Page 32 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)
Twenty-Eight
“ T he eclairs are positively transcendent, Your Grace!” Miss Evangeline Richfield pressed both hands to her heart as if fearing the pastries might escape. “I told Martha we ought to attempt them at home, but she insists our cook would rather die than risk a collapsed choux.”
May Vestiere, Duchess of Irondale and, for the next two hours, unchallenged sovereign of the Irondale House gardens, allowed herself a brief moment of gloating.
She let it show only in the upward quirk of her mouth and the gleam behind her spectacles.
“I would not recommend it, Miss Richfield. We had three ruined batches before Penelope found the proper flour. The kitchen still smells of despair.”
Martha Richfield, blushing even in the shade of the striped awning, whispered, “I can still taste the lemon cream. Truly, we are not worthy.”
May accepted their adulation with a modest dip of her head. If this is what it feels like to be celebrated, I could grow used to it. Or else I shall develop gout and a profound dislike for sweets, but only time will tell.
She glanced around at the garden, the hedges clipped within an inch of their lives, the blue hyacinths jostling for dominance with the scarlet tulips, the little flags staked along the gravel walks to mark where one was allowed to cut across the grass.
It was a vision of order with just enough color to feel rebellious.
At her elbow, April surveyed the assembled guests with the clinical eye of a woman who had hosted three charity balls and a political salon in the past six months.
“You have achieved the impossible,” she said, balancing a plate mounded with Penelope’s cakes.
“You have made genteel society enjoyable. How will you ever top this?”
“By never hosting again,” May replied. “I intend to retire at the height of my power.”
June, who had never retired from anything in her life, flitted past, snatching a raspberry tart from April’s plate and pirouetting away before her sister could swat her.
“You must do this every week, May! I have not seen so many happy faces since Lady Weatherby’s cat produced that litter of orange kittens. And that ended in catastrophe.”
Miss Evangeline laughed, glancing over at the low table where the youngest of the party were gathered around a basket. “You see, even the babe is perfectly content.”
May felt her cheeks warm at the sight of Rydal, enthroned in the center of a patchwork of cushions, as a rotating court of young ladies vied for the privilege of tickling his toes.
He accepted their tributes with open delight and a ferocious grip that had already claimed the lace trim from three gloves.
He is very much the center of attention, and for once, it is not mortifying.
“I heard he prefers the title ‘Your Babeship,’” said Miss Richfield, sotto voce, then laughed at her own wit.
May grinned. “He answers to anything if bribed with enough orange marmalade.”
The first hour of the gathering had been May’s private ordeal. She had worried the guests would find the event dull, the refreshments inferior, or—worst of all—the presence of an infant at a garden party so dreadfully out of order that it would become the talk of the ton for all the wrong reasons.
But as the afternoon drifted onward, she saw only smiles and flushed cheeks, not one look of disdain or censure.
Perhaps I can be more than a stopgap Duchess after all.
Perhaps I can even enjoy this. She dared a glance toward the western slope of the lawn, where the only three gentlemen of note—her husband, the Duke of Stone, and August—stood clustered around a table as if on the verge of hatching some great and terrible scheme.
Logan caught her gaze, raised an eyebrow in challenge, and—without warning—left his compatriots to stride across the grass toward her.
May turned quickly, shielding herself with the assembled ladies.
She pretended to attend to Miss Richfield’s story about a tragically collapsed pudding, but all her awareness was concentrated behind her, where she could feel the approach of the man who continued to puzzle, irritate, and occupy her thoughts.
He appeared at her side, one hand coming to rest at her waist with an easy familiarity she had never quite managed to get used to. He wore a blue coat that matched the sky, and his hair was wind-tousled and too rakish by half.
“The Duchess is needed on the main walk,” he said, leaning down to brush his lips against her temple before addressing the company. “You will forgive me, ladies, for stealing your hostess. She is wanted for an official ruling.”
May blinked. “On what subject am I expected to arbitrate?”
“The rules of quoits,” Logan replied, face all innocence. “There is a dispute whether a ring that bounces off the stake may count for points if it then lands upon one’s foot.”
June, having sidled up to the edge of the conversation, said, “Absolutely not. That is a travesty.”
April shook her head. “I have never seen a man so determined to win at a children’s game.”
May allowed herself to be led away, Logan’s hand at her waist a promise and a warning.
When they were out of earshot, he whispered, “You are dangerously adept at this, Duchess.”
“At what?” May risked a glance at his profile, and was immediately angry at herself for the leap her pulse gave at the sight of his smile.
“Hosting. Commanding. Existing at the center of the world.” He squeezed her waist and then let go, as if remembering where they were. “I could never do it. I would rather face the entire House of Lords than a garden party.”
“I believe you have faced the entire House of Lords,” May said, mock sternly. “And you won.”
He shrugged. “A lesser challenge.”
May was silent, watching the ladies crowding around the painted quoit target. She thought, If I could freeze this day, I would. Everything is so light. Even Logan. Even me.
He turned to her. “Will you play?”
“Only if you swear to let me win.”
He laughed, genuinely and warmly, and for a moment, the air between them felt electric. “I never let anyone win. But I will throw the match if you ask nicely.”
They reached the game, where Theo was measuring the distance between the stake and a suspiciously askew ring.
