Page 3 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)

Three

“ S he’s coming. We shouldn’t let May see this.”

May stopped just outside the breakfast room, her hand hovering near the doorframe. She blinked and stared straight ahead as her stomach lurched.

They’re talking about me.

She stepped into the room anyway.August and June were seated at the long table, their breakfast mostly untouched. June jerked and hastily shoved something behind her back. August looked like he might combust.

“What’s going on?” May asked, keeping her voice deceptively calm.

“Nothing,” June said too quickly. “Just a little story about—about a goose. Quite a silly goose.”

“A goose?”

“Yes. A rural one. Not worth your attention.”

“That does not explain August’s rage,” she murmured, her heart racing. Whatever they were keeping had to do with her, and she had the strange notion that her world was about to erupt.

May narrowed her eyes and marched across the room. June twisted, but May was faster, grabbing the paper from her sister’s grip. The pages tore, and a corner fluttered to the floor.

She read the page, and there it was. Her name in bold ink.

Lady May Vestiere, most oft-forgotten daughter of the Duke of Wildmoore, has at last leapt into notoriety by hurling herself into the nearest scandal.

Witnesses at the Stone ball last night report she fled the ballroom only to abscond in a gentleman’s carriage.

A carriage with no connection whatsoever to her family.

While no name has been confirmed, it is said the lady did not return home until much later.

Has the wallflower of the ton turned desperate enough to trap herself a husband?

May’s cheeks flamed.

August rose and approached her, the very air around him bending from his fury. “Do you care to explain what that means?”

“August, I—” May began.

“Who was it?”

Before she could answer, their mother swept into the room, a lace wrap around her shoulders and a scolding already forming on her lips. “What is going on in here? Why are we shouting at breakfast?”

Everyone froze, and May stuffed the sheet behind her back.Dorothy Vestiere’s eyes narrowed. “What are you hiding, May?”

“Nothing,” June said at once.

“Do not lie to me, June. May?”

May bit her lip, but she knew it was no use. Wordlessly, she handed over the torn sheet.Dorothy read it. Her hand flew up to her chest, and her knees buckled.

“Mother!” May darted forward and caught her. August rushed over and helped her onto the settee beneath the window while June ran for the smelling salts.

“Oh, this is the end of us!” Dorothy moaned, fanning herself with the crumpled paper. “The end. We shall be the mockery of every drawing room from London to Northumberland! What have I done to deserve this? My daughter, fleeing into the night like some Gothic heroine—and not even for love!”

“Mama,” May whispered, kneeling beside her.

“Do not speak. I cannot bear it. How can we show our faces again? How will I walk into a modiste’s without being laughed out of the room? We cannot even go to dinner parties! And if your father hears of this?—”

“We won’t let him,” June said, returning with the salts. “He’s only just recovering.”

“He mustn’t know,” Dorothy moaned. “Not while he’s doing so well. It would kill him. It would—oh, I feel faint again!”

August turned toward May again, his eyes dark. “Tell me who it was.”

May opened her mouth, but nothing came. Swallowing, she took a retreating step toward the door, her world crashing and burning all around her.

“May,” June said gently, coming and taking her hands. “You’re shaking.”

“She’s in shock,” April said from the doorway, striding in with a sheet in her grip. “I came as soon as I saw the headline.”She handed the sheet to May with a tight expression. “Is it true?”

“I thought it was August’s carriage,” May finally said, feeling her chin quiver and the corners of her mouth pull down as she spoke. “I couldn’t see without my spectacles, and I only realized when it was far too late.”

“May Viola Vestiere!” Her mother threw her hands in the air. “I told you disaster might strike you without those spectacles.”

May winced. She did not need to hear how she had brought this doom upon herself and her family.

“May, who was it?” August demanded again, though his voice had softened.

She looked up, her insides quivering. “The Duke of Irondale.”

Chaos exploded.

“Of all men!” Dorothy wailed. “Why must it be him ? The one with a title and no scruples! The devil of devils!”

“I will kill him,” August growled.

“Do not be ridiculous,” April said. “You cannot fight a duke.”

“He could have told her , ” August shouted. “He could have spoken a single word and prevented this entire catastrophe!”

“He was a gentleman,” May whispered. “He did not behave in any untoward manner. He was polite and kind.”

“He spoke, didn’t he?” August snapped. “Then why not reveal who he was?”

“Oh, my heart,” Dorothy cried. “The papers will crucify us. We must leave London. We’ll go to the country. We’ll never receive another invitation.”

“That’s absurd,” June said. “We could write the papers and tell them it’s all a fabrication.”

