Page 41 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)

“ I never should have let you out of confinement to attend that damned ball!” Logan said between a string of expletives.

The words bounced about the carriage like buckshot, but May could only bite her lip and stifle another groan.

“I did warn you, Your Grace,” she managed between clenched teeth.

“If one is to be banished from society for a full month, one must eventually reappear, or else the gossips begin to suspect a duel, or?—”

“Conspiracy,” Logan finished, voice raw. “Yes, well, let them conspire. I am the only one allowed to put you at risk.”

“Not even the future heir of Irondale?” she gasped, because just then another wave of pain, sharper than the last, squeezed her insides to ribbons. She gripped the strap above the window, inhaling through her nose the way her mother had shown her.

Logan rapped the carriage roof with his cane so hard the vehicle jolted. “Driver! Faster!”

The response from above was immediate and also slightly deranged. “We are already at a gallop, Your Grace! The horses are frothing!”

“Then trade them for ones with a greater sense of urgency!” Logan shouted back.

May would have laughed, had she not been occupied by the process of being torn in half. Instead, she said, “If I expire before we reach the house, I wish to be buried in the new garden. Tell June I want roses, not lilies.”

“You are not expiring,” he said, voice trembling. “You are—May, darling, is it supposed to be this quick? The books said there is time to prepare. Hours, even.”

“Some babies,” she panted, “are prompt.” Another pain arrived, and May realized, distantly, that she was now making noises only babies and cows should be allowed to make.

Logan swore—Latin, this time—and leaned out the window, hollering at the driver and then immediately at the street itself, as if the cobblestones were in league against him. “If you drop my wife or my child in the gutter, I will have your head, do you understand?”

“If you rattle this carriage one more time, I will have yours,” May retorted, though her attempt at a glare was lost behind a fog of sweat and agony. “And do stop shouting. The whole city will know before the house does.”

“Let them,” Logan replied, pulling her gloved hand into his and clutching it as if he could physically force her through the next contraction by sheer will. “Let all of London stand ready to catch you.”

He is being ridiculous, May thought, even as she clung to his fingers so tightly her knuckles popped. He is being the most wonderful, ridiculous man in England, and possibly the world.

The next five minutes were a sequence of pain, shouted threats, and the muffled shrieks of the horses. Then the carriage screeched to a halt outside their home. By the time the footman yanked open the door, May was half-collapsed into Logan’s arms, every fiber of her body trembling.

He did not hesitate; he scooped her up—skirt, baby, and all—and charged up the steps, barking orders to the assembled staff.

“Send for the physician! And get boiling water, and whatever else one boils in these circumstances!”

May, mortified and delighted in equal measure, said, “They do not actually need the water, you know. It is merely for morale.”

Logan ignored her. At the top of the stairs, he found Dorothy waiting, arms folded, hair in perfect order despite the midnight hour.

“She is in labor,” Logan declared.

“She is also standing right here,” May said. Well, reclining right here. In the arms of a ridiculous, delightful Duke.

Dorothy took one look and said, “She will need broth and something to bite. Bring her to her room. May, do not listen to your husband, he is a menace.”

Logan was already halfway to their chamber. “You will do as she says,” he muttered, “and nothing else.”

May’s mother met them at the door, taking May’s arm and leading her inside. “Darling, do you remember what we discussed?”

“That I am not to panic until at least the third contraction,” May whispered, trying to remember how to stand upright. “And that if I faint, I should do so on the bed, not the carpet.”

Dorothy’s lips twitched. “You were always the most practical.”

Logan hovered at the threshold, torn between the urge to invade and the threat of being ejected by Dorothy. The result was a series of steps forward, then back, then forward again.

Dorothy finally shooed him with a dismissive wave. “You are more useful on the other side of the door. Go and pace.”

Logan looked at May, his eyes wide and slightly wild. “I will be just here. Right here. Nothing will take me away.”

She managed a smile, the smallest curl of her mouth. “If you shout, I will never forgive you.”

He grinned, and then he was gone, the echo of his boots receding down the hallway.

The next hour was a blur of agony and absurdity.

May lost all sense of decorum. She clawed at the linens, wailed at the ceiling, bit down on a towel until she thought her teeth might shatter.

There were moments of lucidity, in which she wondered if perhaps she had, in fact, died and this was some elaborate afterlife for sinners.

But mostly, she thought of Logan, who was out in the hallway, probably wearing a hole in the carpet, probably plotting the deaths of anyone who failed to bring her through this.

He is going to be insufferable after this, May thought, as another contraction tore through her. He will never let me out of his sight, not for as long as he lives. And I find I do not mind it.

