Page 44 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)

Two

S urely, I misheard him.

April stared at the man seated beside her, her heart thudding with what was dangerously close to outrage—and possibly terror.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “For a moment I thought I heard you say husband-to-be?”

“I did,” he answered without a shred of hesitation, as if he were discussing the day’s weather rather than her entire future.

April, who had been instructed from infancy never to gape, found herself doing precisely that. “And who are you?” she asked, though some instinct already whispered the answer.

“Theodore Roth,” he said with a slight nod. “Duke of Stone.”

April blinked.

The Heartless Duke?

The thought crashed through her with the subtlety of a thunderclap.

She had heard the whispers. Everyone had.

How he lived on the outskirts of London, brooding at Stone Hall like some dark myth, refusing invitations, ignoring overtures, turning cold shoulders to the most persistent hostesses.

Some claimed his heart had turned to stone years ago; others said he had been born entirely without one.

April blinked again, as if the force of it might reorder the absurdity she faced.

He watched her calmly, his mouth a firm, unsmiling line. There was no warmth, no apology, only an implacable stillness, as though he had already considered every argument she might make and dismissed them all as irrelevant.

April opened her mouth, prepared to object, but no words emerged. She, who could parry her sisters’ teasing and her mother’s endless worrying with grace, sat there utterly mute.

“I do not take kindly,” he said as he guided the phaeton through the bustling street, “to my fiancée being put in danger. Or being courted by incompetents.”

April nearly choked. “I am not your fiancée,” she snapped, heat rising in her cheeks. “And I was certainly not courting Lord Wexley.”

“It appeared otherwise,” he said.

“Appearances can be deceiving,” she retorted.

“Indeed,” he agreed in a maddeningly detached manner that made her want to stamp her foot.

April crossed her arms tightly across her chest. “I assure you, Your Grace, if I were engaged, I would know.”

He adjusted the reins with a careless flick. “Then it seems your brother has been negligent.”

April leaned forward, incredulous. “Certainly not. August has always been positively responsible—ever since we were children. When our father fell ill, it was August who stepped in and ran the estate. He’s the one who ensures the bills are paid, the carriages maintained, the servants fed.

He could not have failed to tell me something this monumental. ””

“And yet he has.”

April stared at him with her teeth clenched.

“August and I came to an agreement,” the Duke continued, as if reading from a business ledger. “A match that suits both our purposes.”

April pressed her gloved hands against her skirts to keep from reaching out and shaking him. “Without consulting me,” she observed, her voice sharpening.

“It was expedient,” he said coolly.

Her hands tightened into fists. “I am not livestock to be bartered.”

“You are Lady April Vestiere,” he said without inflection. “And your family’s situation, regrettably, necessitates expedience.”

The mention of her family struck her like a slap.

Her father—once hale and vigorous—now struggled even to rise from his bed.

Her mother—weighed down with worry—drove herself to exhaustion attempting to present her daughters—triplets all out—to society.

Their once-glittering fortunes now stretched thin over endless obligations.

Still, April lifted her chin. “That does not excuse arrogance.”

“It is not arrogance,” he said, glancing at her with that same unreadable gaze. “It is pragmatism.”

“You must be an absolute delight at dinner parties, Your Grace,” she muttered under her breath.

If he heard, he gave no indication. His profile remained as severe and immovable as carved stone.

April narrowed her eyes. “Tell me, Your Grace, what possessed you to seek a wife at all? I thought you preferred brooding alone at the edge of society, terrorizing anyone foolish enough to glance your way.”

“I required a duchess,” he said. “Not society.”

April tilted her head. “Well, that is fortunate,” she replied sweetly, “for I have no intention of being amusing.”

“You have made that eminently clear.”

The phaeton rattled over a rough patch in the road. April clung to the edge of her seat, wishing she could as easily cling to her composure. She could not decide which unsettled her more: the absurdity of the situation or the disquieting calm of the man beside her.

