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

Two

“ Y ou are not my brother!”

The words left May in a breathless whisper, barely audible over the soft rattle of the carriage wheels. She pressed her back to the velvet cushion as though it might absorb her into the upholstery.

The man across from her laughed. “Of course I am not.”

She gaped at him. “Why didn’t you say so? You knew I mistook you—why didn’t you tell me I was in the wrong carriage?”

He raised a brow. “You seemed in need of assistance. How could I deny such a lovely lady her escape?”

Lovely? He thinks I’m lovely? No. He’s mocking me. He has to be.

May could feel the flush rising from her neck. She was not the sort of woman men called lovely. She was the sort of woman they avoided eye contact with during supper.

She clenched her hands in her lap. “This is—this is utterly improper. I shouldn’t be here, not with you. Not with any gentleman I am not related to. And certainly not with?—”

“A notorious rake?” he supplied, smiling.

Her fingers curled tighter. “You said things. Things no gentleman ought to say to a lady.”

“Did I?” he tilted his head. “You, on the other hand, were rather bold. Tossing cushions and reticules about with reckless abandon. Quite the warrior, Lady May.”

He handed her the reticule, and she accepted it with trembling fingers.

“Do you know me?” she asked softly.

He smiled again. “The ton knows Lady May Vestiere.”

She nearly winced. Of course they do. The May Wallflower. The girl with the spectacles. The one who knocked over a tray at the Stone ball.

As though he could read her thoughts, he added, “Truly, there’s no need to fuss. I rather preferred you when you were so openly passionate.”

Passionate. She had never been described as passionate in her entire life.

“I know who you are,” she said.

“From the scandal sheets?” he raised a dark brow.

She would have known about him even if she never picked up a gossip sheet, but she did read those every day. Mainly to see what the ton said about her, and to build her defenses against them, which she rarely ever succeeded in doing.

“From all of London,” she answered.

He gave a slight nod, amused. “They do tend to exaggerate.”

“But not about your reputation. You, of all men, know what this looks like. What this means .”

“It means nothing. I am taking you home. That is all.”

“That is not all!” She felt her throat tighten. “You are not taking this seriously. I should not be seen alone with you, not even for a second.”

“I may be a rake, Lady May, but I would never wish to ruin a woman. Certainly not one who can demand marriage from me.”

Her heart gave a violent kick. “You think this is amusing? That I would ask you to marry me after being seen in your company?”

“Of course not. You wouldn’t. But if you did, I would be obliged. That’s the sort of man I am.”

“Someone is always watching,” she whispered.

“Are they in the hedges now, do you think? Behind the lampposts? Perhaps in a tree? Should we wave to them together?”

She groaned. “Please stop the carriage. I shall walk.”

He knocked on the roof, and the carriage slowed. But as he leaned forward, his presence seemed to fill the entire space. The scent of leather and something woodsy enveloped her.

“The carriage has stopped. But I cannot in good conscience let you walk alone.”

“Why ever not?”

“You could twist your ankle. Lose your way. Be snatched by footpads. Mauled by a dog. Mistake another man for your brother.”

She crossed her arms. “That last one was not my fault.”

“You would also find it impossible to identify said dog or footpad without your spectacles.”

She tried not to smile. “Nevertheless. I must go.”

“And yet I shall accompany you. For your safety, Lady May.”

She hesitated. He was a duke. And despite his reputation, he had been nothing but polite—aside from the comment about her lips, of course.

“Very well,” she said tightly. “But we walk. No more enclosed spaces.”

He descended first, then turned and offered his hand. She accepted it, letting him help her down onto the street as he turned toward the coachman with orders to stay in place. The air felt cooler than before. Fresher. Safer.

“Your house is not far,” he said.

“I know,” she replied. “I can see it now.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm. Her stomach gave a strange, unwelcome flutter. Her eyes darted around. Windows. Gates. Empty stoops. Could anyone see them?

“Do not fret so much. The only eyes on us now are yours and mine. And mine, I assure you, are far more delighted than disapproving.”

She blinked at him. Why must he speak like that? Instead of responding, she ignored him and turned to look straight ahead, hating the manner in which her spectacles sat upon her nose with one lens higher than the other after the way she’d bent them.

A few steps from her house, they paused, and the Duke turned to face her. “Will you be all right now?” he asked.

She looked up. He was watching her. Not like the others did, and certainly not with pity or amusement. He was simply studying her. This did not make her feel any better, or more confident.

May took a slow breath. “Yes. I believe so.”

Her cheeks were burning again, and she was quite certain he noticed. Then she heard hoofbeats. Fear surged through her, and grabbing his arm, she shoved him into the hedge beside them.

He went without resistance, chuckling as he ducked among the bushes. A rider approached, fast, and she squinted to identify him. As he neared, she saw it was August. May blinked and peered harder to ensure she had it right this time.

August swung off his mount and strode toward her. “Why on earth did you leave without me? I had to borrow one of Theo’s horses to find you.” He looked around as if checking for intruders.

She straightened, trying to appear far less flustered than she was. “April sent a carriage for me, and it just drove off.”