She screamed, and the midwife shouted, “One more, Duchess! One more!”

Dorothy pressed her hand and whispered, “You have always done the impossible, darling. This is nothing for you.”

And then, all at once, it was over.

There was a rush of sound and heat, a sensation of tearing and release, and then the room was quiet, except for the thready, determined cry of something impossibly small and alive.

May looked up, dazed, and saw her mother lifting the squalling bundle, red and wet and perfectly furious, and wrapping it in a blanket.

“A boy,” said Dorothy, voice bright and proud. “May, darling, you have a son.”

The midwife wiped her hands and nodded, businesslike. “A fine, fat child. No trouble at all.”

May was sobbing, though she was not sure why. Relief, maybe. Or joy. Or just the fact that she could feel her hands again.

“Let him see,” she said, or thought she said, but her mouth was barely working. Dorothy brought the baby to her and set him in her arms.

He was tiny, but also monumental; he squirmed and wailed and then, when May stroked his cheek with one tentative finger, blinked at her with eyes so dark and steady they seemed almost ancient.

She laughed, giddy and exhausted. “He looks exactly like Logan,” she said. “He is already judging me.”

Dorothy kissed her forehead. “He will adore you. All babies do, eventually.”

There was a commotion in the hallway, and then Logan burst into the room, shirt untucked, hair standing on end. He took one look at the bed, at May and the child and Dorothy, and for a moment, he seemed incapable of speech.

He crossed the floor in three strides, fell to his knees beside the bed, and stared.

“Is it—” he choked “is he?—”

“Perfectly healthy,” May said, holding the baby out with trembling arms. “Logan, meet your son.”

He did not take the child, not at first. Instead, he knelt there, silent, and May watched as his face crumpled, and his eyes went bright and wet, and his whole body shook with a grief so raw and beautiful it made her own eyes sting.

“He is alive,” Logan whispered. “He is alive and you—May, you are?—”

“I am not dead,” she said, “though for a moment I wished to be.”

He laughed, a broken, incredulous sound, and then gathered her and the child both into his arms. He kissed her, hard and desperate, and then pulled back to look at the baby again, as if still unable to believe any of it was real.

“You did it,” he said. “You made a whole new person.”

“He helped,” May said, with a sidelong glance at her mother, who was now bustling about the room, straightening linens and clearing away signs of disaster.

“He did not help,” Logan said. “He only caused trouble. He will be grounded until he is twenty.”

The baby, unimpressed, let out a shriek.

“He is hungry,” said Dorothy, smiling. “He will be a strong one, I think.”

May clutched the child to her chest, her arms suddenly, fiercely strong. “He will not be alone,” she said. “Never, for as long as he lives.”

Logan watched her, wonder and awe still stamped on every line of his face. “Nor will you,” he promised. “Not ever.”

He brushed her hair from her forehead and kissed her again, softer this time. Then he whispered, “You are the bravest woman in the world.”

May closed her eyes, let herself rest against the pillows, the weight of the baby anchoring her to the world in a way she had never known before.

She drifted, half-dreaming, as the room filled with the soft, sleepy sounds of new life. Dorothy hummed a lullaby, the baby snuffled and nursed, and Logan sat at her side, never once letting go of her hand.

At some point, May woke to find the room empty except for Logan, who was sprawled in the armchair, the child asleep on his chest.

He looked up and smiled, the lines of exhaustion etched deep around his eyes. “He is a tyrant,” he said, “but a handsome one.”

May pushed herself up on her elbows, feeling stronger already. “Will you bring him here?”

He did, cradling the infant as if he were a sacred thing.

May held the child, kissed his soft hair, and looked at Logan.

“What shall we call him?”

Logan considered. “Something strong. Something impossible to live up to.”

“May I suggest William?” she said, and for a moment she saw the pain flicker through his face—his father’s name, but also the name of the baby who had once been left on their doorstep, and who was now part of their family forever.

He nodded, tears unshed in his eyes. “William,” he said. “Heir to a new legacy.”

They sat together, the three of them, and May felt, for the first time in her life, that she belonged exactly where she was.

Outside, the city ticked on, oblivious to the miracle that had occurred in the house on the edge of Mayfair.

But inside, there was only love. And laughter. And, May thought, not a single dull moment for the rest of their lives.

She looked at Logan, who was looking at her with something like worship, and whispered, “Thank you. For coming to get me.”

He kissed her, baby and all. “There is nowhere else I would rather be.”

May closed her eyes, the world finally quiet and complete.

The End?