“And what, precisely, is it that qualifies me for the honor of becoming the next Duchess of Stone?” she asked, forcing a smile.

“You are suitable,” he replied simply.

April almost laughed. “High praise indeed.”

“You require protection.”

“Protection!” she repeated, scandalized.

“From fortune hunters and fools who cannot control a horse.”

April stared at him, aghast. “I am not a helpless child!”

“No,” he agreed, “but you are vulnerable.”

The words struck harder than she cared to admit. Vulnerable. She hated the truth of it. She hadn’t seen August in more than a month, and her father was only awake long enough to eat and take his medicines. Lord, be merciful to me.

“You presume much, Your Grace” she objected.

“I presume only what is necessary,” he replied, glancing at her. His eyes were a dark blue she had never seen before, and his jaw was so perfectly carved, his title was greatly befitting.

The carriage fell into silence again, save for the steady clatter of hooves.

April sat stiffly, resisting the urge to drum her fingers or scream.

She stole a glance at him from under her lashes.

This man, this so-called Heartless Duke, had swept into her life like a storm, dismantling everything she thought she knew about her future.

Yet he remained utterly composed, his gaze fixed ahead. Heartless Duke, indeed.

Her thoughts moved to the lady who had once called upon her mother and had said, in no uncertain terms, that the Duke of Stone would not pity a fly, much less another human being. Is that truly so?

She forced herself to compose her features into what resembled a smile.

“Shall I hazard a guess?” she asked lightly, though her voice trembled with something hotter than fear.

“This marriage will only exist on paper. We shall be forced to make a show of it for the honeymoon then live entirely separate lives. And I expect you have a list of rules I must follow to the letter, or else the whole grand arrangement falls apart?”

The Duke turned his head slightly, one dark brow arching upward. He looked—blast him—mildly amused.

“So,” he said, “you have spoken to your brother.”

April let out a short, humorless laugh. “Of course not. It appears he is far too occupied managing everyone else’s lives to remember he ought to inform his own sister when hers is being handed away.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of the horses’ hooves against the road. Then, without warning, he asked, “Were you hoping for a love match?”

April’s breath caught. She stared at him, caught off guard by the unexpected softness of the question. She shifted slightly, the words feeling strangely intimate between them.

“I—” she hesitated then forced herself to be honest. “I am realistic enough to know that such things are rare. I would have liked an amenable match. Someone kind. Someone who might, at least, pretend to care for me.”

“And I am not that?” he asked, his frown deepening as he watched the road.

April swallowed, her earlier anger ebbing into guilt. “I do not know,” she admitted, her voice small. “You are a stranger who informed me—with alarming efficiency—that I am to marry him.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “A fair point.”

She opened her mouth to reply when, suddenly, he leaned toward her.

April stiffened instinctively, her heart lurching into a mad gallop.

His scent hit her first—sandalwood, rich and clean, mixed with something darker and spiced like cinnamon.

Her fingers curled into her skirts, bracing herself for—for what, she had no idea.

His hand reached past her shoulder, catching the trailing ribbon of her bonnet just as it slipped over the edge of the carriage.

He pulled back, the rescued bonnet in his gloved hand, his expression inscrutable. His dark brows furrowed as he studied her closely.

“You are flushed,” he observed.

April pressed her hands to her cheeks which were indeed burning. “It is—it is merely the wind,” she said defensively.

One thick brow lifted higher. He was clearly skeptical, but he said nothing more and merely turned his attention back to the road, his posture once again rigid.

April focused on breathing evenly, on keeping her heart from battering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The smell of him lingered in the air between them, impossible to ignore.

Moments later, the carriage rolled to a stop before the familiar facade of Wildmoore House. Without a word, he descended and came around to her side to offer his hand to her.

April hesitated a fraction of a second before placing her gloved hand in his. His hand was warm, strong, and when he helped her down, he did so with an ease that sent another unwelcome shiver down her spine.

