Page 21 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)
Eighteen
M ay’s hand froze halfway to her mouth, a spoonful of clear soup quivering in midair. She stared as the Duke of Irondale strode into the dining room, not two beats behind the butler’s announcement.
He was not supposed to be here. Not at dinner, and certainly not at seven o’clock sharp.
For four nights running, he had left her to the silent parade of courses and the rare company of Mrs. Paxton, who would sometimes perch at the far end of the table and offer gentle observations about the state of the house’s linen or the history of the rare roast.
But now, Logan was here—hair damp from a recent wash, crisp shirt immaculate, cravat starched so high it seemed to command absolute authority over the rest of his person.
He looked at her, then at the empty seat nearest her—too near, given the scandalously small diameter of the round dining table. “Good evening, Duchess.”
May blinked, the spoonful of broth still poised before her lips. She lowered it with the slow care one reserved for balancing a glass pyramid, and replied, “You are eating here tonight?”
Logan arched a brow and slid into the chair beside her. He did not offer an explanation, only inclined his head to the hovering footman, who instantly began ladling soup into the bowl before him. “Is that so remarkable?”
“You have not dined with me once,” May said. She meant it as a jest, but it came out a little too direct, and she winced at her own bluntness. “Not that I require company.”
Logan’s eyes met hers, gray and cutting as a March wind. “I thought I ought to join my wife for dinner, at least one night this week. It seemed… appropriate.”
May considered this. “Appropriate,” she repeated. “That is not the word I would have chosen.” She tried to sip her soup, but her hands trembled enough to send a ripple across the surface.
Logan gave a very slight smile. “Would you rather I go?”
She caught his gaze, saw the mischief lurking beneath the iron. “If you leave now, I’ll have no one left to ridicule my eating habits.”
His smile widened, barely. “They are in no need of ridicule. Your table manners are impeccable.”
May set her spoon down. “You have not observed them long enough to judge. For all you know, I chew with my mouth open after the soup course.”
“Is that a threat?” he asked.
“It is a warning.”
He laughed, low and unhurried, and May felt her heart scramble upward in her chest.
For a while, they ate in silence. The soup was hot and faintly perfumed with bay; the fish that followed was so perfectly flaked it nearly fell apart beneath the tines of her fork.
May spent the next course—an herbed chicken with new potatoes—studiously watching her own plate, unsure how to conduct herself with Logan seated so near.
He seemed larger in person than she remembered; the shape of his shoulders under the evening coat, the severe lines of his profile, all combined to make the room seem smaller than it was.
She risked a look at him and was startled to find his attention on her.
He was not smiling now, but neither was he severe. Instead, he regarded her as if she were a particularly interesting chess problem.
She said, “You are staring.”
Logan did not look away. “You changed your hair.”
May reached up, self-consciously patting the coiled plait at her nape. “I was told it was more fashionable this way.”
“I preferred it loose,” he said, and turned his attention back to his dinner.
May swallowed. She had not known he had an opinion on her hair, let alone that he would voice it without being asked. “You do not seem the sort to follow fashion,” she said, aiming for neutral ground.
“I am not,” Logan replied. “But I know what I like.”
A thrill ran through her, chased by a jolt of embarrassment. “I suppose that is the advantage of being a duke. You never have to pretend to like anything at all.”
He snorted. “On the contrary, I am required to pretend quite often. The skill is in pretending so well that no one can tell the difference.”
“Is that why you avoided dinner all week?” May asked, surprised by her own boldness.
He set down his fork. “You think I was avoiding you?”
She chewed her bite of chicken, then nodded. “It is not an insult. If I had the option, I would avoid myself, too.”
Logan regarded her for a long moment. “You are not what I expected.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It is… an observation.” He resumed eating, as if the matter were settled.
May could not let it rest. “And what did you expect?”
He gave a slow shrug. “Someone quieter. Someone easily cowed by circumstance. The ton gave me the impression you were…” He trailed off.
“Timid?”
He shook his head. “Conventional.”
May let out a huff. “You have not met my sisters.”
“I have met them. The word applies to neither.”
She smiled despite herself. “April is a force of nature. June is…” She searched for a word. “An absolute menace. I was the quiet one.”
He studied her face as if looking for evidence of this claim. “Are you still?”
“I do not think I know,” May said, which was the truest thing she had spoken all evening.
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was charged, expectant, as if they were both waiting to see what would happen next.
Logan was the first to break it. “How have your days been?”
May nearly laughed at the ordinariness of the question. “Filled with the relentless squalling of an infant and a thousand invitations to teas and musicales. I am told this is the dream of every young lady.”
“Is it your dream?”
She did laugh then, a brief bubble of sound. “No. My dream involves fewer babies and less lace.”
He reached for the wine, poured her a measure, then filled his own glass. “You are allowed to decline invitations, you know. It is one of the few privileges of rank.”
May took a sip, watching him over the rim. “I do not wish to give them reason to talk. Not more than they already have.”
Logan’s mouth curved. “The only reason they talk is because it is all they know how to do.”
She nodded. “Still. Every lady in London wishes to keep me company, as though my presence alone might absolve them of their own sins.”
He smiled, showing a flash of teeth. “Is that how it works?”
“It is how it appears,” she said. “I spent an afternoon with Lady Kitty Monrose and Lady Christie Portwell. Do you know them?”
Logan raised both brows. “Not well. But I would not have expected you to keep their company.”
May frowned, set down her glass. “Why not?”
He shook his head. “No reason.”
