Page 29 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)

Twenty-Five

“ Y ou are a horrible, unjust, and utterly cruel husband,” May announced, stomping one foot on the paving stone for emphasis as Logan helped her down from the carriage.

Logan only laughed. “You are being dramatic, which is my favorite quality in a wife. Do be calm. It’s only a musicale.”

“ Only a musicale! ” May echoed, eyes wide.

“As if that excuses your behavior. You know exactly what you have done, and you are not even trying to hide your glee.” She glared up at him, but the effect was spoiled by the way he steadied her elbow, his fingers gentle even as she tried to swat him away.

He was punishing her for the scandal by bringing her to the dreaded Richfield musicale, where the young ladies put their various talents on display, much to the ton’s dismay.

Logan smiled at her, and it was the widest, most genuine smile she had ever seen. It nearly undid her. “You promised to support me in all things,” he reminded, voice pitched just for her. “I have witnesses.”

“You bribed the witnesses,” May said, but allowed him to guide her up the steps.

“Still, a promise is a promise.”

They entered the townhouse, where the footman took her shawl and the butler announced them to the assembled guests with a trumpet of importance usually reserved for royalty or medical emergencies. Instantly, the hum of conversation swelled, and all eyes swiveled toward the entry.

May squared her shoulders and pasted on a smile. You will not die from embarrassment, not twice in the same month, she told herself.

The hostess, a Mrs. Richfield, was a bosomy woman in gold satin, who swept forward and kissed May’s cheek as if they were sisters separated at birth and only now reunited. “Duchess! How very brave of you to come! I confess, we were all taking bets.”

May’s mouth dried. “On the performances?”

“On whether you would survive the first act.” Mrs. Richfield beamed, then added, “You are a vision, truly. That color—oh, you must introduce me to your modiste.”

Logan intervened. “She is a singular creature,” he said, nodding to May. “But I dare say she is here for the show, not the shopping.”

Mrs. Richfield giggled. “You two are delightful. You may find seats at the front. We do so want you to have the full experience.”

They were ushered to a pair of chairs only a row from the stage—a position of both honor and mortal peril. May tucked herself as small as possible beside Logan and tried to appear delighted, though she was certain she looked more like a rabbit about to be dropped into a fox den.

She turned to Logan. “Have you ever attended a Richfield musicale before?”

“Never,” Logan said. “I had no reason until now.”

May elbowed him. “You mean to say you came only to see me suffer.”

He did not deny it. “Absolutely.”

She huffed, but the effect was undermined when he adjusted the fall of her shawl with a precision that suggested long experience. “There. Now you are perfect.”

“You are insufferable,” she said, but the words came out soft.

“Duchess, you flatter me.”

The lights dimmed, and the buzz of conversation faded to an anticipatory silence. From behind a screen, a girl of about fifteen emerged, violin in hand. She stood very straight, drew her bow, and launched into an attack on Mozart that was so ferocious that May nearly reeled backwards.

Logan leaned in, breath warm against her hair. “She plays as you do.”

May made a noise of outrage and pinched his wrist. “I do not.”

He grinned. “You do. Remember, I heard you practicing last week. I had no idea the violin was a weapon.”

May tried not to laugh, but failed. The note of genuine delight in Logan’s voice was, for once, infectious.

The violin performance was followed by a series of increasingly disastrous acts.

One girl recited a poem in what May suspected was a made-up accent.

Another attempted to juggle oranges and made it as far as two before pelting a dowager in the second row.

The crowning moment arrived with a quartet of cousins performing an original song about Napoleon’s chicken, though May was uncertain whether they were mocking the man or the poultry.

Each time she looked at Logan, he was struggling to keep a straight face. At one point, she caught his eye, and both of them dissolved into helpless, silent laughter, which seemed to scandalize the woman behind them.

Between performances, Logan reached over and took her hand. It was a casual gesture, as if he’d done it a thousand times before. But he did not let go, even when she tried to slide her fingers away.

“Logan,” she whispered, “people are watching.”

“Let them,” he said, and gave her a look that made her pulse jump.

He is impossible, she thought, but did not pull her hand away again.

Intermission came, and with it, a tide of guests desperate for punch. May and Logan lingered in their seats.

“You are very good at this,” Logan said.

“At what? Enduring suffering?”

“Being brave. And kind.”

May snorted. “I am not brave. I am just stubborn.”

He squeezed her hand. “It amounts to the same.”

May wanted to say something clever, but she could not think of anything. She watched the crowd instead—the way the girls clustered together, the way the older women nodded to each other as if sharing a joke no one else could hear.

She said, “I do not think I would have survived this last year.”

Logan looked at her. “You would have. You survived worse.”

She frowned. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

The lights dimmed again, and the second half began. This time, there was a piano solo, a waltz, and a dramatic reading of Othello in which all the roles were played by one girl with a penchant for sneezing mid-sentence. May was both horrified and delighted.

At the end, the audience applauded with genuine enthusiasm. May clapped hardest of all.

As the room emptied, Logan drew her aside. “Did you enjoy it?”

May feigned outrage. “You are a menace. You knew exactly what this was.”

He gave her a half-bow. “And yet, you shone.”

She laughed. “I only survived.”

He smiled, softer than before. “I like you very much, May. I hope you know.”

She looked down, cheeks hot. “I know.”

They walked to the carriage in companionable silence.

Inside, as the city lights passed outside the windows, Logan reached for her hand again.

“May,” he said, after a time. “What did you truly think of the musicale?”

She thought. “I think… I think it was the bravest thing I have seen. All those girls, trying so hard. Failing sometimes, but still trying.” She looked at him. “It reminded me of myself. Always on the verge of disaster.”

Logan shook his head. “Not disaster. Triumph. You forget how remarkable you are.”

She stared at him, not knowing what to say.

He touched her face, gently, as if he might smooth away every doubt.

May swallowed. “I would like to do something for them. The wallflowers, the outcasts. The girls who are not quite enough for the rest of the world.”

Logan said, “I think you already do.”

May smiled, small but real. “Not enough. I want to host a party, here at the house. Just for them. No pressure, no performances. Just… company. Maybe even some gentlemen who are not awful.”

Logan considered. “A gathering of the misfits?”

She laughed. “Precisely.”

He grinned. “You are the Champion of the Unfortunate Wallflowers.”

She beamed, pleased beyond measure.

The carriage rattled over the stones. Logan, still holding her hand, said, “You are not like them. You are not like anyone.”

May looked at him. “What am I like, then?”

He was quiet for a long moment, then said, “You are like yourself. And that is more than enough for me.”

The city glowed outside, but May saw only the look in his eyes, and it was dazzling.

She took a breath. “Logan, if I had never climbed into your carriage that night—would we be here, now?”

He looked at her long and thoughtfully. “Yes. I would have found you, one way or another.”

Her heart squeezed, sudden and sharp.

She wanted to ask if he loved her, but the words would not form.