Page 22 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)

Nineteen

“ A re those the gloves from Mrs. Hatherleigh’s shop, or are you hoarding a French glove maker?” Lady Kitty said, seizing May’s hand the moment she reached their table. “Don’t tell me you possess a secret source. I could perish from jealousy.”

May let her fingers be examined, half-smiling. “They’re not from Hatherleigh’s. Their window has been uninteresting since March. These are from…” She searched her memory. “Somewhere on Bond Street. I forgot the name.”

“That is criminal,” Lady Christie announced, her eyes settling on the menu. “A duchess must always know the provenance of her accessories.”

“Do you think they are duchess-worthy?” May asked, splaying her fingers.

Kitty glanced at Christie. “You could wear gloves sewn from fishnet, and the ton would start a riot to have them.” She dropped May’s hand and nodded in approval. “Your taste is becoming infamous.”

May wasn’t sure if this was a compliment or a warning as she sat and placed a napkin on her lap.

“Have you seen Lady Louisa Weatherby this week?” Christie asked as she poured tea.

Kitty’s eyes lit with anticipation. “Oh, has she finally selected a suitor, or is she still declining gentlemen as if she were heir to the throne?”

“She refused Lord Ternbridge at Almack’s,” Christie said, her lips barely curving. “He nearly tripped over his own feet in confusion.”

May accepted a cup from Christie. “Perhaps she simply didn’t like him,” she said. “Or perhaps she wishes to choose for herself, which is more than most of us are allowed.”

The other two exchanged glances. Kitty was the first to recover. “No one blames her for being particular, but to reject every offer?—”

“Is to risk becoming a cautionary tale?” May cut in. “Perhaps she hopes to become a legend instead.”

Kitty laughed, but the sound was bright rather than harsh. “You always take their part, May. It’s rather noble, actually.”

May set her cup down, refusing to feel defensive. “I only mean that every lady ought to choose a gentleman she is compatible with, not just the first to stumble into her path.”

Kitty held up her hands. “You misunderstand. We only meant that daughters of barons rarely dare to act as if they were daughters of dukes.”

May bit her tongue to keep from answering at once. Christie rescued the mood by sighing, “But the real excitement is the masquerade next week. I hear there are already wagers about who will dare the most scandalous costume.”

Kitty leaned in. “You must go as a queen, May. Or at least a sorceress. It would suit you.”

“I have not decided if I’ll attend,” May said, though she’d already asked Abbot to consult with the modiste about mask options.

Kitty gasped. “You would break hearts, staying away. The masquerade will be quite tame if the Duchess of Irondale does not appear.”

“You exaggerate,” May said.

Christie shook her head. “Not at all. It’s become a point of pride, you know—everyone wants to be the one to spot your identity first. There are even betting pools.”

“Then perhaps I should go as a footman,” May said. “Just to disappoint everyone.”

“Now I do wish to see you as a footman. Preferably with a mustache and a scandalous accent.” Kitty’s laugh was rather infectious.

“Which accent?” Christie asked, sipping her tea.

“Anything not British,” Kitty said. “Foreigners are far more intriguing. It’s a known fact.”

May considered this. “And what of you, Lady Kitty? What will you be?”

Kitty’s eyes brightened at the question, and she leaned forward. “I am to be an angel.”

Christie snorted. “With black feathers?”

“Perhaps. But you will never see them. The costume is strictly heavenly, I assure you.”

“Lady Christie,” May said, “I would bet you arrive as something formidable.”

“I’m torn between a Greek goddess and a French queen. But if I must choose, I shall be Medusa.”

“Appropriate,” May said, and instantly regretted it. “I meant—your hair. It’s lovely when you wear it up.”

Kitty gave a sly smile. “We all meant it that way. Tell us, May, if you could dress as anything, what would it be?”

May leaned back, considering. “I would be invisible.”

Christie raised her brows. “That is not allowed.”

“Then perhaps I will be a specter,” May said. “There’s a certain appeal to being overlooked.”

Kitty tapped her fork against her teacup, then exchanged a look with Christie. “You are never overlooked, Duchess. Not anymore.”

May looked at her lap, the compliment stinging as much as it pleased. The subject drifted, as it always did, to the latest courtships, engagements, and failures thereof. They discussed the color of Lady Shelburne’s new drawing room.

“I wish you could have seen it, May,” Kitty wrinkled her nose. “It was a ghastly color. Yellow! Like a lemon!”

“It is a crime against the senses,” said Christie.