“I assure you, Logan, that counts as at least half a point,” he called.
Calenham said, “You are both criminals. I have never seen such flagrant disregard for rules.”
May rolled her eyes. “It is only a game, Lord Calenham. You are permitted to bend the rules if it increases amusement.”
August, who had been leaning against a tree, arms folded, snorted. “I suspect the Duchess could cheat at chess and no one would dare say a word.”
May was about to respond when she heard a sudden cheer from the refreshment table.
She looked over to see Penelope, the newly recruited pastry girl, holding up a tray of miniature iced cakes.
The applause from the assembled ladies was so enthusiastic, it might have been for a theatrical performance rather than a dessert.
May turned to Logan, unable to keep the smile from her face. “You see? I told you she was a genius.”
“She is,” Logan agreed, but he did not take his eyes from May.
She felt suddenly shy, as if she had been caught at something. “Do you wish for a cake, Logan?”
“I wish for something sweeter,” he said, voice low.
She blushed to the roots of her hair, but did not look away.
The match resumed. Logan was, as always, ruthlessly competent; May threw her first ring so poorly it nearly brained one of the bystanders, but she improved with each toss, and by the final round, she was only a point behind.
She lined up her last shot, tongue between her teeth in concentration. The world shrank to the circle of grass, the sunlight, the stake, and Logan’s quiet presence beside her.
She was about to release the ring when, without warning, Logan’s hand came around her waist and lifted her bodily into the air.
She shrieked, the ring arcing wildly. It landed dead center.
The crowd erupted.
“Victory!” May shouted, struggling to break his hold, but he spun her once, triumphant.
“You cheated!” she scolded when he set her down, but the smile gave her away.
Logan looked entirely unrepentant. “You never specified I could not interfere.”
She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Scoundrel.”
“Duchess,” he replied, with a bow.
The gathering around them was delighted. Several of the girls clapped, and even August allowed himself a smile.
May could see how it would look—the dashing Duke and the unconventional Duchess, their marriage no longer a subject for gossip but a beacon for all the misfits and strivers of the city. For a moment, she almost believed it herself.
But then she saw the sidelong looks from the older ladies, the way their heads bent together in consultation, and she remembered, None of this is real. Logan is acting. He is always acting. It is the only way he knows how to survive.
She pressed a steady smile to her lips and excused herself under the pretext of needing a new glass of lemonade.
Inside, the cool dimness of the morning room was a relief. May drew a breath and let herself sag against the wall, eyes closed.
The footsteps were silent, but she sensed Logan before he spoke.
“You vanished.”
She opened her eyes. “I needed a moment to myself.”
He crossed the room in three strides and stopped just short of touching her. “Is something the matter?”
She stared at the floor, at the place where his boots nearly met the hem of her dress. “You do not have to perform for them. They will like you either way.”
He was quiet. “I wasn’t performing.”
She scoffed. “You are always performing. It is your gift.”
He took her chin in his hand and forced her to look up. “Do you think I act when I am with you?”
She tried to look away, but he would not allow it. “I do not know.”
He leaned in, his forehead almost touching hers. “I do not know, either. That is the problem.”
She felt her voice catch. “Is it?”
He brushed his thumb across her cheek. “I am not used to wanting things I cannot have.”
“You could have anything,” she said, voice so small she barely recognized it.
He smiled, but there was nothing humorous in it. “Except you.”
She stepped back, out of his grasp. “You already have me. I am your wife.”
“It is not the same,” he said, but he did not move to close the distance.
She folded her arms, needing the barrier. “Is this where you tell me you wish for freedom? That the arrangement is at an end?”
He shook his head. “No. It is where I tell you I wish for you, and I do not know what to do with that wish.”
May’s heart beat so loudly she was certain he could hear it. “You do not have to do anything.”
He reached for her, but she dodged. “No,” she said, “let me finish.” She steadied herself. “You do not have to pretend anymore, Logan. No one is watching. I would rather have the truth, even if it is ugly, than another pretty lie.”
He looked at her for a long moment. Then, so quickly she had no time to prepare, he pulled her to him and kissed her.
It was nothing like the first, awkward press of lips on their wedding night, or the offhand, duty-bound peck he gave her in public. This was consuming, all heat and demand, and the kind of honesty that cannot be performed.
She did not resist. She could not have, even if she wanted to.
He broke away, breathing hard. “That is the only thing I cannot fake. I have tried. But it is always real with you.”
She was dizzy, as if she had run a race. “You are infuriating,” she managed.
“I know.”
She touched his face, and he closed his eyes.
“Does this mean—” she began, but the words dried up.
He opened his eyes, gray and unreadable. “It means I am tired of pretending.”
He kissed her again, and this time, it was softer. It was a promise, or a question, or maybe a challenge. She could not tell.
When he let her go, she did not trust herself to stand, so she sat on the edge of the window seat and looked out at the garden, at the game still raging on the lawn.
He sat beside her, shoulder to shoulder. “Do you wish to return to your party?”
She shook her head. “Not just yet.”
He took her hand. “I will wait with you.”
They sat in silence, the noise of the world outside fading into irrelevance. May wished she could hold the moment forever.
But eventually, the party would end, and the world would return. And she would have to face the truth.