Page 16 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)

“Of course, Your Grace.” Bexley gave a small bow and retreated.

Left alone, Logan inspected the new layout and, despite himself, sat in the relocated chair. It was not entirely disagreeable.

This is how it begins, he thought. Today, the chairs. Tomorrow, the Empire.

He found, to his disgust, that he was almost eager to see what she would change next.

By the third day, the subtle war for Irondale House had escalated.

Each morning, Logan discovered new incursions.

The library was adorned with a cluster of lemon geraniums on the reading table.

The upstairs hallway, previously lit by a single, funereal sconce, now boasted a bright runner and two more lamps, making the passage nearly cheerful.

The portraits in the hall had been rehung at more democratic heights, so even the shorter members of society could admire the ancestors.

After the geraniums, he had half a mind to storm the breakfast room and demand an audience, but the sight that greeted him there robbed him of speech.

May was already at the table, reading and absently breaking a croissant into neat halves.

She wore a simple morning dress, and her hair was bound up with a blue ribbon that matched the one now hanging in the window.

She did not look up as he entered. Instead, she buttered the bread, sipped her tea, and continued reading.

He tried not to watch her, but found himself doing so anyway. There was an odd serenity to her, a kind of industry that reminded him of honeybees—quiet, constant, and capable of repopulating a continent if left unchecked.

He was halfway through his own meal when he realized she was reading the treatise he had been missing two nights prior.

She caught his eye and, without preamble, said, “This is rather dense, Your Grace. Is it customary for the author to take three pages to clarify a single point?”

He considered. “That is the entire purpose of philosophy, Duchess. To say nothing, but at exhaustive length.”

She smirked. “I suppose that explains Parliament.”

“It does,” Logan replied, not quite managing to hide his smile.

She went back to her book, but a moment later, she said, “I have moved your chair to face the fire. It is less drafty that way.”

Logan nodded. “I noticed. Thank you.”

Silence returned, but it was a different sort than before. Not tense, not brittle—simply companionable.

After breakfast, he returned to the study and set to work on the ledgers, determined to drown himself in numbers. The tactic nearly worked until a noise began to filter in from the next room.

It was the sound of a violin.

Logan looked up, uncertain at first whether it was real or imagined. The noise came again, a scraping, limping progression through a scale, followed by what could only be described as an attempted waltz. It was, in a word, dreadful.

He stood, went to the door, and confirmed that the noise emanated from the music room adjacent to the study.

The servants were nowhere in sight, but Logan could make out the shape of May through the open archway—perched on a chair, violin under her chin, fingers laboring up and down the neck like a pair of spiders at war.

He watched for a full minute, unable to look away from the spectacle. May played with an intensity that made up for any lack of skill, drawing the bow with determination and grimacing only occasionally at the more catastrophic notes.

He could endure many things, but an assault on Mozart was not one of them. Logan entered the music room and, unable to stop himself, said, “You are aware that humanity has rules about torture, do you not?”

May stopped, eyes widening behind her spectacles. “Oh. I didn’t realize you were home.”

Logan arched a brow. “I live here.”

She blinked, then, to his horror, adopted a look of wounded dignity. “Well, I am not in the habit of checking under beds or behind doors for lurking dukes. I was only trying to practice.”

“What on earth for?”

“I used to play,” she said, setting the violin on her lap. “I have not touched one in years, but Mrs. Paxton told me there was an instrument here, so I thought… why not?”

Logan surveyed the scene—May, still seated, with the violin in one hand and the bow dangling from the other, her dress slightly askew from the effort of playing. He said, “You are not… entirely hopeless.”

She smiled, a tiny, triumphant thing. “You are a liar, Your Grace. But I am grateful for the effort.”

He approached, leaning against the pianoforte. “It is a brave thing to play where others might hear.”

She tilted her head. “You make it sound as if I am giving a recital to the whole of Hanover Square.”

“In a way, you are,” Logan replied. “The walls in this house are as thin as the paper they are covered with.”

She laughed, a true laugh, and the sound was entirely too pleasant.

“Next time,” Logan said, “perhaps you could warn me, so I might procure cotton for my ears.”

May gave him a look of pure mischief. “Oh, I would not dream of sparing you, Your Grace. Suffering builds character.”

They stood like that, two adversaries on the neutral ground of the music room, neither quite willing to retreat.

Finally, Logan said, “If you are to persist, at least allow me to provide accompaniment. I can play the pianoforte with some skill.”

May raised a brow. “You? A musician?”

He shrugged. “I was not always a duke. There was a time when I had aspirations beyond ledgers and titles.”

She considered this. “Then perhaps we shall perform a duet. But only if you promise not to sabotage my efforts.”

He put a hand over his heart. “I would never.”

She smiled again, then said, “Would you like to try now?”

He regarded her, weighing the absurdity of it. “Very well. But you must promise not to injure the violin further.”

She laughed, rose, and moved to the bench beside the pianoforte, cradling the instrument as if it were a fragile animal.

Logan sat next to her, cracked his knuckles (for effect), and began a simple melody.

May joined in after a few tentative measures, and though her playing was uneven, there was an earnestness to it that made up for every wrong note.

They played for some time, neither speaking, both pretending it was all just a game. By the end, May was smiling, and Logan was almost—almost—content.

She set the violin down and turned to him. “Thank you, Your Grace. That was… surprisingly pleasant.”

He regarded her, unsure what to say. She was closer now, and he could smell the faint trace of rose and lavender in her hair. For one wild moment, he thought of kissing her.

Instead, he said, “You are welcome, Duchess.”

They sat in silence, inches apart, and Logan realized that the war for the house was over. The invader had won.

May stood, brushed her skirt, and made for the door. “I should like to see what else can be done with the music room. Perhaps a few more flowers.”

He watched her go, unable to move, a strange fullness in his chest. As she vanished down the hall, Logan thought, God help me. I may be lost already.