“Theo might be able to help,” April added. “He’s a duke. He knows the owner of The Morning Register. ”

“I will defend her honor,” August said.

“No one is dueling anyone,” June insisted.

May stood there, trembling and unable to bear her family’s conflicting suggestions. She needed to get away from here.

“Where are you going?” April asked when she turned.

“I need to think.”

She left the breakfast room, her head pounding. Her family’s voices followed her up the stairs in a cacophony of outrage, advice, and plans.

She needed quiet. Stillness.

May opened the door to her bedchamber and stepped in, shutting it as quickly as she could and resting her back against the wood. Closing her eyes, she tried to breathe.

But then she heard the sound of a page turning, and her eyes flew open.

The Duke of Irondale was lounging upon her sofa, one boot crossed over the other, a scone in one hand and the other flipping through one of her romance novels that lay open on his lap.

He looked up, and a slow grin spread across his face.

“Your heroine,” he said, gesturing with the book, “is dreadfully dramatic.”

“What are you doing in my bedchamber?”

May didn’t scream. She thought she might. But her voice came out sharp, incredulous, and entirely too composed.

Irondale, seated as if he owned the chaise—and the entire room—lifted a brow and gestured toward the open window.

“I found the window unlatched. The climb was a trifle. Then I noticed fresh scones and a rather dramatic novel. I could not resist.”

He climbed through my window. Into my room. Sat on my sofa. Ate my scones.

“I left those scones to eat after breakfast,” she muttered.

“Excellent foresight. They pair quite nicely with scandal.” He picked up a crumb from his lap and flicked it away. “Your heroine has just stabbed her betrothed in the thigh. For kissing another woman.”

She gaped at him. He was too at ease. Too smug. Too… She marched forward and snatched the book from his hands.

“You may be a duke and a rake, but I refuse to be frightened into silence by you! What are you doing here?”

“I just explained?—”

“Explained?” she echoed. “You climbed into a lady’s bedchamber uninvited, devoured her breakfast, and helped yourself to her novels.”

“They were scones. Not breakfast. A distinction worth noting.” He gestured toward her chaise. “You’ll sit?”

“No, I shall not. I am going to fetch a chaperone to witness this madness.”

She turned, skirts swishing, and made for the door.

He moved like lightning. One moment, the handle was within reach. The next, she was stumbling into an immovable object—his chest.

Her hands pressed to him instinctively. And remained there for a beat too long before she jerked them away.

Burned. I touched him.

He stepped forward, closing the space between them. Their eyes locked.

May’s bravado faltered. Her heartbeat was riotous. The scent of scones and pine clung to him.

“I suggest,” he said, “you sit.”

She did.

He stayed standing, one hand braced on the mantelpiece, his posture deceptively casual.

“If this were any other day,” he said, “I would see this scandal buried by noon. A whisper here, a favor there. But today, I cannot.”

Her stomach twisted. “Why not?”

His expression darkened. “A child. Left on my doorstep last night.”

“A… child?”

“A baby boy. Swaddled and howling. My servants believed him mine. He is not.”

“And you think the ton will believe that?”

“They never do.”

“So you want me to help distract them?” she said slowly. “Shall I pretend to be the child’s mother?”

He gave a soft laugh. “Not quite.”

Footsteps paused outside.

“May?” April’s voice filtered through. “Do not keep me out. I wish to know how you are.”

Irondale moved quickly, locking the door. Then he nodded toward her.

May swallowed. “I’m fine, April. Just… a moment alone.”

A pause.

“All right. Call if you need me.”

They waited until her footsteps faded.

May rose to her feet. “Now. What is your real plan?”

“Marriage.”

Her knees nearly buckled.

“Chaste,” he added. “Public. Mutually beneficial. We’ll act the part of a besotted pair. Tell the ton your brother rode beside the carriage that night. A clean tale. A quick distraction.”

May’s mouth opened. “And what do I receive, beyond a pile of deception and a cold, empty house?”

“You receive the end of whispers. Of ridicule. Of the ‘May Wallflower’ moniker.”

“That’s not enough,” she said, lifting her chin. “My family loves me. I would rather endure the scandal with them than be a pawn in your social maneuvering.”

He stepped closer. “I cannot promise you romance.”

Her heart faltered.

“But no one would dare call the Duchess of Irondale a wallflower. You would make them eat their words. Make them sorry they ever turned their backs on you.”

His voice was low. Intimate. Dangerous.

And then he did something unexpected. He reached out and, with a single finger, lifted her chin.

“I see you, May Vestiere. I see you in a way they never bothered to.”

She pulled back, breath shaky.

“I need time to think.”

“Take it.”

But even as she watched him open her window and climb down, sheknew what her answer would be.