Page 27 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)

Twenty-Three

I t has come to the attention of your devoted correspondent that the Iron Duke’s Household, never previously known for its sentimental displays, has been enlarged by a most unexpected addition!

Word is that the Duchess, formerly Lady May Vestiere of Wildmoore, has undertaken the supervision of a new heir—none other than the Duke’s own infant brother, heretofore concealed from even the closest of confidantes.

This child, described as “robust and uncommonly loud,” is already the talk of drawing rooms from Bond Street to Brighton.

Some say the Duke wed his wallflower bride to mask this domestic upheaval; others maintain it is simply the latest proof that a bachelor is never truly reformed until he is both wedded and saddled with a child.

Either way, all eyes remain on the newly minted Duchess, whose quiet grace may yet set the standard for scandal management in the year to come.

“It’s not even a proper scandal,” May said, tossing the paper aside so that it slid under the sofa and, by the sound of it, startled a footman in the hallway.

April laughed and stretched a hand across the needlework she’d brought as an excuse to linger.

“That is the problem, darling. The Mercury is so desperate for news, it will print anything that can be remotely made into a disaster. ‘Household increase’—as if you’d ordered a pair of kittens from the shops! ”

June peered over the rim of her teacup, gaze sharp. “It is a disaster, for those who care about the purity of bloodlines and the sacred order of the peerage.”

“If those people had any real convictions, they’d have stopped inviting me to their balls three seasons ago,” said May, who was attempting to keep Rydal asleep in a basket at her feet by means of a complex system of foot taps and whispered threats.

April leaned in, lips curved. “You don’t mind, do you? The talk? Some girls would be horrified.”

“Some girls are not required to attend every musicale or tea,” May said. “Nor are they obliged to bring an infant to every one. If I am to be infamous, I’d prefer it for something I actually did.”

June set down her cup with a thunk. “You did something, all right. You married the coldest man in London and made a family out of a disaster. There are grown women with fortunes who could not do half so much.”

May rolled her eyes, but the words felt warm as a scarf. She peeked at the basket—Rydal still asleep, arms thrown overhead, mouth half-open in an expression of utter innocence.

“I wish they would grow bored with us,” May sighed.

“They will,” June promised. “As soon as Lady Shropshire’s eldest is caught running from Gunter’s with nothing but a shawl and a tea biscuit.”

April sighed. “Is that really all it takes?”

“No,” said May. “There’s always something worse. Today it’s a baby; tomorrow it will be my spectacles; after that, Logan will be found gambling with a bishop.”

The baby made a small sound, and May instinctively bent over the basket, covering him with her hands as though sheltering him from a downpour of unwanted attention.

She did not want to be in the news. She did not want to be the Duchess of Irondale, not if it meant every day would be like this—picked apart, dissected, observed from every conceivable angle.

She wanted to be a person again. She wanted to have tea with her sisters and not worry about what would be said about it.

“Maybe I will take Rydal out,” she said, startling even herself. “There’s a matinee at the theater. Or we could visit Hatchard’s. The baby needs more books.”

June snorted. “He needs more sleep, but by all means, take him to a play.”

April gathered her things, stood, and kissed May’s cheek. “You are doing marvelously. Ignore the papers.”

May hugged her, whispered, “Thank you for coming,” and meant it.

June stayed behind, watching her, and after a while, said, “You really do not mind it?”

May shrugged. “Not so much as I mind being the punchline at the next dinner party.”

June looked at her in a way she had not since they were both small, as if there were something mysterious and wild in May that only sisters could see. “You are very brave,” she said, “but you do not have to be. Not with me.”

May blinked. “I am not brave.”

“Everyone who is brave says that,” said June, then left, closing the door quietly.

Rydal slept on. May rested her head on the arm of the sofa, feeling both lighter and heavier than she had in days.

Perhaps she would take him to the theater. Or perhaps she would simply go outside, walk until the world seemed less interested in the affairs of her heart.

“Your Grace!” Kitty trilled, as if May had just been discovered behind a potted palm and not deliberately invited. She stood just inside the little tea shop foyer and regarded her friends.