The scones arrived, with clotted cream and a new pot of tea. As May cut hers, Kitty said, “Did you hear about Miss Applegate? Miriam? She wore a peacock costume to the Fentons’ masquerade last winter, and everyone ridiculed her. She wept, apparently, for a full hour.”

“She did not weep,” Christie said. “She only appeared so. It was the effect of the powder and rouge.”

Kitty looked at May. “Can you imagine, planning for weeks and then being laughed at entirely?”

“I think,” May said slowly, “that it must have been very brave. She stood out, even if people did not see it.”

Kitty blinked. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

May smiled. “Most girls spend their entire lives hoping to be noticed. If Miriam Applegate wished to be seen, I admire her for it.”

Christie tapped a bit of cream onto her scone. “She did look rather fine. The colors suited her.”

May nodded, emboldened. “She is quite clever, too. I sat next to her at a dinner, and she quoted Virgil for ten straight minutes.”

Kitty’s brows shot up. “Virgil?”

“Poetry,” May said. “The Latin sort.”

“Oh. I’d have failed to keep up, I think.” Kitty gave a small smile. “But you would not.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, interrupted only by the clink of teacups and the quiet competition of who could butter a scone more elegantly.

Kitty broke the spell first. “I hope you will come to my birthday ball next month. It’s nothing grand, only a little supper and some dancing. But I would like it very much if you came.”

May was surprised. “I would be honored.”

Christie grinned. “We will make it the event of the Season, if only for you.”

May flushed, caught off guard. “You are both very kind.”

Kitty reached for her hand again, squeezing it briefly. “I mean it. We are glad to have you with us.”

May looked at their faces, so alive with mischief and the thrill of social engineering, and she wondered for a moment if she belonged here. If these girls saw her as one of their own, or as a prize to be won, her title a favor to court every opportunity.

Am I a friend, or a pet project?

But then she remembered the way Kitty had laughed at her joke, and the way Christie had softened at the mention of poetry, and she allowed herself to believe in the possibility of friendship, even if it came in odd shapes.

They finished their tea, and as they stood to leave, Kitty said, “Do not forget to wear blue to the masquerade. It suits you best.”

“I shall consider it.”

The shop was loud as they made their way out.

Kitty and Christie linked arms, drawing May between them as they stepped into the street like an unbreakable front against the world.

May left them at the next corner, her gloves slightly sticky from the orange marmalade, but her heart lighter than it had been in days.

She did not know what to call this thing, this sisterhood of sharp tongues and sharper smiles. But for now, she wanted it.

“You are here again,” May observed as Logan walked into the breakfast room the following day, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “It’s becoming a habit.”

He inclined his head and gave her a dashing smile that sent her heart kicking against her ribs. “I assure you, it’s not by choice.”

“Was I snoring?” she asked. “Or is it the scandal sheets this time?”

“Neither,” Logan said. “Though if you like, I can make up a reason for joining you for breakfast.”

May glanced at the sideboard, where the eggs congealed on their silver tray. “You could at least admit you missed me.”

Logan sat across from her at the small, round breakfast table. “I missed my chance at toast, more like. You have taken all the strawberry preserves.”

“Preserves are my only vice,” she said.

He smiled at that. “A bald-faced lie.”

May reached for another slice of bread, slathered it generously, and met his gaze. “What shall I do today, since you have already used all the amusements in London? Go to Gunter’s and have ices until my face freezes over? Lurk at Hatchard’s and read books I do not intend to buy?”

“You will come with me.” He picked up the newspaper, but then set it down.

May almost dropped the toast. “Where are we going?”

“A house on Grosvenor. I want you to see it.”

May squinted, then adjusted her spectacles. “You mean, you wish me to tour a property?”

Logan nodded. “I value your opinion.”

She made a show of thinking it over. “You say that now, but if I despise it, will you throw me in the Serpentine?”

“I shall throw myself,” Logan replied, pouring himself tea. “I am told the water is refreshing this time of year.”

They finished the meal with only minor skirmishes over the jam. When the carriage arrived, May was prepared with gloves, a shawl, and several comments about the folly of inspecting townhouses before ten in the morning.

The Grosvenor house was not enormous, but it was graceful with wide windows, a cheerful pale brown door, and a sweep of marble steps that seemed more inviting than impressive. The housekeeper met them at the threshold, giving May a curious look before dipping into a curtsy.

Logan ushered May inside with a flourish. “The palace awaits, Your Majesty.”

“I had always wanted a palace,” she said. “With a moat and wild boars.”