Page 35 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)

Thirty-One

L ogan stole a glance at May as he sipped his port. He sat at the head of the long oak table, and May was on his right, resplendent in a dress of the palest blue.

He tried not to notice how pale she looked, or how little she had eaten. He tried not to notice her at all, but this proved impossible.

Logan cleared his throat. “You have been very industrious,” Logan said, carving the silence as precisely as he carved the pheasant. “Since the garden party, I have hardly seen you at all.”

May reached for her goblet and twirled it by the stem. “I am here now,” she murmured. “You cannot claim to be neglected at this particular moment.”

He studied her wine as if it might offer insight into her mind. “That is not what I meant.”

She tilted her head, that small arch of a smile settling at the corner of her mouth. “You miss me, then?” she asked, and the words had the sound of a joke but not the spirit.

Logan’s jaw tightened. “I suppose I had thought you would not wish to avoid me quite so energetically.”

May’s gaze slid off him and landed somewhere in the middle distance. She said, “I have been busy. There are always things to arrange.”

They ate in silence for a time, and after a while, Logan pushed his plate away and reached for the decanter.

He poured himself a measure of claret, then, after a moment, poured another and set it by May’s place.

“You do not have to keep up the pretense when it is only us,” he said, trying for a tone between command and invitation.

May lifted the glass, but did not drink. She pressed her lips to the rim as if testing the temperature of a pool before diving in. “What pretense do you mean, exactly?”

He thought of the many ways he could answer, and found none of them sufficient. “You have been distant.”

She looked up, finally. “You are not an easy man to be close to.”

He gave a small, wry smile. “You are not the first to say it.”

“But I might be the last,” she replied, and there was no jest in it.

Logan sat back, letting the chair creak beneath him. He measured her in the lamplight—her pinched mouth, the way she did not let her spine relax even for a second. He remembered the way she had been that afternoon in the library, and he wondered where that May had gone.

He found himself saying, “I am sorry if I have given offense.”

She shook her head. “You have not. I am simply—” May set the goblet down. She looked at him with a strange, searching intensity. “I do not wish to quarrel, Logan. Not tonight. Not ever, if it can be helped.”

“Then what do you wish?” The words came out sharper than intended, and he immediately regretted them.

May blinked. “Tonight, I wish for nothing but to go to bed and wake up to find that the world has not rearranged itself in my absence.”

He did not know what to say to that.

She stood and smoothed her skirt and drew on her glove with a small, practiced tug. The gesture was a dismissal, but Logan was not ready to accept it.

He rose as well, catching her at the threshold of the dining room. “May,” he said, and the name felt brittle in his mouth. “Will you not tell me what is wrong?”

She paused. “I told you. I am tired.”

He searched her face, looking for the crack in her composure. “You can tell me anything. That was the agreement.”

She made a sound—half laugh, half sigh. “The agreement. I remember.”

He wanted to reach for her, to touch her hand or her shoulder, but he did not. Instead, he said, very softly, “Do rest well.”

She turned, then, and for a moment her face was entirely open. He saw fear there, and something close to grief, and he realized—too late—that she was not avoiding him out of anger, but out of dread. Of what, he did not know.

She dipped her head, barely more than a nod, and then she was gone.

Logan stood in the threshold for a long time. When at last he moved, it was to shove his fingers through his hair, as if that might sort through the confusion knotted behind his ribs.

He forced himself to recall every word and every glance from the past week. There was nothing; no argument, no harshness, not even the shadow of a slight that might explain her withdrawal.

Unless, of course, she had simply tired of him. He banished the thought, but it lingered.

By half past four, May’s bedchamber had become a prison of her own making. She had crossed the same strip of carpet a hundred times since noon, from the window to the door, and back again.

With each pass of the mirror, she could not help but check herself. Is my face changed? Is my body? Could anyone tell, just by looking?

It was the first week of her missed courses.

May pressed a palm flat to her belly, as if she might coax an answer from the silence beneath her ribs. It cannot be. It cannot. But the numbers would not be reasoned with, nor would the memory of the kisses she had shared with Logan.