Lady Kitty and Lady Christie were waving from their table like a pair of yellow and lilac bonbons nestled beneath the west-facing window. The effect was such that, from the street, they must look like dolls set out for display. May forced a smile and made her way over.

Kitty caught May’s hand before she could sit. “You have arrived at the very moment of crisis. Christie was about to tell me the story of Lord Pike’s new valet, but I insisted we wait for your discerning ear.”

May surrendered her hand, then her seat. “I am sure it will be worth the suspense,” she said.

Christie’s mouth curved. “You will adore this, truly. It is all anyone spoke of at Lady Danton’s last night—except, of course, the newest darling of the Season. That is to say, your darling, Duchess.”

May blinked. “My?—?”

Kitty pounced. “William Blackmore. The child! He is the subject of every wager between Hanover Square and Hyde Park. No one has seen the ton so besotted since that spaniel with the diamond collar made its debut at Almack’s.”

May managed a polite, “He is… rather charming, I suppose.” She had hoped the talk today might not be of the baby, or the house, or herself. She had hoped, foolishly, that Lady Kitty and Lady Christie might grant her a reprieve from her own life.

Christie sipped her tea, then set the cup down with a tap. “You must tell us the truth, May. Is it all a ruse? Is the child truly a cousin’s, or is there some scandalous twist we are not clever enough to divine?”

Kitty widened her eyes. “We adore scandal, but you must admit this one is truly ambitious, even for a Blackmore. We are dying to know how you managed it.”

May frowned. “Managed… what, precisely?”

Kitty exchanged a look with Christie, and May felt suddenly as though she were being sized up for auction.

“We mean,” Christie said, “how you managed to land the most unattainable man in the city. The Duke was so publicly averse to marriage that every eligible woman had abandoned hope. And then—voilà!—there you are. Duchess before the ink is dry on the banns.”

May said, carefully, “It was not a scheme. It was an arrangement of convenience, nothing more.”

Kitty’s smile took on a new glint. “If it were convenience, darling, then you must be the luckiest woman in England. Or the cleverest. We are divided on the point.”

“I am neither,” May said, “but I have excellent luck with pastry.”

She took a hasty bite of the seed cake before her, hoping to anchor herself to the table and not to the pale blue of Kitty’s watchful eyes. They are not your friends. They never were. They are the cats, and you are the canary, and the only question is whether you sing or shriek.

Christie, undeterred, tried a new tack. “Is he difficult? The Duke. I have always imagined him as the type to order a new suit for breakfast, and then demand a new breakfast because the first suit was not up to standard.”

May thought of Logan, his shirtsleeves rolled and his hair damp, feeding Rydal with a care so gentle it could make the heart ache. “He is exacting, perhaps, but only with himself. The rest of us are allowed to be as we are.”

Kitty sighed. “You say that as if it is a comfort. I find it exhausting to be myself for even a quarter hour.”

May almost smiled. “You do it so well, though.”

For a moment, she wondered if that was the right thing to say, but Kitty only laughed. “Perhaps. But one must have the right company for it.” She raised her cup, and Christie joined her in a three-way toast that left May feeling vaguely outnumbered.

They moved through the obligatory topics—Lady Weatherby’s ongoing engagement standoff, the appearance of Mrs. Grenville’s stepdaughter at the assembly, and whether the new vicar at St. James’s was as eligible as reported. But every thread returned, inevitably, to May.

“Your spectacles are new, are they not?” Kitty asked, head cocked. “They are quite fetching. You almost look like a bluestocking.”

Christie nodded. “It suits you, honestly. No one expects a duchess to read, and so you become quite the sensation when you do.”

May touched the side of her glasses, feeling the old, familiar shame flush her cheeks. “I can see better, is all.”

“But you saw quite well before,” said Kitty. “At least, well enough to snare the Iron Duke.”

Christie giggled. “She is merciless, isn’t she, Duchess?”

May felt her spine go rigid. “I think you are mistaking me for someone else.”

Kitty’s eyes narrowed, but she let the moment pass. “Shall we order another round of scones? They are rumored to be sublime today.”

