not put a name to it.

He rode the last block slowly, determined not to let the servants see him in a state of agitation. When he handed the horse off to the groom, he paused, drew in a breath, and reset his face into the careful lines of the Iron Duke.

Inside, he strode through the marble halls, past Bexley, and up the main stairs. He did not go to the study, nor to his private apartments, but straight to the library.

May was there, exactly as he knew she would be, her back to the door as she perused the shelves. She wore blue today, but he thought of the pink dress she had worn when he first kissed her hand, and for an instant, he wanted to see her in it again.

He cursed himself for the thought, and for the dozen that followed.

He did not speak. He only watched her, watched the way she reached for the highest shelves, the way her lips moved as she read titles aloud. She did not know he was there, and he liked it that way.

He stood in the shadow of the door, telling himself he would say nothing, do nothing, just observe for a moment, until the feeling passed.

It didn’t.

He stayed there, silent and unseen, until the urge to cross the room and touch her became almost unbearable.

Then, and only then, did he force himself away, striding down the hallway with a kind of violence that made the portraits tremble in their frames.

He would not need anyone. Least of all, a girl who hummed lullabies to another man’s child.

He would not.