He frowned. “Did she? I haven’t seen her since—well, since before?—”

“She said you would take too long.” August looked suspicious, but relented with a sigh. “I was worried. Let’s get you inside.”

They walked together to the steps, but as they reached the front stoop, August paused. He turned and looked around the street once more, his brows furrowed. “I thought I saw someone with you, as I rode up.”

May’s breath caught. “Who did you think you saw, August?”

“A gentleman. A very tall one.”

She let out a laugh. “Do you see anyone, August? Look around. Do you?”

He peered into the street. It was quiet, still, and empty. Shaking his head, he chuckled. “Perhaps my eyesight is going.”

“Shall I lend you my spectacles, Brother?”

He snorted. “Not when they’re bent beyond recognition.”

The door opened. May stepped inside, her heart thudding. And just as the latch clicked behind her, she thought she heard a man’s chuckle from the bushes.

Oh, no. He’s still there. Her heart gave a treacherous kick in her chest.

Fascinating little chit.

Logan grinned as he emerged from the bushes, brushing leaves from his coat and flicking a twig from his sleeve.

Of all the ways his evening might have ended, being bodily thrown into a hedge by a lady—Lady May Vestiere, no less—had not been among them.

He pulled another stubborn leaf from his shoulder and shook his head with a soft laugh.

He walked back toward his carriage, which had obediently remained where it had been dismissed, the driver no doubt used to far stranger instructions from him. As the horses set into motion and the street rolled away behind them, Logan leaned back into the seat, chuckling softly.

Sweet, panicked, principled little thing. And not nearly so dull as society would have one believe.

He found her ridiculous, yes. But captivating too. No one had dared to try to best him physically, not since his days at Eton, and even then it had taken three boys working together to toss him into the hedge.

When he entered his townhouse a quarter hour later, the front door swung open as always, and there was Mr. Bexley, standing stiffly in the entry hall, posture brittle with unease.

Logan’s grin faded. “Bexley,” he said as he handed off his hat, “you’ve worked under me for three years. Do you truly believe I am about to box your ears?”

“No, Your Grace,” Bexley replied quickly.

Too quickly.

Logan narrowed his eyes. “Then why do you look like a man awaiting judgment?”

The butler flushed and bowed, stepping aside like a man escaping a noose.

Logan started toward his study, rolling his shoulders as he walked, already picturing a fire and a glass of port. But the soft, hurried shuffle of skirts made him pause. Mrs. Paxton stood in the archway leading to the servant’s wing, looking pale and altogether unlike her usual composed self.

“Mrs. Paxton.”

She curtsied. “Your Grace.”

Her eyes darted toward Bexley, then to the stairs, and back again. Her mouth opened and closed, no words forming.

Logan frowned. “Is something amiss?”

“Well, Your Grace, it’s only that—well, there was no warning, and it’s not… entirely usual?—”

“He wouldn’t stop crying!” Bexley burst out, clearly near the end of his composure. “We didn’t know what to do with him.”

Logan blinked. “Him?”

He stepped forward, now fully alert. “You will explain yourselves. Now.”

Mrs. Paxton wrung her hands. “He just appeared, Your Grace. In the front parlor. A basket, a blanket, and—well—we thought perhaps…”

“Perhaps what?” Logan snapped, incredulous.

“Well, there was a note,” Bexley said in a strangled voice. “And no name.”

Just then, a sound cut through the air.

A thin, high-pitched cry. Wailing, persistent and impossible to ignore.

A baby.

Logan stared at them for a single, stunned heartbeat. Then he took the stairs two at a time, the thunder of his boots followed closely by the scrambling feet of the servants behind him. The cries grew louder, more desperate. He flung open the first nursery door.

Chaos met him.

Two young maids stood over a small dressing table near the hearth, both hopelessly entangled in an effort to wrestle a wriggling infant into a nightdress. The child’s face was red from exertion, fists flailing with fury.

Blankets were strewn across the floor. A bowl lay on its side atop the changing table, and a stuffed rabbit teetered on the edge of a chair like it too was trying to flee.

Logan stared. Then turned, very slowly, toward Mrs. Paxton and Bexley, now huddled in the doorway. “Where did this child come from?”

Mrs. Paxton clasped her hands tightly. “He was left on the doorstep, Your Grace. In a wicker basket, wrapped in linens. Mr. Bexley heard a knock and opened the door. There was no one in sight.”

Bexley nodded, swallowing audibly. “By the time we stepped out onto the stoop, the street was empty. Not even a carriage in the distance.”

Logan’s jaw flexed. “And you brought him inside?”

“We could hardly leave him out in the cold,” Mrs. Paxton whispered.

“Why in God’s name would anyone leave a child here, at my house?”

The servants looked expectantly at him, though neither seemed willing to meet his eye. And then he saw it—that uncertainty, pity, maybe judgment, crossing Bexley’s face.

They thought he knew. That he had some inkling of who the child might be. Or worse—that he was the father.

Why the devil would anyone assume that?

But even as the question formed in his mind, the answer followed: because his reputation seemed fit for it. No one in this house had yet learned to stop expecting the worst from the Duke of Irondale.

His jaw tightened. “This is not my child,” he said through his teeth. “But I will find who left him here—and promptly return the babe back to where he came from.”