Page 28 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)
Twenty-Four
I t is this writer’s sad duty to report that the Duchess of Irondale was seen yesterday in a most unladylike altercation at the Oxford Street tea rooms, where she verbally sparred with Lady Kitty Monrose and Lady Christie Portwell.
By some accounts, the Duchess reduced both adversaries to silence (and, in one version, to tears), though the cause of such a heated dispute remains unknown.
Did the poor ladies, darlings of the ton, provoke Her Grace with some private knowledge?
What secrets lie behind the closed doors of Irondale House—and what will the Duke do, now that his own wife is the talk of the city?
Logan groaned and shoved the sheet away.
The servants had left him alone for the better part of an hour, but the rumble of activity in the front hall warned him that it would not last. He downed his coffee, stood, and strode from the breakfast room, fully prepared to storm the fortress of female drama on the other side of the house.
He found May exactly where he expected—perched on the pale blue sofa in the drawing room, bathed in a rectangle of sun that painted her in rose and gold.
She wore that particular shade of pink—soft, bordering on indecently pretty—that made him want to both scold and worship her.
She sat with her knees drawn up, slippers kicked off, head bent over a battered novel that looked more scandalous than the newsprint.
She did not notice his arrival at first, and he watched her—just for a moment, just long enough to let the frustration drain away. She is not what I expected, he thought, but she is what I want. Every damn day, I want her more.
He forced himself to clear his throat. The sound snapped her out of reverie; she looked up, her eyes huge behind the spectacles, hair barely controlled in its ribbon. She did not stand, but she did close the book, and with it, the illusion of innocence.
She regarded him, all wariness and challenge, and said, “Good morning, Duke.”
He held up the Mercury. “Do you know what this is, May?”
She blinked. “The paper?” her voice was arch, but he saw the instant of dread flicker through her expression.
He advanced, stopping just short of the sofa. “One of five,” he said. “Every scandal sheet in London has your name in it this morning. I have not checked the betting books, but if they do not have odds on our separation by the end of the day, I will eat my own hat.”
May sighed, set her book aside, and planted her feet on the carpet. “It was not a brawl, Logan. Not even close. The Mercury is exaggerating.”
He arched a brow. “They are reporting that you made Lady Kitty Monrose cry.”
May’s mouth quirked. “That part is true. But only because Lady Kitty is the sort who weeps if her pudding is not to standard.”
He tried to glare, but the image was too absurd. “Explain yourself, please.”
May folded her arms, but did not shrink. “They were saying terrible things, about you, about us, about the baby. Not even clever things, just the usual. That I was unfit, that you’d married me for a bet, that Rydal was some orphan you’d collected to curry sympathy.”
Logan felt a hot pulse of anger at the back of his throat. “And what did you say in reply?”
She shrugged, a gesture that somehow encompassed all of Mayfair. “That they were small-minded harpies with no true friends or prospects, and that if they wished to see a proper scandal, I would be delighted to provide one.”
He stared at her. “You threatened them with violence?”
“Verbal violence,” she said. “If I had truly wished to harm them, I would have corrected Lady Christie’s Latin in front of the entire room. Or worse, her pronunciation of French.”
It was possible, Logan realized, to admire and want to throttle a woman in equal measure. He dropped into the armchair opposite and raked a hand through his hair. “You realize, of course, that this is now the story of the Season?”
May’s eyes flashed. “Let them talk. They talk anyway. At least now I have given them material worth the effort.”
He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You are not alone in this, May. If they hurt you?—”
She shook her head, sharp and stubborn. “They did not hurt me. Not really.” Her eyes softened. “But I do not like when they say things about you. Or about Rydal. I could not let it stand.”
Logan felt the words settle into his bones, warm and dangerous. He looked away, searching for the right response. “I appreciate the defense of my name,” he said, “but next time, perhaps avoid public venues?”
She smiled, then, a flash of dimple. “I cannot promise. Public venues are where the best mischief occurs.”
He groaned, but it was half a laugh. “You are impossible.”
“Possibly,” May said, “but I am also right.”
He grinned, unable to suppress it. “You are incorrigible.”
She grinned back. “I have learned from the best.”
A silence fell, not uncomfortable, but dense with things unspoken.
Finally, Logan said, “Are you well?”
May tilted her head. “Why do you ask?”
He gestured at the paper. “You took on two of the ton’s sharpest tongues and left them in ruins. Some might call that bravery. Others might say it is the mark of a woman on the verge.”
She bristled. “I am not on the verge of anything.”
He let the moment stretch, then said, “I believe you. But I also know how lonely it is, being watched by everyone, waiting for you to fail.”
May looked away, mouth tight. “It is not so bad. Not when I have Rydal. And…” She broke off, then added, “And you, I suppose.”
He wanted to ask her to say it again, to make it real, but she would only turn it into jest. So he stood, crossed to her side, and sat on the sofa. She scooted over to give him space, though not much.
He looked at her profile, at the perfect line of her jaw, and wondered if it was possible to be in love with someone who did not love you back. It must be , he thought, for here I am .
He reached over and took her hand. She did not pull away, only studied his fingers with a peculiar fascination.
“I never liked Lady Kitty or Lady Christie,” he said, voice low. “They are the sort to be cruel in company and apologetic in private.”
May’s brow shot up. “Why did you not warn me?”
He shrugged. “I thought you might see it for yourself. You are smarter than both of them combined.”
She smiled, a soft thing that curled up at the corners. “You are not so foolish, yourself, Logan.”
He squeezed her hand. “Tell me, Duchess. What should we do about the scandal?”
“Ignore it and outlast it, I suppose.” She sighed. “Now, I do not care if you intend to punish me for this scandal, but I shall maintain that I did what was right.”
Logan tilted his head and studied her. “I cannot fault you for that… but you did break one of my rules…” he allowed a slow smile, and her eyes widened, “and we cannot have that, May.”