May, desperate for a reason to leave the table, volunteered, “I shall fetch them. I need to stretch my legs.”

She pushed her chair back, and the movement had the awkward force of a prisoner breaking from shackles. The counter was a dozen steps away, but each step untied the knots in her chest.

Behind the counter, a girl with a braid nearly as long as her entire person stood arranging a pyramid of currant buns. She saw May approach and nearly dropped the top bun.

“Your Grace!” she said, eyes wide. “What may I—oh, sorry, I should not shout in the shop, but—oh, this is very exciting—” She clapped her hands together. “I’m Penelope, Your Grace. How may I help you?”

May smiled at the earnestness. “We’d like a plate of scones. Whichever is freshest, please.”

The girl beamed. “They’re all fresh, but the lemon ones are best. The cook let me try one this morning. Would you like jam or just cream?”

“Both, please.”

Penelope leaned in, dropping her voice. “If I were a duchess, I’d have them put the jam and cream on the scone before bringing it to the table. Then it’s a surprise, and everyone is jealous.”

May laughed, startled by her confidence. “Do you often advise your patrons on how to eat scones?”

“Only the special ones.” She began loading a plate with scones, then looked up again. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Not at all.”

Blushing, she glanced around, then back at May. “Is it very hard? Being Duchess? Everyone is always watching, I suppose.”

May considered the question. “Sometimes. But mostly it is just like being anyone else. Except you have to smile more.”

Penelope nodded, as if this confirmed a long-held suspicion. “I’d be terrible at that.”

“I am as well,” May confided. “But you get better with time.”

Penelope finished the plate and wrapped a linen napkin around the bottom.

“I will bring these to your table in a moment, Your Grace. I only wish to warn you—” She dropped her voice even further, so low May had to lean in.

“Be careful with Lady Kitty and Lady Christie. They are very pretty, but they have sharp tongues. I heard them say some things yesterday, about you. I did not like it.”

May’s heart gave a tiny hop. “Thank you, Penelope. I appreciate it.”

Penelope looked relieved, as if she’d just confessed to a priest. “You are very welcome. I hope you enjoy the scones.”

May returned to the table, feeling the words echo. Sharp tongues. She could manage that. She had grown up in a house of sisters; she knew every flavor of cruelty and the thousand ways to dress it in velvet and lace.

As she neared, she caught her own name.

“… she pretends to be clever,” Kitty was saying. “But it is only the spectacles. Without them, she’d be as lost as any parlor maid.”

Christie laughed. “I wonder if the Duke has even kissed her. She is so pale, one expects she’d faint at the very thought.”

“They say she is delicate,” Kitty replied, “but I think it is an act. If she were truly delicate, she’d have expired from mortification by now.”

“I have not yet died,” May said, sliding into her seat. “But I do feel the urge from time to time.”

Kitty startled, but recovered quickly. “We meant no offense. You know how it is…”

May looked at her, seeing her properly for the first time. The beauty was brittle, the wit more a habit than an instinct. The envy radiated so brightly that May wondered how she had missed it all this time.

“You Grace—” Christie began, but May cut her off with a raised hand.

“I did not know this was your true perception of me.” May smiled, a little too brightly, while Christie looked down, caught off guard. May almost pitied her.

“It truly is a relief when one discovers who hides the dagger behind their backs,” May continued.

“Your Grace, do you not think your words too harsh?” Kitty asked, and May’s eyes narrowed.

“Did you not think your speculations about my marriage too harsh? Or is that a rule you are exempted from?”

Kitty’s lips parted, but May did not wait for a reply.

“Lady Kitty, Lady Christie, I have no wish to be seen with simple-minded harpies with neither true friends nor prospects.” She turned to leave but paused.

“And if a proper scandal is what you wish to see, I would be delighted to provide you one!”

With that, she made her way to the door, feeling a thousand eyes follow her. She let them look and let them whisper.

Outside, the air was crisp and bright, and she breathed it in until the chill reached her bones. She was not fragile, not the way they wanted her to be.

She was the Iron Duchess, she was herself, and that would have to be enough.

And if it is not, she thought, then the world will have to manage without me.