For a moment, she stood close enough to see the steady rise and fall of his chest, the hard set of his jaw, and the intense glint in his eyes as he looked at her—and only her.

Oh, calm down, April! You are no foolish little girl!

He did not release her hand immediately, nor did he step aside. He also did not move to walk her to the door.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, the Duke released her hand. His posture, always so controlled, seemed to tighten as he straightened to his full height.

“I have no wish,” he said in a low voice, “to waste my time chasing after a dozen social events or enduring the endless parade of overbearing mamas.”

April lifted her chin. “A charming sentiment, Your Grace.”

Ignoring her bright tone, he offered his arm again and walked her up the steps to the door.

“You hardly know me,” she said, clutching the folds of her skirt as they ascended.

“True,” he agreed. “Which is why I propose this: five outings.”

April blinked at him. “Outings?”

“Five meetings,” he clarified. “After that, if you find me unsuitable, I will not hold you to the engagement.”

April opened her mouth, but no agreement—or refusal—came. She simply stared at him, thrown off balance by the sudden fairness of it.

The Duke reached the top step and paused. Leaning closer, his voice dropped to a near-whisper near her ear.

“I do not plan on having to look for another bride.”

Before she could react, he stepped back, descending the steps with deliberate, unhurried movements. April stood frozen, her heart thudding wildly as she watched him cross the gravel, mount his phaeton, and drive away without a backward glance.

The butler opened the door just as she raised her hand to knock. She stepped inside, her head still spinning, but before she could gather herself, two figures dashed from the drawing room, their laughter filling the foyer.

“April!” her sister, May, cried, her green eyes wide behind a curtain of loose curls. Petite and slight, May looked as if a stiff breeze might knock her over.

“Where is Lord Wexley?” her other sister, June, demanded, planting herself firmly at April’s side. June, nearly April’s height, had a sharper chin and shrewder eyes, her arms crossed as if preparing for a battle. They were triplets, yet they were unlike each other in every way.

April drew a deep breath and said, “It was not Lord Wexley who brought me home. It was the Duke of Stone.”

Both sisters gaped at her, mouths slightly open in comical unison.

“The Duke of Stone?” May whispered, eyes wide as saucers. “The Heartless Duke?”

“The very one,” April said, struggling to maintain a light tone, though her heart was still thudding.

May recovered first. She clasped her hands to her chest. “Is he terribly handsome?”

April hesitated then, against her better judgment, admitted, “Yes. Very.”

May squealed under her breath while June only narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

“Is he as dark and dangerously mysterious as society claims?” May asked eagerly. “Or is he secretly charming?”

April laughed, though it came out a little breathless. “Mysterious, certainly. But charming?” She shook her head. “I can hardly read him at all.”

“That’s worse,” May declared with mock solemnity.

“Far worse,” June agreed, studying April’s face like she might extract hidden secrets with a glance. “But why did he bring you home when you left with Wexley?”

April recounted the afternoon’s events, still in disbelief herself, and her sister blinked at her when she finished as though she had sprouted another head.

She purposefully omitted the part when the Duke told her he was to marry her, and she wondered how her sisters would have reacted if they knew.

June was the first to speak. “I do not know whether that is alarming or romantic.”

April tapped June lightly on the arm and chuckled. “You two are impossible.”

“And you,” June said, giving her a wicked grin, “are blushing.”

“I am not!” April argued primly, though her cheeks were indeed warm.

They teased her all the way up the stairs until she escaped into her bedchamber, closing the door behind her with a relieved sigh.

Only when she was alone did she finally allow her thoughts to unravel.

She replayed everything—the bluntness of the Duke’s proposal, the fierce certainty in his voice.

One thing, however, snagged her mind and refused to let go.

He had not said he offered to marry “one of August’s sisters. ” He had said her .

April sank onto the edge of her bed, her heart pounding anew.

Did he mean to say he had specifically chosen me?