What would Logan think if he found out? Would he feel betrayed and cast her out for breaking their agreement?

A soft rap at the door pulled her from the spiral, and she let her hand drop and faced the entrance, attempting to conjure the expression of a woman untroubled by either biology or guilt.

Miss Abbot entered with a tray balanced on one palm. “Your tea, Your Grace. And the biscuits you favored last week.”

May sat, tried to arrange her skirts so the shaking of her knees would be hidden by the folds. “Thank you, Abbot. You are very good.”

Abbot set down the tray and studied her. “You are not yourself, if I may say so.”

May kept her gaze on the teapot. “I am quite myself. I am simply tired. There is nothing amiss.”

The maid’s eyes narrowed with gentle skepticism, but she did not press further. “Shall I bring your correspondence, or perhaps?—”

“No, thank you. I will be going out soon. To see my sister.” The words startled even May. She had not decided this, but the act of saying it aloud fixed the intention.

Abbot brightened. “Very good, Your Grace. Shall I fetch your spencer and bonnet?”

“Please.”

When the maid had left, May set her elbows on the low table and pressed her hands to her face. The world was spinning ahead without her, and she felt at every moment that she was about to lose her balance and fall off entirely.

You cannot tell him . The thought was as clear as it was damning. He does not want this. He said so himself. You will only drive him further away.

And yet, the possibility of telling no one—of enduring it alone—was even more terrible.

Within a quarter hour, she had dressed for the outing and descended the staircase with the rapid, reckless step of a woman attempting to outpace her own anxiety. The entryway was empty save for Bexley, who managed not to startle when May swept through at a pace barely short of a sprint.

When she arrived at April’s house, she nearly turned back. You must go in. You must tell someone. You cannot keep it all inside, or you will drown.

She knocked. Within moments, the butler showed her to the drawing room, where April sat with a volume of a book and June was sprawled on the window seat, embroidering flowers onto what looked suspiciously like a gentleman’s handkerchief.

Both sisters looked up at once.

“May!” April set her book aside and rose. “You are a vision. Are you well?”

June tucked the handkerchief behind her back and grinned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, or worse.”

May’s composure nearly deserted her. She bit her lip and blinked hard. “I must speak with you. Both of you.”

April’s face sobered; she guided May to the nearest settee and patted the cushion. “Sit. What is wrong?”

May perched, stiff and upright. She stared at the carpet, the pattern of blue and gold knots looping like a noose, and tried to summon the words.

It was June, surprisingly, who said, “Is it the Duke? Did he do something?”

May shook her head, unable to speak for a moment. Then, in a rush, “My courses have not come. It has been a week.”

April let out a soft, “Oh—” and covered her mouth.

June’s eyes widened, but she kept her tone gentle. “And you think…”

“I think I am expecting,” May whispered.

The room went very quiet. Then April reached for her hand. “Is it certain?”

“I do not know,” May said. “I am… I have never been late before. And I feel… ill. All the time. I cannot eat. I cannot think.” Her voice shook. “What if it is true?”

June, always the practical one, said, “It is not so terrible, May. You are married. You have a husband?—”

“He does not want children,” May interrupted, the confession tumbling out. “He said so. Before we wed, he made me promise not to hope for it.” She took a breath. “He had a vow. He said he would be the end of his line, and there would be no more after him.”

April’s grip on her hand tightened. “I did not know.”

“I cannot tell him,” May said, and the words felt like admitting a crime. “He will be angry. Or worse—he will leave. And I cannot bear that.” Her eyes burned, but she willed herself not to cry.

June took her other hand. “You cannot go through this alone. If it is true, you will need help.”

“I know,” May said. “But I am so afraid.”

April stroked her hand. “You must speak with Mother. She will know what to do.”

May almost laughed at the idea of her mother as a wellspring of wisdom, but in that moment, she felt a desperate gratitude. “Yes. Perhaps I will.”

Still, the worry gnawed at her. They’d agreed on a marriage of convenience, with no intimate congress… but she’d kissed him. He’d kissed her. Was that enough?