“Tell me,” she pressed.
“Nothing, truly. I simply did not imagine you as the sort who enjoys that particular brand of conversation.”
“Meaning gossip.”
He inclined his head. “Meaning bloodsport.”
She tried to be offended, but the truth was she had endured the luncheon as a kind of anthropological experiment. “They are not as clever as they believe themselves to be.”
“No one is,” said Logan. He turned his glass, watching the red spiral along the edge. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
“I enjoyed the biscuits,” May admitted. “The rest was… enlightening.”
He smiled, more fully now, and for the first time she saw it—something genuine, a glimmer of the man she remembered from Hyde Park and the day in the garden, when he had made her laugh until her sides hurt.
She wondered what it would be like if he always looked at her this way.
She said, softly, “You never answered my question.”
He blinked. “Which?”
“Why you are here. Truly.”
He looked down, then up again. “I suppose I did not wish to eat alone tonight.”
May let the answer hang between them, uncertain whether it was the whole truth or just the part he felt comfortable sharing. “I am sorry for before,” she said. “For presuming you were avoiding me.”
He waved this aside. “I have been occupied with matters. The household, the child, the accounts. There is always something.”
May felt the warmth of embarrassment creep up her neck. “If you wish for more solitude, I will not take offense.”
He shook his head. “I do not wish for more solitude. I have had enough of that for one lifetime.”
The words sat heavy in the air.
May tried to lighten the moment. “Well, if it helps, you are very good at pretending you enjoy company. Perhaps you ought to consider a career in diplomacy.”
He gave her a long, assessing look. “You do not strike me as the sort to enjoy flattery, Lady May.”
“That is only because I have heard so little of it,” she replied, matching his gaze.
He grinned, and the effect was devastating. “Then allow me to say, you look lovely tonight. I did not realize blue suited you so well.”
She looked down at her dress, then back up. “It was the only color not already ruined by soup stains.”
He laughed, and she basked in the sound of it.
A lull fell, filled only by the quiet hum of the silverware and the distant clatter of plates in the kitchen. May watched Logan as he ate—his movements precise, controlled, yet never hurried. She wondered if he ever let go, ever allowed himself to be truly unguarded.
She wanted to see it. She wanted to know what he was like when he was not performing for the world.
The meal wound down, and dessert was served—tiny syllabubs in glass cups, trembling with sugar and cream. Logan reached for one, and their hands collided. Not hard, but enough to jolt her. His fingers brushed hers, cool and steady, and the touch sent a spike of sensation all the way up her arm.
She drew back, but he did not. He left his hand resting beside hers on the table, as if it belonged there.
“Are you well?” he asked, his voice so low she almost missed it.
May swallowed. “Yes. Only…” She tried to find the right words. “You are… surprising.”
He regarded her, then nodded, as though he understood perfectly.
They ate in silence for a while, sharing the syllabub and occasionally glancing at each other, neither quite willing to look away.
Finally, May cleared her throat. “We have not found a new wet nurse. The baby is drinking milk, but I do not think it will sustain him for long.”
Logan’s face grew serious. “I will see to it. Discreetly. We cannot risk an advertisement; the situation is precarious enough as it is.”
May nodded. “Mrs. Paxton suggested sending word through the parish. Quietly.”
“That will do.” He finished the last of his dessert, then leaned back in his chair. “We are also looking at houses.”
May frowned. “We are?”
He nodded. “This one is temporary. There are better properties in Grosvenor, or farther out if you prefer the country.”
“Why move?” she asked, genuinely curious.
He regarded her over his clasped hands. “Because it is easier to keep the world at a distance when you control the walls around you.”
She digested this. “Do you mean to exile me to the country?”
He smirked. “Not unless you wish to go.”
She shook her head. “I have had enough exile for now.”
He smiled. “Then we will remain, for as long as you like.”
There was something about the way he said it—almost gentle, but with a steely undercurrent—that made her want to believe he meant it.
She said, “You are full of surprises tonight.”
He met her gaze, and for a moment the air between them seemed charged, brittle with possibility.
“Is that a compliment?” he asked.
“It is… an observation,” she replied, and he laughed again, deep and sincere.
The footman appeared, and Logan gestured for the bill, which was absurd because it was their own house, but May supposed old habits died hard for dukes who were used to being everywhere but home.
As the last plate was cleared, Logan stood and walked around to her side of the table. He offered his hand.
“May I?” he asked.
She looked up, startled. “May you what?”
“May I see you out?” he clarified, though his expression made it seem as though he were asking something more.
May took his hand, and he drew her up, steadying her with a light touch at her elbow. They left the dining room side by side, her arm lightly brushing his.
In the hallway, the air was cooler, sharper. They paused beneath the painted arch, the light from the sconces casting long shadows over the floor.
May turned to him, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands. She wished to say something clever, or at least memorable, but her mind had gone blank.
Logan looked at her, silent, the set of his mouth suggesting he was waging a similar battle.
For a moment, she thought he might lean in. That he might kiss her. Her heart pounded, and the space between them seemed to vanish, collapsing into a single, breathless point.
Instead, he stepped back, released her arm, and said, “Good night, May.”
“Good night, Logan,” she managed.
He watched her for one more beat, then turned and strode away, his footsteps echoing on the marble.
May remained there, in the archway, listening to the retreating sound until it faded. She was trembling, though whether from cold or something else, she could not say.
She pressed her hands together to keep them steady, and thought, You are not alone anymore. You are not the only one pretending to know what comes next.
For once, she was glad of it.